pairing: rafayel x reader
synopsis: You’ve been quietly drawn to the reserved purple-haired fine arts major, Rafayel. Using a commission as your excuse, you invite him over for private painting sessions. What starts as artistic poses quickly turns heated, until the quiet artist finally stops holding back—and you end up becoming his favorite canvas.
warnings: nsfw 18+ this is pure filth. includes multiple positions, raw sex, creampies, oral sex and a lot more. minors dni.
You can feel some eyes on you. It’s understandable. A cheerleader who’s supposed to be in the gym after class is instead perched on a stool in the Fine Arts studio, chin resting on her palm, watching a room full of students paint in complete silence.
To anyone else, it'd probably be mind-numbingly boring. To you? Not even close.
Mostly because you're not actually looking at the paintings.
Your eyes keep wandering back to the same person.
Dark-purple hair falls over his forehead as he leans over the canvas, one hand steadying the frame while the other moves a paintbrush with effortless precision. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, a streak of blue paint decorating the side of his wrist.
There’s a balance to his looks, boyish and pretty at once, soft enough that you keep finding reasons to glance over.
Good thing your cousin is a Fine Arts major.
Otherwise, you'd have absolutely no excuse for showing up here every other afternoon pretending you're interested in oil paintings.
When your cousin finally sets down his brush and walks over, you ask, “So have you told him already?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why ask other people when I can just do it for you?”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not interested in the painting. I’m interested in the painter.”
He shakes his head at your shamelessness, though the corner of his mouth twitches. “Fortunately, he does commissions. He was asking what dates work for you and I already gave him your number.”
“Perfect!” You squeal and smack his back hard enough to make him yelp, then promise him free lunch later as thanks.
Rafayel. The first time you saw him as a new student lining up with the rest of the Fine Art Department, he stole every scrap of your attention. You’ve seen plenty of handsome guys on the court during practice, and you’re popular enough that plenty of them notice you back. But you never cared.
His beauty was different though. Your cousin told you that some girls also come by the studio all the time just to watch him paint, just like you. But Rafayel never seems to notice. Or maybe he does. He just doesn't care. He’s always focused on the canvas.
You’ve crossed paths, met eyes, even asked him once where your cousin was. He answered the question and nothing more. That only made you want him harder.
So when you heard that fine-art majors sometimes take commissions, you jumped at the chance, asking your cousin to tell Rafayel that you like to commisioned him. Three paintings, framed as a birthday gift for yourself, hoping the soft-sounding reason would make him agree. Three sessions on purpose.
That night an unknown number messaged you.
Hi Y/N, this is Rafayel. Just wanted to ask the dates you set for the sessions.
You replied instantly, locking in the weekends. He agrees. You spend the rest of the week counting the days.
You make sure you look deliberate: a white dress that skims without clinging, light perfume, apartment spotless. When the doorbell rings you open it to find him in a black long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows and light pants. He smiles, polite, a little shy and the sight of it does something warm and stupid in your chest.
“Hi,” you say, stepping aside to let him in.
“Hi.” His voice is quiet, almost careful. He glances around the living room once, then back at you. “You have good light in here.”
You guide him toward the spot you’ve already cleared near the window. “That’s why I picked this side of the room. I figured you’d want natural light.”
He nods, setting down his bag and beginning to unfold the easel. You watch him work for a moment, the way his hands move, steady and practiced before speaking again.
“So… how long have you been painting?”
He looks up briefly. “Since I was a kid. My mom used to leave me with sketchbooks whenever she was busy.”
“Must’ve been nice,” you say, smiling. “I was always stuck in the gym or running drills. Never had something quiet like that.”
A small, almost amused sound leaves him. “Quiet is good. Most people don’t get that.”
You take the red ribbon from the table and begin wrapping it around your body, letting the ends trail loosely like a gift still unwrapped. When you finish, you settle into the pose and look at him.
“Today’s theme is treating myself as a gift,” you tell him, voice soft but deliberate. “I think… knowing what you want and allowing yourself to have it is important. Most people spend so much time denying themselves the things they crave. But if you never give in, even a little, doesn’t that mean you’re never really living?”
You let the words hang there, carefully chosen, just deep enough to sound thoughtful, but you just actually want to reel him in.
“Hmm?” He studies the way the bold red ribbon sits against the white dress, pure fabric made daring by the way it clings and the length that leaves little to the imagination. After a moment, he nods once and picks up his brush. The first strokes are soft, careful. For a while the only sounds are the faint drag of bristles across canvas and the quiet shift of your breathing.
You break the silence first. “You always look so focused in the studio. Like nothing else exists.”
His hand slows, but doesn’t stop. “It’s easier that way. Fewer distractions.”
You tilt your head slightly, watching him. “Is that why you’re so quiet with people? Or do you just not like talking?”
This time the brush stills completely. He glances up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “You think I’m a snob?”
“A little,” you admit, letting out a chuckle. “You never really talk to anyone. Sometimes it feels like you look right through people.”
A quiet, almost embarrassed laugh escapes him. He dips the brush again, eyes returning to the canvas. “That’s a misunderstanding. I just… get lost in the work. It’s not intentional.” You nod and he let out a few more stroke before he speaks again, “Why commissioned me instead of your cousin? He’s good.”
Rafayel’s gaze lifts to yours and holds. The air between you feels a little heavier.
“I like you,” you mumbled. A beat later, smoother, “I mean, like the way you paint. I'm sorry if someone you don't really know asked to commissioned you.”
He studies you for a long second, something unreadable passing through his expression, before he looks back at the canvas. “I know who you are. I see you around the studio almost every day.”
Your pulse kicks hard. All those trips weren’t wasted. He noticed even when you never caught him looking.
“I don’t take many commissions,” he says, and the glance he gives you is heavier than the words. “But I said yes to this one.”
You almost forget how to breathe for a second. Meaningful remarks…from him. The same quiet, distant Rafayel who barely spoke more than a handful of words to you before today. You can’t quite believe he’s giving them to you now, soft and deliberate like this.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you smile.
Hours later the portrait is finished. The conversation on the way to the door is no longer awkward. You close the door slowly, the apartment feels quieter without him in it, but the air still carries the faint scent of turpentine and whatever clean soap he uses.
Next weekend, you open the door in nothing but an oversized white button-down that stops mid-thigh. His eyes flick down before he can stop them, lingering a beat too long on the bare stretch of your legs, then climb slowly back up. A hint of surprise crosses his face, quickly replaced by a warmer smile than last week but something darker sits just underneath it.
“Hey,” you greet, voice soft.
“Hey.” He steps inside. The door closes behind him with a quiet click. You catch the way his gaze drops again for half a second when you turn to lead him into the living room, the hem of the shirt riding higher with every step.
He sets up the easel in silence. You take the same ribbon from last time, but this time you only drape it loosely around your waist and deliberately leave the top half of the shirt unbuttoned. The fabric gapes open just enough to show the soft inner curves of your breasts when you move. When you settle onto the couch, you catch the lopsided curve of his mouth like he expected exactly this, and is trying very hard not to show how much it affects him.
“Today’s theme is unwrapping the present,” you tell him.
He chuckles, low and a little rough. “Alright.”
You pose the way you practiced: leaning back so the hem rides higher up your thighs, one leg drawn up so the fabric threatens to slip and reveal more, back arched just enough that the open neckline shows the shadowed valley between your breasts. The air in the room feels thicker almost immediately.
Every time he glances up, his gaze lingers longer. First on the line of your thigh. Then on the place where the shirt has ridden up enough to hint at the curve of your hip. Then on the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips part slightly when you breathe. His hand never stops moving across the canvas, but the strokes grow slower, more deliberate, as if he’s forcing himself to keep working.
You shift once, letting the shirt slip another inch. His brush hesitates for a fraction of a second. You watch his throat work as he swallows.
Almost no conversation this time. Just the quiet scrape of bristles on canvas, the soft sound of your breathing, and the heavy, unspoken awareness that neither of you is looking at the other the way an artist looks at a model. His eyes keep returning to places that have nothing to do with composition. the soft inner skin of your thigh, the shadowed space between your breasts, the way your lower lip looks when you bite it without thinking.
You can feel the tension coiling low in your stomach. Heat gathers between your legs simply from the weight of his gaze. You wonder if he can tell. From the way his jaw tightens every time your eyes meet, you think he might.
When he finally sets the brush down, the light in the room has shifted. He studies the canvas for a long moment, then looks at you again. This time he doesn’t look away.
“I think we’re done for today,” he says, voice lower than before.
You stand slowly. The shirt falls back into place, but not before he gets one last unobstructed view of your upper thighs. You walk him to the door. The space between your bodies feels charged, too small. When your arms brush as you reach for the handle, the contact sends a sharp, electric spark across both your skins. You both still for a second.
“Same time?” he asks. His voice is rougher now, almost quiet.
You hold his gaze a beat longer than necessary, letting the meaning sit heavy between you, then thank him softly. The door closes.
You lean against it, pulse still racing, the ghost of his eyes still warm on your skin.
You spend the morning preparing carefully, long shower until your skin is soft and warm, hair left loose around your shoulders, the short silk robe that barely reaches mid-thigh tied loosely at the waist. Nothing underneath. Every time the fabric shifts against your bare skin you feel a low, anticipatory heat settle between your legs.
This will be your last session. And you will do your best today.
When the doorbell rings, your pulse jumps.
Rafayel stands on the other side looking unfairly handsome. His purple hair is still slightly damp from a shower, soft strands falling over the thin frames of his glasses. He’s wearing a dark tailored coat over a black shirt and a deep red turtleneck, In one hand he holds a rolled canvas. He smells like clean soap and the faint ghost of turpentine as he gives you that small, polite smile but his eyes drop almost immediately to the thin silk and the amount of leg it leaves exposed. He doesn’t look away as quickly as he used to.
“Hey,” he says, voice quiet. “Light’s good today.”
You step aside to let him in. The door closes. The air between you already feels different…thicker, heavier.
You watch him set up in silence: stretching the fresh canvas, laying out paints, adjusting the easel. His movements are controlled, but you notice the way his gaze keeps flicking toward you when he thinks you’re not looking. The tension from last week hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s sharpened.
Once he’s ready, you untie the robe and let it slip from your shoulders.
It pools at your feet in a soft whisper of fabric.
Rafayel’s eyes follow the silk down, then travel slowly back up the length of your bare body. You watch his throat work as he swallows. His fingers tighten once around the edge of the easel.
“The present is completely unwrapped,” you say, voice soft.
A short, almost breathless laugh leaves him. “Am I the one having the birthday? Why do I feel like I’m the one receiving the present?”
You smile and walk to the couch without covering yourself. No shame left. You sit, lift one foot onto the low stool in front of you, and deliberately spread your thighs. The pose leaves nothing hidden…pink, already glistening folds open to the soft afternoon light.
Rafayel curses under his breath.
He still picks up the brush.
But the tension in the room is almost unbearable now. His eyes are heavier, darker, lingering far longer. Every few strokes he glances up, and each time your gazes lock you feel the heat between your legs pulse harder. You bite your lower lip slowly, deliberately, and watch the way his jaw tightens in response.
You can feel yourself getting wetter just from the weight of his stare. The air feels charged, thick enough to taste. Your breathing has already gone shallow.
After several long minutes the need becomes too sharp to ignore.
Your hand drifts down your own body. Two fingers part your folds and find your clit, already slick. You circle it once, twice. A soft, needy sound slips out of your throat before you can stop it.
The brush freezes mid-stroke.
He sets it down carefully on the palette table, movements controlled but tense. When he looks at you again, his eyes are almost black.
“Yes?” His voice is rough.
You keep stroking yourself, slow and open, eyes locked on his. “Please…”
The words come out quieter, almost strained.
Something in him finally snaps.
He crosses the space in three long strides, cups your face in both hands, and kisses you like he’s been holding himself back for weeks. The kiss is hungry, deep, almost desperate. his tongue sliding against yours while a low, rough sound vibrates in his chest. His hands leave your face only to map every inch of bare skin: down your sides, up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over the peaks until you arch into his touch with a soft, needy gasp.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to speak against your mouth, voice low and rough.
“I’ve noticed you every single day you came to the studio. The second your cousin said you wanted a commission I said yes. I thought I’d get to paint that pretty face. I never expected I’d get to paint the rest of this fucking body too.”
“Rafayel—” you breathe, already sounding wrecked.
He kisses you again, harder, then trails lower, lips and tongue tracing your collarbone, the curve of one breast, then the other. He takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks slowly, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out.
“Look at these,” he mutters against your skin, voice thick. “Pretty little tits just waiting to be marked up. You’ve been teasing me for weeks, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” you moan, fingers sliding into his hair. “Wanted you to notice…wanted this…”
Then he’s on his knees between your spread thighs, pushing them wider with firm hands. He looks up at you once. Dark eyes, parted lips, before he leans in. The first long, wet stripe of his tongue from entrance to clit makes your hips jerk hard and a loud, broken moan spill out of you.
He doesn’t rush. He licks you again, slower this time, flat tongue dragging through your folds like he’s tasting every bit of you. Then he focuses on your clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue, flicking, then sealing his lips around it and sucking in steady, filthy rhythms. One finger slides inside you, then a second, then a third, curling upward against that sensitive spot while his mouth keeps working.
“That’s it,” he breathes against your soaked skin. “Grind on my face. Use my tongue. Show me how badly you’ve wanted this.”
“Oh yes! Just like that…” you moan, rolling your hips against his mouth without shame, fingers buried deep in his purple hair. “Don’t stop…please don’t stop! feels so good, your tongue—”
He keeps going, relentless. Every time your thighs start to shake he only holds them open wider and sucks harder, fingers thrusting deeper. You come with a sharp cry of his name, body tightening around his fingers, but he doesn’t pull away. He keeps licking and sucking through every pulse, swallowing everything you give him, until you’re shaking and oversensitive, soft broken whimpers still leaving your throat.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice rough and satisfied as he finally lifts his head, mouth shiny.
You push him back onto the couch, climb after him, and free his cock. It’s thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You stroke him slowly from base to head, feeling the heavy heat of him, then lean down and take him into your mouth with a soft, hungry moan. You work him wet and messy, sliding down until he hits the back of your throat, then pulling up with a thick string of spit connecting your lips to his cock. You hollow your cheeks, swirl your tongue under the head, then sink down again, soft wet sounds and your muffled whimpers filling the quiet apartment.
“Shit... look at you,” he pants, one hand gently fisting your hair.
You moan around him, eyes fluttering up to meet his, and keep going, bobbing steadily, spit running down his shaft and over your fingers as you stroke what you can’t fit. His hips start to stutter after a long while. He pulls you off with a rough, almost pained sound, a thick string of spit still connecting your lips to the head of his cock.
“Not yet. I want to come inside you first.”
“Then do it,” you breathe, voice already hoarse. “Please…I need it—”
You crawl up, straddle his lap, and sink down slowly, inch by inch. The stretch is perfect; the moment you’re fully seated a long, shaky moan leaves both of you.
“Fuck! so tight,” he groans, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Taking every inch like you were made for it.”
You stay still for a moment, just feeling how full you are, then start to move. slow rolls of your hips at first, then rising almost all the way off before dropping back down. He meets every thrust from below, hands steady on your waist.
“You feel so good,” you whimper, picking up speed. “So deep… Rafayel…ahh!”
After a while he grips your waist and guides you to turn around without pulling out. You end up in reverse cowgirl, hands braced on his thighs, back arched as you start bouncing again. The new angle makes both of you groan louder.
“Look at that,” he mutters, watching where you’re stretched around him. “Taking me so fucking deep like this. Keep going...just like that—”
You ride him harder, soft wet sounds filling the room, until he comes with a low, broken groan and floods you deep. He’s still hard. He pushes you forward onto your hands and knees, drives back into you from behind in one smooth thrust, and starts fucking you steady and hard.
You cry out at the intensity, fingers curling into the cushions.
“Still so wet even after I filled you,” he growls, one hand holding your cheek so he can turn your face for a messy, open-mouthed kiss, the other sliding under you to palm a breast and pinch the nipple in time with his thrusts.
“Yes! yes, fuck! don’t stop..” you moan against his mouth, voice breaking with every deep thrust. “Harder! please…”
He gives you exactly that for a long stretch, then suddenly presses you flat onto your stomach, covering your body with his. The position makes every thrust feel deeper, heavier. He threads one hand into your hair and keeps fucking you into the cushions, hips rolling hard and steady.
“Even better like this,” he pants against your ear. “Can’t run from it. Just take it.”
“Rafayel…ahh! feels so good” you moan into the fabric, completely open for him.
When he comes again he stays buried to the hilt, pulsing hard inside you, forehead pressed to the back of your neck as he groans your name.
He only gives you a few seconds before he turns you onto your back, hooks your legs over his arms, and sinks into you one more time. The stretch is easy, cheer practice and all those splits have made bending you in half effortless for him. He folds you deeper, nearly pressing your knees to your shoulders, and drives in hard.
The first deep thrust punches a broken moan out of you. He doesn’t stay slow this time. He rams into you with long, heavy strokes, the wet sound of his cock sliding through your soaked cunt loud and filthy in the quiet apartment. Every thrust hits so deep your eyes nearly roll back, toes curling, hands scrambling for anything to hold onto.
You can’t believe it. The same quiet guy you’ve been watching from across the studio, the one who barely spoke more than a few words, is now fucking you like this. wild, relentless, completely unrestrained. Your seduction paid off better than you ever planned.
He keeps going, hips snapping forward, the slick wet drag of him pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. The sound is obscene. skin meeting skin, the wet squelch of how dripping you are around him, your high, continuous moans mixing with his rough breathing.
“One more,” he mutters against your mouth, voice wrecked. “Gonna paint you properly this time.”
“Do it,” you gasp, already trembling, eyes half-lidded from how hard he’s taking you. “Please come on me…I want it..”
He fucks you through another wave of pleasure until your thighs are shaking in his arms, then pulls out at the last second. His last orgasm paints you thick and heavy: ropes across your tongue, your cheeks, your breasts, some of it dripping down your stomach. You moan as you swallow what lands in your mouth and smear the rest over your skin with two fingers while he watches, chest heaving, eyes dark with satisfaction.
“Fuck… look at you,” he breathes. “Covered in me.”
When he can finally speak again, he brushes a streak of cum from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The smile he gives you is soft, a little wrecked, and completely possessive.
“Prettiest canvas I’ve ever painted on,” he says, voice still rough. “I’m going to need a lot more sessions.”
You laugh breathlessly, pull him down into a slow, lingering kiss that tastes like both of you, and feel the last of your plan settle into place. perfect, complete, and so much better than you imagined.
The catch was captured successfully.
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