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The warm summer breeze blows the hair from your face, as you and Rafayel walk together down the bustling sidewalks of Linkon City.
It’s been an exciting afternoon of meandering around town, discovering previously unvisited speciality shops and taste testing new menu items at local cafes. You and Raf each tote paper cups with fruit infused teas inside, comparing and contrasting the different flavors as you swap the beverages back and forth as you go.
Suddenly, an advertisement taped to passing light pole catches your eye. You stop in your tracks, doubling back to give it a second glance.
Rafayel follows, reading the ad over your shoulder, before making a disgusted grimace. He shakes his head, tousling his lavender hair.
“No way.” He says, before you can even petition him.
“It could be fun.” You tease, fingers grasping a tear-away piece of paper with an address and phone number printed across it.
“If you want a paint and sip, I will give you a paint and sip.” He crosses his arms. “No way we’re going to some sad studio to use poor materials to make some soulless pre-determined painting while drinking two buck chuck.”
“Sounds like you’re not up for the challenge.” You tease. “Can the famous artist not paint without the rarest and most expensive of palletes?” You place the back of your hand over your forehead, pretending to faint at the idea.
“Puh-lease.” Rafayel says, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. "I could paint with anything - didn’t I just paint your portrait on a napkin at the coffee shop with espresso this morning?"
“Well if you’re not a total snob about materials, then we should try it.” You argue, skillfully backing him into a corner.
“Okay.” He agrees, an arm reaching out to pluck the address from the flyer. “But only if you agree to two of these events. We’ll do the one here,” he wags the strip of paper in front of you. “And one back at the studio. Then, once you’ve done both, you can decide for yourself which one is better.”
“Fine.” You agree, extending your hand for a handshake, sealing the deal.
“Fine.” He retorts, grasping your hand and shaking it, mischief gleaming in his pink eyes. "Tomorrow night, it's a date."
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You stand outside the make-shift studio, glancing at the time on your phone. Rafayel is late, which is very much unlike him. Other patrons are beginning to mill around the entrance, waiting for the instructor to open the door and let them into the class, and almost all of them are couples.
A bell chimes as the door swings open, and the friendly face of a middle aged woman pops out into the street.
"Come on in." She says, gesturing for the couples, and you, to make your way inside.
You take one last look around for Rafayel, hoping to find him headed your way on the sidewalk, but your search comes up empty. Dejected, you follow the rest of the group inside.
The room is set up with twelve identical easels circling a single easel in the center of the room. Each station is accompanied by a small side table, housing palletes of paint, several different sized brushes, a cup of clean water, and a rag. An apron hangs from each workspace - the one at yours is coffee colored, but the people next to you have light blue, and another couple has purple. The other attendees begin to put theirs on, so you follow suit, slipping the halter over your head and tying a bow at your waist in the back.
"Thank you everyone for coming!" The instructor announces cheerily from the middle of the room, projecting her voice so that everyone in attendance turns their attention towards her. "We have an extra special treat for you all at tonight's Paint and Sip -"
Your mouth drops. No way, you think to yourself. He wouldn't.
"We have a special guest instructor tonight that I'm sure many of you know - Rafayel Qi, our resident artist from Whitesand Bay."
Rafayel steps out from behind a nearby curtain, waving politely at the small crowd, who clap enthusiastically at his entrance. He's wearing dark pants and a plain white button up, mostly obscured by the coffee colored apron covering him from his chest to just above his knees.
The instructor, who has apparently been demoted to coordinator, continues.
"Mr. Qi has also been kind enough to donate a few bottles from his private collection for tonight's wine tasting."
The crowd gasps excitedly, partners turning to each other to whisper in hushed voices about the change in the itinerary and menu. Rafayel scans the room, eyes settling on you in your matching smock. He eyes light up, a cheeky grin spreading across his face.
He saunters over to you, smiling like a fool the whole way.
"Hi Cutie." He says, leaning in to peck you on the cheek. "Ready to paint?"
"I take it you decided to combine our two paint night dates into one." You say, throwing an accusatory glance his direction.
"Of course not." He retorts, a look of disbelief crossing his face. "I'm simply elevating the experience at this paint night. We're still on for my place tomorrow, right?" He flashes you his best puppy dog eyes.
"Yes." You grumble, crossing your arms in defeat.
"Excellent." He smiles. "Okay, I better get back up there."
He turns to walk back to his station in the center of the room.
"Alright, everyone, let's get started shall we." Rafayel projects. "My assistant should be coming around now with a glass of our first tasting of the evening, a twenty year old Gaja Barbaresco Sorì San Lorenzo, Italian, if the name didn't make it obvious."
Thomas steps out from the shadows, carrying a serving tray with six glasses of blood red wine balanced on it's surface. He smiles, dropping a glass of to each of the patrons and returning to wherever the glasses are being filled to retreive the remainder. When he finally reaches you, you thank him for the wine, eyes narrowed at him in suspicion.
"I told him not to do it." Thomas whispers, caving to you immediately. "There's no stopping him you know that. And before you ask, no, I can't tell you anything about your date tomorrow."
Before Rafayel notices, he's already off, delivering the next glass of wine to it's drinker.
You eye your own glass, long stemmed and delicate, and raise it to your lips, taking a small sip. It's a bold red, the profile packed with different contrasting flavors. You detect some kind of dark fruit, spice, and something earthy you can't quite put your tongue on. You glare at Rafayel suspiciously, wondering what a bottle costs.
"Now that you've all been served your first glass of the evening, let's get to painting." Rafayel starts. "If any of you are familiar with my work, you'll know that my specialty is the sea, so today we’ll paint a basic ocean scene.”
Rafayel plucks one of the thicker brushes from the cup at his table.
“We’re going to start by laying a base color over your canvas to set the mood of your painting - choose a color that speaks to you, that makes you think of how you feel when you visit the ocean.”
He himself chooses a pastel pink, dipping his brush into the palette and then quickly submerging it in the water to thin the pigment, before placing fat, lazy strokes against the canvas, tinting it pink.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect.” He continues, filling in the stripes of canvas he missed on his first pass more color. “This part is about the mood of your painting.”
You eye your own colors and try to channel Rafayel’s laissez-faire attitude and letting the colors speak to you. Your brush hovers over several pans of pigment, but ultimately you settle on a light, pastel purple.
With his base coat completed, Rafayel begins to circle the other artists, commenting on the colors they’ve chosen. One woman has chosen a bright, citrus orange because it reminds her of the sunset over the horizon. The man next to her selected a deep, inky blue that made him think of a shipwreck on the ocean floor. Someone picked a light beige for sand, another a green for boughs of seagrass that grow near the shore.
Rafayel can’t maintain his composure when he reaches your easel, biting back a smile as he notes your choice in color.
“Lovely.” He comments, eyes sparkling.
He returns once again to the epicenter, and launches into a detailed instruction on how to paint different types of waves, the colors of sea foam, and techniques for getting your sand to mimic light refraction.
Thomas comes around with another glass or wine, whispering the very long name to each of the patrons as he deposits the delicate crystal on their tables. When he reaches you, his eyes dart upwards, skipping the introduction of the drink.
“Having fun?” He asks, eyeing your painting.
You grimace, regarding him with incredulous, half lidded eyes.
“Well, at least enjoy the red.” He suggests, cocking his head towards the glass. You grasp the stem and bring the rim to your lips at his suggestion. “It’s $1200 a glass.”
You choke, audibly, turning your head in horror to the fiscally irresponsible host in front of you. Rafayel winks devilishly in response.
He manages to behave himself for the remainder of the event, acting with poise and professionalism throughout the evening. At the end, each artist-in-training has a unique piece to take home, and are all sufficiently tipsy, thanks to the heavy handed pours of Thomas.
“Ready to go?” Rafayel asks, slipping the now sullied apron over his head. The gesture reveals just a sliver of his toned mid-section, the deep lines at his hips guiding your eyes downward. You stare, mouth salivating.
“Mhmm.” You answer, as his arms come back down, obscuring your view.
Rafayel gives you a lopsided grin, one eyebrow raising higher than the other.
“Miss bodyguard, are you drunk?”
“Well,” you retort, eyes glossy. “If someone wasn’t feeding me $1200 glasses of wine all night -“
“Only one of those glasses was a $1200 glass.” Rafayel corrects. “The first was only $500, and third was $2,000.”
“TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS?” You shout in exasperation.
“Shhh.” Rafayel is giggling, unable to contain himself. “If you think that is decadent, wait until you see what I have planned for tomorrow night.”
“I’m more interested in what I have planned for tonight.” You slur, hooking your four fingers into the front of his jeans and pulling him towards you aggressively.
Rafayel holds his hands up, but doesn’t pull away.
“Woah,” he says, chuckling nervously. “Let’s at least get you home first.”
He tilts his head back and yells for Thomas, who appears from the back.
“Do you have the town car tonight?” He asks.
“Yes.” Thomas asks, tilting his head curiously.
“Great, we need a ride home.” Rafayel nods to your flushed faced, your hands still precariously close to unbuttoning his pants.
“Let me pull the car around.” Thomas offers, looking for an excuse to exit as quickly as possible.
As soon as he’s made his exit, you and Rafayel practically trip over each other with laughter, reeling from his reaction. When the headlights flash through the storefront, you run outside, hand in hand, and slip into the backseat. The tan leather material beneath you squeaks as you scooch yourself further into the car, Rafayel climbing in behind you. He shuts the door behind him, reaching for a control near the handle, and you watch as a partition raises between the front and rear of the car with a mechanical whir.
You learn against the door behind you, biting your lip and giving Rafayel your very best siren eyes, beckoning him to bridge the gap between you.
He kneels on the seat, half crawling to you, a love drunk grin plastered across his handsome face. He gets close - his nose almost touching yours, eyes dancing with anticipation as he reaches for the nape of your neck, pulling you into a kiss.
The kiss starts slow, Rafayel testing his center of balance while the vehicle moves, swaying you both slightly. His free hand grips the headrest, anchoring himself in place, allowing him to kiss you with more fervor. You giggle uncontrollably as the kisses press to cover all of your lips - the corners, the cupid's bow - and then trail all over your face, to your ears, and down the side of your neck.
Your little laughs turn to moans as Rafayel places pointed pecks down your shoulder, letting the collar of your t-shirt stop him. Wickedly, you grip the material and pull it down, exposing the curve of your breast, mostly covered by a peach colored bra.
Rafayel grips your hand, still tangled in your own shirt, and pulls it upward, covering you.
A look of great concern flashes across your face, fumbling with the idea that Rafayel does not want to see you exposed. He notices immediately and presses a kiss to your temple.
"We're here, cutie."
He slips back into his own seat just in time for the car to come to a smooth halt. He opens the door, beating Thomas to the punch, and rounding the back of the car to open your door for you. With a twist of his wrist, he offers you a hand, and you take it, a smile etched onto your lips.
"Have a good night, Thomas!" Rafayel calls as the car pulls away from the curb.
It takes you a minute to realize that you're not in Whitesand Bay, at Rafayel's place.
"We are at my apartment?" You manage out in confusion.
"Yes," Rafayel responds to your astute observation. "The decorators are busy with my place tonight, so I thought we'd spent a night in at yours."
You narrow your eyes, pondering what decorators would be doing at Rafayels - but almost as soon as the thought has appeared, it dissolves into the wine soaked depths of your brain.
" Okay." Is all you say in response.
The two of you make it to the fifth floor, where you apartment is located. You struggle with your keys for several long moments until Rafayel takes them from you, opening the door with ease, and ushering you inside. As soon as you lay eyes on the couch, you collapse face down in the cushions, bringing the spinning sensation you feel to a crashing halt.
"I think we should get some food into you." Rafayel suggests, beginning to dig through your cupboards in search of a meal starchy enough to soak up some of the alcohol in your stomach. "Cutie, you've got like no food in here."
"If you're hungry, I have something you can eat." You taunt, wiggling your hips on the couch.
Rafayel leans back, peering at you from behind one of the cabinet doors.
"We're going to have a big night tomorrow," he warns. "I don't want to use all of your stamina tonight."
He returns to the cabinet, turning around boxes of dry goods, searching for the cure to inebriation.
"Raf, I want you." You slur out, reaching an arm off the couch and making a grabbing motion towards him.
He rolls his eyes dramatically, and steps to the edge of the kitchen tile, still feet away from you, crossing his arms.
"If you can tell me exactly what you want, I'll oblige you." He offers. "But you have to eat something."
You sit up, eagerly accepting his terms. A look of slight regret in his eyes, he stalks over to you on the sofa, towering over you from your seat.
"Go on," he urges. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you to fuck me." You smile up at him.
"How creative." He teases. "That's it? That could mean anything. If you want something from me be specific."
You stare into his pink-blue eyes, determined to get what you want.
"I want you," you start, shifting on the sofa. "To put your cock in my pretty little hole and fuck me until I can't walk."
You raise an eyebrow at him, defiantly.
"You already can't walk." Raf replies, turning heel to the kitchen.
"Nooooo!" You whine, out, reaching for him as he walks away from you. "Raf, pleeease."
"Calm down." He returns to the cupboard and grabs a box of soup crackers, then opens the fridge for a bottle of water. "If you want my attention so badly, you can have it, but only after you've gotten something besides wine into your stomach."
He returns to the couch, settling in next to you, but keeping a small distance between you, handing you the water and opening the crackers. You gulp the drink down obediently, and eat the crackers one by one as he hands them to you, until you start to complain that you're full.
"Alright, alright." He acquieses, accepting his defeat and placing the cracker box on the end table.
"Now can I have your cock?" You ask through fluttering lashes.
"Gods, where did you learn to talk like this?" He asks, pulling at his collar as he adjusts himself on the couch in an attempt to relieve the pressure in growing in his jeans.
Your eyes flick from his collar to his crotch, and finally up to his eyes. Your own sparkle with devious intent.
"You like it when I talk like this." You accuse, sliding closer to him on the couch, poking a finger into his muscled chest. "You want to hear me swear like a sailor."
The slightest blush of red creeps into Rafayel's ears, as he turns his head away from you.
You grip his chin, possibly a little too tightly, and jerk his face back to yours.
"Say you like it." You demand, words a little too close together.
"I like it." He admits, looking into your eyes, unblinking.
You grab one of his hands and drag it towards your body, placing it on one of your breasts. Fingers on his, you squeeze yourself, forcing his fingers to do the same.
Rafayel's resolve is crumbling. He closes his eyes, making concessions in his mind, and you already know you've won.
"Nothing crazy," Raf almost begs. "Just a quick, gentle fuck, and then we'll go to sleep, okay?"
"What's gotten into you?" You question, raising an eyebrow quizzically. "Don't want to hear me scream your name anymore?"
A gutteral groan escapes Rafayel's throat as he spreads his legs wider in an attempt to lessen the friction in his pants.
"Of course I do," His face looks practically pained. "But we've got a big date tomorrow night and I don't want to wear you out before then." He glances upwards at the ceiling. "Also your upstairs neighbor is kind of weird and I'm not sure I want you screaming my name if he can hear it."
You audibly laugh at the mention of your coworker.
"Okay, one quick, satisfying fuck, and I will happily go to sleep."
A sigh of relief, or defeat, leaves Rafayel's chest, and you know for sure you have been crowned victorious.
"Alright," he agrees. "Let's get you out of those clothes."
You crawl over to him on the couch, letting him unbutton your own jeans, his fingers helping peel them down your thighs along with your underwear. He follows suit, pulling down his jeans and discarding them on the far end of the couch, his cock firm and waiting for you in his lap.
He reaches out, swiping your sex with a single finger, applying the faintest amount of pressure to test the waters. He holds the finger up, the natural lubricant visible in the dim light.
"Eager, are we?" He asks.
"Eager to feel you come inside me."
Rafayel blushes furiously, sucking in a breath, before steeling his resolve.
"Fine," he agrees. "Get on my cock and show me how much you want me."
A wicked smile paints your face, and you crawl on your hands and knees into position, readying yourself over his twitching, expectant member. You lower yourself towards him, lining the head of him with your entrance, and sinking down slightly to ensure you have the angle correct.
"Wait, Cutie-" Rafayel suddenly falters. "I don't want you to hurt yourself, let me help you, let me make sure you're ready."
But before he can even get his hand on himself, you've already lowered yourself on his waiting shaft, engulfing him entirely.
"Holy fuck." Rafayel gasps, his eyes wide with surprise.
His little sounds spur something carnal and hungry in the back of your cloudy mind. "You like that?" You ask him, determined to drive him wild. "You like it when I'm wet enough to take you right away?"
"Y-yes." He stutters. "But Cutie, this isn't how we usually do things, are you feeling okay?"
"I'm very full," You admit, rocking back and forth with your hips, grinding down on his cock. "Your cock is stretching me, it hurts just a little, but it's a good hurt, it feels nice."
"It's not supposed to hurt." Rafayel chastises, gritting his teeth in an attempt to convince you to change your tune. "We agreed to quick and gentle, remember?"
You begin to roll your hips, taking him deeper, the length of him brushing against the most sensitive internal spots.
"Fuck quick and gentle." You pant, the effort of speaking becoming more difficult. "I want you to -" You let out a groan as you continue to ride him. "-fuck me until I can't walk."
Something in Rafayel snaps, like a rubber band that's been pulled too tightly. Your words have slowly but surely melted away his inhibitions, his desperation to keep you pristine and perfect, and now look only to ruin you. His body leans forward, hands gripping your back and shoulders, as he flips you onto the couch, changing the position so he is now on top. Now in control of the situation, he chooses the depth and the pace, starting with slow, languid plunges into you, never too deep or too quick.
"Don't tease me." You beg, the delicious stretch of the full length of him causing your insides you ache as he gives you only a fraction of what you had been taking. "Please."
Rafayels eyes are dark, his pupils wide and black, drinking in the sight of you begging.
"Where are those filthy words now?" He asks, slowing to a glacial pace. "Go on, beg me, and be specific, or I'll keep this pace all night."
Anxiety grips your stomach at the idea of being made to come slowly, over the course of hours as he pumps in and out of you lazily, as a punishment. Your foggy mind searches for the right words, but begins to throw anything you can think of at the wall, hoping it sticks.
"Fuck me," You start, words spilling from your wine kissed lips. "Slam your cock into me, fuck my tight little hole until I come around you cock." You do your best to squeeze your walls around him, tightening like a vice. "Let the neighbors hear me scream for you, let them know I belong to Rafayel."
The sound of his name on your lips is his undoing. His slow strokes inside you switch to barrage of rapid thrusts, his hands on your hips as he forces himself deep, deeper than even you were able to take him while positioned on top of him. As if the deeper angle was not enough, a hand slides down to your abdomen, pushing firmly against you, forcing you to feel every plunge from the outside. His thumb stretches from his grounded palm, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at your apex and rubbing quick, precise circles on you. Between the pressure, the stretch, and the stimulation of your clit, you feel release swelling inside you, threatening to bubble to the surface.
"Awfully quiet now aren't we?" Rafayels smile is devastatingly cruel, but kindness still shows through his glossy eyes.
"P-please." Is all you can stammer out, the full breadth of your attention spent on feeling.
It's Rafayel's turn to be hungry, to use dirty words to rile you as he pounds into you with abandon.
"Do you belong to me?" He asks. "Are you my devout little follower, willing to do anything to please me? Supplicate yourself to me, let me hear you - who do you belong to?"
"Rafayel." You choke out, vision swimming.
"Say it again, all of it." He increases the pressure on your apex, causing you to cry out. "Say who you belong to. If you are so dedicated to me, let them hear it."
"My body.. belongs to.. Rafayel." You manage between pants.
He thrusts harder, faster, his motions growing sloppy and disheveled as you both teeter on the precipice of release.
"Only your body?" He questions, his breathing labored, his eyes studying you, waiting for a response.
"All of me." You correct, eyelids fluttering, desperate to stay open, to maintain eye contact with him despite the pleasure that crashes over you like a wave against a breakwater. "My heart belongs to you, Rafayel."
He comes apart first, his breath hitching, lips trembling as a hot spray of viscous, liquid gratification is released within you. The heat of it, the little additional pressure is the push that sends you spiraling over the edge, meeting his climax with your own, body writhing, back arching to take the last of him deeper, like a bowstring pulled taught. His fingers continue their pressure, pushing down on his slowing, languid thrusts as he brushes your swollen apex, drawing sharp whines and shaky cries out of you, pulling the sounds from you like the moon pulls on the tide.
Your bodies tire together, the rise and fall of your chests matching rhythm until your breathing aligns in perfect harmony.
Rafayel pulls his softening member from you, his hand cupping your entrance, catching the mixture of your combined release as it drips from your body. You try to pull away, ready to insist that he doesn’t have to do that, that the couch doesn’t need protecting, but he stops you before you can start.
“It’s a beautiful color.” He remarks, gently shifting the liquid between two fingers. “Reminds me of the color of a saltwater pearl.”
You look away, blushing. Sometimes, Rafayel’s artistic study has the effect on you.
He sees the red creeping into your cheeks and smiles. “Sobering up I see.”
It’s the only jest he makes, rising from the couch to wash the release from his hands, and returning with a wet cloth to dab your swollen sex, cleaning you with mindful rumination behind his kind eyes. Your shade deepens as the intimacy of his actions strikes you, the silent act of service in soothing and cleansing another’s body, and somehow managing to touch their soul.
When complete, he places an innocent kiss to the freshly washed skin, and rises, moving to take you into his arms and saving you the embarrassment of admitting that he was right, and you cannot walk.
He tucks you into the bed, spreading soft blankets over you before crawling into the other side, shuffling closer to you, until you can feel the tickle of his lilac hair on your forehead. He presses a kiss to your temple, and mutters his goodnight just as you drift off.
“Get some sleep, Cutie. We have a date tomorrow.”