Work Text:
Rafayel was late - again - so you drifted through the exhibition space while the VIP early guests trickled in, all hushed voices and champagne flutes.
This event was meant to celebrate a collaboration with a luxury perfume house. Judging by how Rafayel had spoken about it, it seemed 99.99% likely he hadn’t personally smelled a single scent bearing his name.
The “nose” of the house however, was clearly inspired. He spoke with reverence, hands moving as if shaping invisible sculptures, explaining how each fragrance had been built: the sourcing of the raw materials, the emotional narrative, the weight and curve of the bottles themselves. When he learned you were the artist’s bodyguard, his eyes lit up. He guided you eagerly from pedestal to pedestal, asking what you thought Rafayel would notice first, what would catch his attention, what would linger.
It was more interesting than you thought it would be but hard for even you to predict what Rafayel might think or say.
“And this one?” you asked, pausing at a bottle washed in blue and violet glass, its stopper asymmetrical and intriguing. The glass looked hand-formed, imperfect in a way that felt intentional. It reminded you of glass formed from lightning striking sand. More fitting than this perfumer could possibly know for Rafayel.
You lifted the bell jar that covered the sample and brought it to your nose.
The scent bloomed immediately. It was clean and briny at first, like sea spray hitting the deck of a wooden boat. Then driftwood, pale and dry, followed by something darker and greener beneath it: seaweed, crushed herbs, a faint bitterness.
“Ah,” the perfumer said softly, pleased. “One of my favorites. Inspired by Mr. Rafayel’s passion for the sea. And…” He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Legal wouldn’t let me say this, but there’s something particularly… special about this one.”
“Oh?” You glanced at him, still holding the bottle.
“Hmmm. Tell me, Miss, do you believe in Lemuria?”
What did this man know? Was he targeting Rafayel for this reason? Was there something more sinister behind his homage to the artist?
You hesitated just long enough for the man to smile, mistaking your pause for skepticism.
“I don’t blame you,” he continued, waving it off. “But I’ve always loved the stories of a long lost civilization. And I believe the artist has an interest in them as well.”
“How is that connected?” you asked, feigning nonchalance and turning the bottle so the light fractured through the glass.
“Well,” he answered, taking the bottle from you to tip it and re-wet the stopper, “we used a deep-sea ingredient, a rare type of anemone. Allegedly an aphrodisiac nearly irresistible to Lemurians. The legends say they harvested it nearly to extinction. Only after the fall of Lemuria did it return to the oceans.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Just a story, of course.” He smiled. “My true goal was simply to capture the heart of the ocean.”
You couldn’t take your eyes off the bottle as he rotated it slowly, the colors shifting like water over stone.
“I think you succeeded,” you complimented him and meant it. Even from the bell jar, it smelled wonderful to you and there was something inherently Rafayel-esque in it.
“Would you like to try it?” he asked. “It changes completely on skin. The jar and blotters really don’t do it justice.”
Irresistible to Lemurians, huh?
A smile tugged at your lips.
“Why not?” you shrugged. “Sure.”
He smiled and held out the stopper. You offered your wrist, palm up to him. The glass touched your skin, cool at first then warmer as the oil spread.
“Like this,” he said, miming the gesture: tapping his wrists together, then lifting and touching beneath the ears. You followed, pressing lightly, inhaling as the scent deepened, salt fading into something warmer, more intimate, almost mineral.
“May I?” he asked.
At your nod, he leaned in, careful and professional, wafting your wrist toward himself. His approval was immediate.
“Perfect skin chemistry,” he said, delighted. “You’ll be an excellent example later for Mr. Rafayel to smell the fragrance's full potential."
Heat crept up your neck, settling high on your cheeks.
The image alone of Rafayel’s nose near your wrist, sniffing your skin had your pulse skyrocketing.
Just then, Thomas came skidding into view, his panicked features breaking you from your self-indulgent reverie.
“Miss Hunter! Thank goodness.”
“Thomas, what’s wrong?”
“I haven’t been able to contact Rafayel for three days now!”
Thomas’s voice cut cleanly through the low murmur of the gallery, sharp enough that a few nearby staff glanced over.
“Not at all?”
“Nothing,” Thomas said, running a hand through his hair. “He said he needed to sequester himself for three days, but I assumed that at the very least he’d show up tonight.”
“Did he … say he would?” you asked tentatively. Getting Rafayel to show up to events was challenging in the best of circumstances. Thomas’ optimism now was… uncharacteristic of the man.
You glanced down at your phone, thumb hovering over your messaging app. Rafayel’s texts from earlier in the week surfaced in your mind. He’d expressly asked you to not listen to Thomas or any of his demands.
“No…” Thomas admitted, deflating slightly. “But he knew I had to beg and plead the Linkon Times reporter to come cover this after Rafayel stood him up for the last interview.”
Ah. Yes. That.
You remembered the preview questions. They’d been printed for Rafayel’s review ahead of the interview. You remembered Rafayel skimming them with visible disdain, jaw tightening.
He found the questions insipid, dull and offensive. Twenty minutes after the interview was meant to start, he’d sent a blisteringly honest text telling the journalist just what he thought of him.
You exhaled slowly.
“I’ll go check on him,” you offered.
Thomas’s shoulders dropped with visible relief.
“Thank you.”
The Whitesand Bay gate was locked for once when you arrived but your hard copy of his key made quick work of it.
The villa breathed salt and sun, its wide glass doors thrown open to the beach beyond, curtains stirring lazily in the ocean breeze.
The studio was flooded with light, canvases stacked and scattered in various states of completion, oil paint still glossy in places, the sharp tang of pigment mixing with seawater and linen. Brushes lay abandoned in cloudy jars. No sign of the man himself.
“Rafayel?” you called.
Nothing but seagulls and surf answered your call.
You moved deeper into the house, footsteps echoing softly over cool stone. The farther you went, the quieter it became, until at last you reached his bedroom. On the large bed sat an unmoving lump beneath the covers.
Relief and irritation tangled in your chest.
“It’s already past the event start time,” you said briskly, crossing the room. You yanked back the blanket.
Two pillows stared back at you.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you breathed. This was definitely another one of his tricks.
Straightening, you raised your voice deliberately.
“Huh. Guess I should check some of the restaurants nearby!”
You let the bedroom door slam behind you hard enough to sell it and waited on the other side.
Silence, at first.
Then, faintly, laughter.
“Wow,” he said from the balcony, voice loose and amused speaking to no one in particular, “she really fell for it, huh?” A pause as he checked the room, “she’s actually so cute.”
You waited quietly, pulse quickening, just beyond the door. When he opened it, you shrugged once in response.
“Gotcha.”
He startled visibly when you appeared in front of him. His shirt hung half-open the way it always did at home, fabric draped rather than worn, revealing pale skin and lean muscle, all dotted with constellations of moles.
The salty sea air had curled his hair into perfect disorder, light catching along his cheekbones and throat. Nothing about him looked like an artist in isolation hard at work on his latest masterpiece. In fact, you realized with a mix of annoyance and relief, he looked red carpet ready.
“Hey! Wait - what are you!”
You frog marched him back into his room, straight into the walk in closet and grabbed a tie from the back of a chair. You shoved him onto the couch. He laughed even as he protested, only half-resisting as you bound his wrists loosely, more playful than secure.
“Didn’t we agree to ignore Thomas?” he said, clicking his tongue. “Why are you here on his behalf?”
“There is no ‘we,’” you shot back. “That was only you.”
“Oh?” He tilted his head, mock-offended. “So now you and Thomas are a team?”
You ignored the disdain in his voice.
“You know he finally got the Linkon Times reporter to come back. This exhibit matters. The perfume is basically an homage to your work.”
“Yes, yes,” he waved it off. “It’s all very interesting. The perfumer is skilled, that’s why he doesn’t require my presence.”
“He wanted to see your reaction,” you added. “He was excited.”
“You spoke to him?”
“Briefly.”
“Hm.” His gaze lingered on you, unreadable. “Then why don’t you go for me?”
“No.” You turned sharply and strode into his closet.
Suits lined the wall, immaculately steamed and pressed.
You pulled out two suits: one navy, one scarlet, holding them up.
“Pick.”
“When did I buy that?” He recoiled from the red like it had personally offended him.
He’d slipped the loose bindings of the tie and stood, taking the suit from your hands.
“Okay, fine, wear this one then.” You offered the blue, truly now well out of patience.
Immediately after you set the suit and matching shirt down on the chaise in his closet, his hands began swiftly unbuttoning the remaining clasped buttons on his shirt, revealing his muscled pectorals and chiseled abs.
Your heart raced as he shrugged out of the button down, revealing his strong biceps and undulating shoulders.
“Wait! What are you doing!”
“Changing,” he answered, half-annoyed, half-offended at your dumbstruck gaze, “why are you taking so long to react? Aren’t you going to look away?”
Blinking, stunned, you turned a quarter turn, mentally stuttering before turning fully to face the wall, arms folding tight across your chest. You waited until the rustle of fabric ceased, until the soft zip of his trousers and the muted click of buttons told you he was dressed again.
“Oh yeah,” he drawled, “turn around now, why don’t you? You’ve already seen everything you shouldn’t have.”
Heat climbed your neck and flared across your cheeks.
“I didn’t,” you snapped. “And I didn’t want to see anything.” you lied.
“C’mon,” he said lightly. He lounged on the chaise, fingers absently toying with the tie from earlier. “Help me with one more thing. Put this on, yeah?”
“And your hands?” you shot back. “What, suddenly useless?” Embarrassment sharpened your irritation.
“Didn’t you say we were already late?” He asked.
“Hmph.”
You crossed the room and sat beside him, fingers clumsy against the silk. How did it go again? Around the loop, above the smaller length. Or was it under?
Suddenly, Rafayel’s hand closed around your arm.
“What’s wrong?”
“Hold still.”
His grip tightened, hauling you forward onto his lap. The tie slipped down, half-knotted against his collarbone. His fingers flexed again around your forearm, his voice dropping as he spoke. You braced a hand against his opposite shoulder and pushed.
He didn’t budge. His breathing deepened, chest rising beneath you.
“Your suit,” you protested, breathless. “You’ll wrinkle it.”
“I don’t care,” he murmured. “Let me smell this.”
Oh God.
The scent on your wrist. The Lemurian aphrodisiac.
That couldn’t be real… Could it? Maybe it was only familiar. Maybe it simply appealed to him. Yes. That had to be it. There was no way you’d accidentally-on purpose-drugged him.
“What is that?” He inhaled slowly, deeply, then groaned obscenely on the exhale. “It smells… good. Familiar.”
“Are you okay?” you asked.
“Yes.” His pupils were blown wide as he looked up through his lashes, a sharp, predatory smile cutting across his face in the dim light. “Very well, in fact.”
Guilt prickled your skin. You became painfully aware of your dress, of how little it concealed, how bare your arms, neck, and back were in just a thin silk babydoll style dress. Perched half on his lap, the hem had crept dangerously high along your thighs.
“What is that scent?” he asked again.
The flush on your cheeks deepened a shade of crimson deeper than the suit that had so offended his sensibilities.
“It’s from the exhibit,” you admitted in a tight whisper, mortified.
“Perfume?” he interrupted, faintly affronted. “You spritzed it on yourself?”
“It’s an essence,” you corrected. “So it wasn't a spritz. But. Yeah.”
Should you tell him?
He drew your wrist closer, nose pressed to your skin as he inhaled again.
“I swear I’ve smelled this before.”
You felt his breath hot and damp against your wrist. The look in his eyes unsettled you, and you tried to pull away.
“Just one more time,” he insisted.
With his free hand, he tugged his collar open, undoing the top buttons again as his fingers brushed his throat, exactly where you’d once seen luminous scales shimmer on Ebb Day. He moaned lightly, nosing your wrist and rubbing his own throat.
“Unhand me,” you said. “Please.”
“No.”
His eyes glazed over, a delicate flush staining his cheekbones. His hand continued its slow path over his throat as he nuzzled your wrist and forearm.
“Who gave this to you?” he demanded. “Who sent it?”
Panic flared when you reached to check his forehead.
What if it wasn’t an aphrodisiac at all?
What if it was poisoning him?
What if he was sick and it was your fault?
“No one,” you said quickly. “I just liked the bottle. Rafayel, I’ll call Thomas I…you look ... drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” he whined. “I just don't like the scent.”
He tugged your wrist closer, crushing his nose against it. His tongue flicked out rough, practically feline, as he dragged the flat of it along your skin.
When you tried to pull away, he held you fast and sunk his teeth into the meat of your palm.
You flinched with a yelp, trying in earnest now to tug your limb from him.
Even so, the heat in his eyes sparked something low and urgent inside you.
He held fast and rubbed your wrist against his cheek, whining softly. Another sensitive spot?
“Are you trying to run away again?” he accused. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re not locking me up again. Not this time.”
“Rafayel, I’m not going to-”
He leaned closer, nosing at your throat. Without thinking, you tilted your head back, exposing the vulnerable stretch of your throat to his teeth.
“I’m not going to do anything to you,” he murmured, pressing against you, affectionate and insistent, his nose gliding up and down your neck.
“What if…” You swallowed, making his movement pause. “What if I wanted you to?”
His eyes widened, disbelieving.
“Miss Bodyguard…” he breathed, “what have you done to me?”
Desire pooled hot and slick between your thighs.
Fuck. When had you last shaved? What underwear were you wearing? Wait. Had you drugged him?
“The perfumer-” you panted as he pulled you tighter into his lap.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“He said the perfume had… an ingredient. Something special for Lemurians.”
“What ingredient?” he asked, inhaling deeply.
“A rare deep-sea anemone.” Your voice thinned pathetically, betraying you.
His hands slid to your shoulders, hauling you fully onto his lap. His cock strained against his trousers, unmistakable now, pressing hard as your knees braced on either side of his hips digging into the chaise cushion. Your panties were soaked, undoubtedly ruining the fine wool of his suit.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.
“Naughty,” he murmured. “So you wanted this.”
“I-” Your breath caught as he ground up against you, stealing the word from your mouth. It wasn't a denial. And he noticed.
“Fuck,” he whispered your name. “You only had to ask.”
Your thoughts scattered. He’d teased you for months, never once crossing the line and yet here you were, crushed against him, helplessly wanting.
His hands slid to your hips, gripping firmly. His thigh lifted, grinding against you as he sucked at your throat where the fragrance still lingered.
“You didn’t need to drug me,” he said softly. “I would’ve fucked you anyway.”
“Sorry?” you squeaked as his thigh dragged against your clit, sending sparks through you.
“You will be.”
He stood abruptly, lifting you with him in one smooth motion. Your breath left you in a startled gasp as he carried you from the closet to the bedroom, the sudden shift disorienting. The mattress met your back with a dull bounce as he dropped you onto it without ceremony.
He followed immediately, crawling over you, pinning your wrists on either side of your head. His nose brushed along your skin as he positioned himself between your legs, weight heavy and deliberate.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asked, leaning back just enough to look at you. “Is this what you were hoping for when you used that perfume?”
Your wrists were free now, but you left them slack beside your neck. Your dress had ridden high, bunched above your hips, leaving your soaked cotton panties fully exposed.
“Answer me.”
“Yes.” The word slipped out quiet but raw but honest. Yes, more than anything, you wanted this.
“Look at you,” he cocked his head, voice suddenly steadier, sounding much more in control of his faculties. “You’re soaked. Almost like you were the one exposed to a heat-inducing chemical.”
You swallowed. Heat-inducing chemical…?
“…I’m sorry?”
He only smiled. His jacket came off first, then his shirt. Faint scales shimmered along his neck and chest, catching the low light as he groaned softly, fingertips tracing over them.
“Will you…” You swallowed again. “Will you let me help you?”
His smile was all teeth, sharp fangs flashing in the low light.
“Help me?” he echoed. “You started this. You’ll be the one to finish it.”
Heat coiled low in your belly.
With one sharp tug, the thin strip of fabric at your hip gave way. Your panties tore cleanly. He leaned over you, slipping one strap of your dress down, then the other, peeling the silk away until you lay bare beneath him.
“Beautiful,” he said, mouth closing around one nipple. “Beautiful and all mine.”
His kisses trailed downward: over your ribs, your stomach, the curve of your hips until his breath ghosted over your clit. He paused there, looking up at you with a knowing smile, then licked you open in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your breath hitched. The sensation was hot, wet, and, despite everything, completely unhurried. His tongue, rough moments ago against your wrist, was impossibly soft now, coaxing rather than demanding.
Pleasure sparked with every pass, leaving you torn between grabbing him close or freezing in place, obedient or maybe you should…
“Stop thinking,” he ordered quietly from between your thighs.
You did.
Your fingers slid into his violet hair. How many nights had you imagined this? The thrill alone had always been enough to set you on edge but nothing could compare to the reality of it.
The fervor with which he devoured you was unreal. His hands kneaded your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples before sliding down over your ribs and hips, lifting you just enough to press you harder against his mouth.
When you moaned, he mirrored it, low and hungry. Distantly, you realized his hips were rocking into the mattress. The knowledge that eating you out was turning him on sent a sharp spike of heat through you.
Then his hand slid beneath you, fingers brushing past your entrance. He didn’t push them in immediately. Instead, he teased, circling, pulsing just inside, spreading your slickness with maddening patience.
“You’re so wet,” he murmured, almost scolding. “What exactly were you planning when you came here?”
“Please,” you begged, hips canting helplessly toward him.
He hummed, considering, propping his chin on his hands just above you.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Do you deserve to come? After tricking me like this?”
Need clawed through you, sharp and breathless but you could only whine in response.
“Ask nicely.”
“Please, Rafayel.”
“That’s it?”
“Pleasepleasepleaseplease-”
He laughed softly and lowered his mouth back to you.
“Okay, cutie. Just this once.”
His tongue returned to your clit as his fingers finally slid inside you, curling immediately to brush the sensitive spot that had you seeing stars.
“Fuck, Raf. I’m gonna come.”
He hummed in approval and didn’t slow, every movement relentlessly precise.
The heat inside you built and built until it crashed over you in blinding waves of release. He kept going until the last aftershock stopped shaking your thighs and you tried to wiggle away from him, boneless and sensitive.
“Delicious,” he murmured, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "what do you want? Tell me."
"Wanna taste you,” you begged, breathless, aching to return the favor, "please."
“Only because you asked so nicely,” he said, pulling back just long enough to strip out of his trousers and briefs.
His cock sprang free, slapping softly against his abdomen. Pink, heavy and already leaking. Absolutely gorgeous.
You lay there, dumbstruck, head sinking into the mattress as he climbed over you, settling his weight against your chest and letting the tip brush your lips.
“Open,” he ordered.
You did.
He filled your mouth immediately. Thick, hard, pressing deep as you forced yourself to relax. Your earlier orgasm had left you loose, pliant enough to take him past your gag reflex. His breath stuttered as you swallowed around him.
Above you, his abs flexed and his hands braced against the headboard. He moved with restrained control at first, then rougher, thrusting into your mouth. It was obscene how filthy and hot this felt. His complete wanton dominance over your body had your cunt throbbing, slick and swelling even more, responding helplessly to the sounds he made, to his body over you.
“Enough,” he said abruptly, pulling free with a wet pop. “On your stomach.”
You rolled, heat flaring again as he dragged your hips back, the head of his cock sliding through your slick.
“So needy,” he murmured. “Already this wet again, cutie?”
“Yes,” you whimpered, face pressed into the sheets.
“Naughty thing.” His tone softened. “Don't worry, I've got you.”
He pushed into you in one brutal thrust, drawing a sharp cry from your throat. His pace was immediate and unrelenting. Hips snapping, balls slapping, sensation everywhere at once. One hand came around to shield your clit, fingers pulsing gently, echoing what his tongue had done earlier.
“Tell me,” he demanded.
“It’s good,” you gasped.
“Yeah?”
“So good. So good.”
“Harder?”
“Yes-yes-!”
He repositioned you, hauling your ass backwards, closer to your heels as all your weight came to bear on your shins and knees. And then his hands were gripping both breasts using them for leverage to pull you back onto his cock. Each thrust dragged perfectly, relentlessly, until you could do nothing but cling to the sheets.
“I’m going to come inside you,” he said. “Nod if you understand.”
You nodded, dizzy with the thought of his DNA inside of you.
“Breed me.”
“...Fuck.”
His rhythm broke as he spilled inside you, your second climax seizing you immediately after, white-hot, consuming. Holy fuck. He had actually come inside of you. He lowered you gently afterward, breath ragged as you trembled beneath him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, softer now.
You nodded. “More than okay. I’m… sorry I drugged you.”
He laughed quietly, cleaning you with a cloth before pulling you close.
“Don’t be,” he murmured. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted that. Although I had planned something a little sweeter.”
“I liked it.”
Sleep tugged at you both and you started to drift off before remembering with sudden clarity-
“Wait,” you blurted. “Your event. The reporter!”
“Shhh,” he said, already drifting off. “Sleep.”
“Oh my God. Thomas will never trust me with anything ever again.”
“Good,” Rafayel murmured, tucking you back into his chest. “He should know very well by now that you’re on my side and my side alone.”