Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“You have to be gentler with him,” says Zayne. He is putting pins in her hair, securing the buns twirled behind each of her ears, while she sits on the kitchen chair in front of him. It’s a bitter Monday after a soft, lazy Sunday off together.

“What? I am gentle?” she says.

“Not…always,” he says. He slides in a pin, trying to make it as secure as possible, as she requested. He’s never done this before, though, and it’s not as intuitive as he’d hoped.

“You don’t think so?” she says, and he can tell she’s probably just remembered one or two less-than-nice things she’s done to him.

It’s been one month, and the situation with Rafayel has been better than Zayne could have imagined, all things considered. The artist is a doting sort of lover, which surprises (and embarrasses) Zayne, who fully expected Rafayel to want to be doted on. The mountain of macarons he brought home after they’d all made love at his house was extravagant, an intentionally grand romantic gesture. He only did that once (thank goodness) but every week he sent them small gifts. For her, there were the little acrylic keychains of game characters, a record player and a stack of records, a charm bracelet he promised to help her fill. He stuck mostly to sweets with Zayne but last week he sent him a pair of cuff links. They were silver with a caduceus design in the center, and at the top of the scepter, a tiny black stone. They had been delivered to his office, and Rafayel had messaged him shortly afterward.

Did you get them?

Yes.

Do you like them?

They’ve very nice.

That’s all I get? No, ‘oh, Rafayel, this was so thoughtful, I can see you picked this design and stone just for me, I can’t accept this, it’s really too much’

This is your expectation? I’m afraid that kind of thing doesn’t come naturally to me, I’ll have to work on a better response.

Jesus Christ, I’m joking. Just wear them, yeah?

Zayne liked them, a lot. He hadn’t worn them, hadn’t even shown them to her yet, because he was mortified to be moved by something so material and unnecessary. But he did really like them. And as it was turning out he really liked Rafayel, who was deeper than advertised, and had a thoughtful, reflective side, especially when he was talking about art, that Zayne respected, and found extremely attractive.

Of course, it wasn’t all sex and sugar and jewelry—his lover and Rafayel were still themselves. Last week, she got angry at him for hogging the claw machine, actually angry, because he said something like “You wanna be a hero or do you really want to get that pig?” She pinched him in retaliation, and while it wasn’t too hard, it made him quiet and sullen, and then she got angry at him for being quiet and sullen, and he got angry with her for being angry with him, and by the end of the night Zayne thought perhaps he might become a drinker after all.

And, then, there was the thing with the perfume.

She had been so unnerved when she called Zayne, it took him a minute to even understand what she was saying. He surmised that she had tried a perfume sample and that the scent she wore made Rafayel act deeply strange, that he wouldn’t let go of her, and rambled on about someone trying to capture him, using her fragrance as bait.

“…I feel like he doesn’t trust me,” she said. “And I’ve never done anything that bad to him.”

And Zayne had remembered what Rafayel said to him that day on his tile floor—“ even if I had a hundred chances, I couldn't make it work out...in the end..”

And he had felt cold all over, chilled to his marrow, but again, he swallowed it, and comforted her.

“That might be true to an extent, but try not to read too much into it. We’ll work on it,”

He left it at that then, but it was clear she was right, for whatever reason, as much as he apparently adored her, Rafayel did not entirely trust her.

It’s this problem they’re discussing while he tames her beautiful but impossible hair.

“So we are agreed, you are not to lose your temper or be rough with him, not even in bed,” he says, finally spearing her hair effectually with the pin.

“Ouch, damn! Yes, I promise.”

“It’s especially important not to restrain him.”

“You told me. I’ve never done it, not once.”

He slides in three more pins—he’s got the hang of it now. “Good.”

Every time Zayne had been with Rafayel since their arrangement had begun, Rafayel asked to be held down, tied up, cuffed, anything, and Zayne refused him every time, knowing perfectly well that he did not really want this, that it made him panic. What was more, Zayne had a feeling that there was more to these requests than kink, though there was surely plenty of that involved. He’s done some reading up on Rafayel, and connected a few dots. He has no proof, of course, but some of those dots are not very legal.

Zayne isn’t worried about him, though. He’s worried for him.

“Is this related to the thing with him and the stupid perfume sample and thinking I was going to capture him?” she asks.

He stops wrestling with her hair a moment.  “Maybe,” he says.

“…oh.”

She’s quiet then, and he presses another pin into her hair.

“Ow, for real, you’re killing me! When will you be gentle with me?” she says.

“You think I’m not gentle with you?”

“Not right now?!”

“You asked me to secure it so it wouldn’t fly in your face and obscure your vision while you fight. I’m doing that.”

“But you’re a surgeon, you’re supposed to have finesse,” she says.

He tilts her chin up and kisses her forehead. “Forgive me. My patients are usually unconscious.”

She smiles and he ends up holding her chin up a bit too long.

He walks around, bends down and kisses her softly. He spent the entire previous day touching every inch of her, and even so, when his lips meet hers, he feels lit up all over, like it’s the first time he’s kissed her in a month. It’s wonderful, and also unfortunate, because he has a long, dreaded trip to the mountains coming up, and he was hoping to somehow get his fill of her before he goes, enough of her to give him the strength to do what he must.

But it turns out that there really is no getting enough of her.

He pulls away, but remains close enough to feel the warmth between them. “How is this? Better? Gentler?” he asks.

“Much better. Much more finesse-y,” she says, her dark eyes sparkling, her smile the mischievous sort that undoes him.

He kisses her again, and this time it’s a little wetter, and pulling away is a little harder.

“I know how we could test how secure my hair is…” she says.

“Stop it. You’ll be late,” he says. He tries to sound stern, but he’s considering it too.

“I won’t be…that late,” she says.

He stands up then, and it takes all his strength. It’s the hardest thing he’s had to do all week.

“Go,” he says.

“Fiiiine,” she says.

She stands too, grabs her bag, the keyring jangling inside with all Rafayel’s keychains on it.

“I’ll see you in a couple days,” she says, and walks to the door. She turns back to him before she leaves though.

“Um, Dr. Zayne…to be clear…”

“Yes?” he says, ignoring the title she’s using entirely to provoke him.

“I don’t really need you to be that gentle with me,” she says.

“That is perfectly clear. Now please leave before I have to demonstrate my understanding.”

“Ok, bye,” she says.

“Bye,” he says.

She opens the door.

“Bye.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I’m leaving now.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They linger.

And linger some more.

They’re getting to professional levels of lingering these days.

***

The three of them are drunk.

And they’re running footraces outside of her apartment.

Rafayel is certain he can outpace her, and she’s sure she can outpace him, and just to make it a little more interesting, this competition has an extra layer of challenge—the runner has to carry a giggling, inebriated Tara on their back.

“If one of you drops me, and I have to go to the hospital…” Tara says, wrapping her legs around her waist, and her arms around her chest.

“Shhh, nobody is going to the hospital, okay? Zayne will have my head on a pike. Just hang on,” she says, then whispers, “But when it’s his turn, you should wiggle around a little okay?”

“I gotchu,” Tara whispers back.

“I’m standing right here,” says Rafayel. “No alliances, Tara, you’re neutral, remember?”

“Okay, start the timer when I say go, and stop it the moment I cross over that crack…” she says. “Ready, set…”

They end up running several races, and she wins every one hands down, but there’s no evidence because apparently Rafayel can’t work the stopwatch on his phone (or, he can only work it selectively). Eventually Tara announces that she’s about to throw up, so they call it quits and head inside. As they do, she sees Xavier at his window, and waves. He waves back, looking confused, and she feels bad for annoying him (and probably everyone else in the building).

Inside, she gets Tara to sit and relax and drink some water, and apologizes for making her ride both of them up the sidewalk. Meanwhile, Rafayel, chooses a vinyl, puts it on the record player that he gifted her last week, and cues up an angsty sounding cello quartet, with a look on his face so suddenly serious that she has to smile.

She’s felt better than she has in a long time in the last few weeks. Even though her nightmares persisted, becoming progressively more detailed and violent, she had never shaken the vision she had when Rafayel sang to her and Zayne as they dozed in his bed. She felt that, for better or worse something big in her life was finally coming together, something that wasn’t even entirely about Rafayel and Zayne, or about her work…no, it felt like something was coming together for her, as a person.

“I saw Xavier at the window,” she tells Tara, when she’s stopped turning green.

“Really? Oh, no, you think he’s annoyed? No, he’s probably not, he probably wants to join us but doesn’t know how to ask…he’s such a Libra,” says Tara.

“For real,” she says, even though she knows nothing about astrology.

“What are you, Rafayel?” she asks.

He turns from the record player, looking over his shoulder at her. “What do you mean, ‘what am I?’”

“What’s your sign?”

“Oh. I’m a Pisces,” he says.

Tara scrunches her nose. “Ugh. Alright. I’ve got my eye on you,” she says.

He smiles. “Good girl,” he says, then shifts his glance. “See, even Tara has a better sense of self-preservation than you.”

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t scare me. You’re a domesticated fish.”

He shrugs, and turns back to the records. “Maybe so.”

“I still feel kind of gross,” says Tara.

“You need a snack,” she says. “Actually, I have an idea. Domesticated Fish, could you go downstairs and see if Xavier has any microwave popcorn? And maybe you can invite him up?”

Rafayel turns around, raising an eyebrow indignantly. “Seriously? He’s your friend, I’ve never met this guy in my life.”

“Yes, but he’ll be more likely to join us that way. He has a much harder time saying no to strangers than to me and Tara.”

“Fine,” he says, scowling. “What’s his apartment number?”

As she predicts, Rafayel returns with a sheepish Xavier and a bag of microwave popcorn.

“You got him to come!” says Tara gleefully.

Rafayel smirks and falls back into the love seat. “Any Domesticated Fish who can’t get the upstairs neighbor to come over for a drink isn’t worth his salt.”

“Oh, the popcorn…was a ruse?” Xavier says, tilting his head.

She can’t help but smile. What a space cadet, she thinks.

“Not a ruse at all, I really did want popcorn. But I’m glad you came! Here, have a beer,” she says, handing him a can, and putting the popcorn in the microwave.

When it’s done, she takes a bowl to Tara on the couch. She’s on her phone trying to find out when Rafayel’s return-of-Saturn will happen, and Rafayel obliges her, looking up his chart, tapping his fingers in time to the music. Then she returns to the kitchen, and places another bowl of popcorn between her and Xavier.

“What were you up to when Rafayel so rudely interrupted you?”

“Reading,” he says.

“What about?”

“It’s about Dracula,” he says.

“Oooh!” she says.

“But also kind of about…historical atrocities committed by conquerors?”

She sees Rafayel steal a glance at Xavier then, but he doesn’t even pause his conversation with Tara.

Xavier explains some of the book to her, which she is still a little too tipsy to completely follow, but she likes hearing his soft voice, she likes his presence. The feelings she felt for him in her dream, when she was looking down at the part in his hair as he carried her on his back, have stayed with her, and she can’t shake them. It reminds her of when she was young and would have a dream about Caleb or Grandma being mean and wake up irrationally mad at them.

But ‘mad’ is not how she feels toward Xavier.

The evening goes on, and the four of them play a cutthroat game of Uno in which Rafayel sits next to her and ruins her plans every single play, as if the point of the game is not to win, but to make her lose. And he thinks it’s so funny, cackles the whole time.

Just when she’s about to lose her temper, though, Tara says she has to go, so she stands and squeezes her friend goodbye. Xavier follows her out the door. “Thank you for having me,” he says, nodding, his blue eyes earnest as always.

She closes the door behind them. When she turns around, Rafayel, Uno-cheating-at-bitch that he is, is leaning over her countertop resting his chin on his fist, looking at her like a cat that swallowed a canary.

It took every ounce of self-restraint she had not to haul off on him during their game, and now he dares to look at her like this. She wants to eat him up, devour him, smash him like a banana in oatmeal…

But she’s promised to be gentler.

She picks up a piece of popcorn sitting on the counter.

“Open your mouth,” she says.

“Yuck, no,” he says, pressing his palm to his lips.

“Unlike you, I clean my countertops. It’s perfectly fine, open your mouth,” she says.

He shakes his head, his mouth clamped shut defiantly.

“You want me to open it for you?” she says.

He furrows his brow.

She slides around the counter until she’s next to him. He still scowls at her, says nothing, lips clamped together.

“You know, I beat you in two footraces today. You won’t get away from me if you run…” she says.

His resolve shatters immediately “You did not beat me once, you little wi—”

When he opens his mouth to speak, she touches the popcorn to his lower lip.

She doesn’t force it into his mouth. She holds it there and waits, giggling until he folds, and pulls the snack into his mouth with his tongue.

“Tastes like countertop,” he says.

“Poor thing,” she says, and leans close to his face. He drops his resistance so comically fast, his gaze falling to her lips, and she says, “Here, I’m sorry, I’ll fix it.”

‘Gentle’ means not really forcing the popcorn in his mouth.

And gentle means unbuttoning his shirt and pants and stripping him with her own hands before she tells him to put his palms on the counter, please, and walks behind him. She’s still a little tipsy, which might be why she feels more free to improvise—she pulls a bottle of olive oil from her cabinet, dripping it onto her palm, and reaching around to work her hand slowly up and down his erection, while she whispers to him “My love…my sweet fish.” He sucks in his breath, drops his forehead to the counter, his hands curling into trembling fists.

When he starts to relax into her touch, she does what Zayne taught her, using Rafayel’s body during the lesson—she wets her fingers with her mouth and presses them—slowly—into his opening, just a tiny bit past her second knuckle, adjusting the angle until a cry comes unbidden from him, and he thrusts into her hand on pure, naked instinct.

He hasn’t called her “master” while they make love, but he’s used the word in some of their more…unhinged conversations. And in that moment, with her fingers inside him, her hand stroking him firmly, she feels like she is the master he wants her to be. He feels like he belongs to her, because without her, he would be lost in his animal senses, too overcome with desire to protect himself from her or anyone else.  

Gentleness means taking him here, to this vulnerable place, and not overstepping.

So when he begs to fuck her, she doesn’t say “You don’t deserve that, you couldn’t even beat me in a race.” She doesn’t tell him to beg more sweetly or to shut his mouth, which are tempting to do—oh, she wants to see how far he’ll go for her, she wants to push so badly. She wants to do what Zayne does to her, gleefully. But she’s still got to prove to him that she’s safe, that she loves him.

So she says, “You’re doing so well. Just a little longer. I want to see you like this a little longer.”

Like this. His arms are shaking, his muscular back is wet with sweat, his breath is hitching.

“Okay…okay…” he stutters. His body can't seem to decide if it wants to push back into her fingers or forward into her hand. His reflex seems to be to raise up on his toes, but then he catches himself and flattens his feet again. She pumps her fingers a little harder, moves her other hand steadily over his cock, and he whines softly, inching back up on to his tip toes.

She can't help but tease him just a little. "Look at you...you suddenly have all these athletic instincts when you're getting fucked," she says. Rafayel whimpers and flattens his feet again, knowing exactly what she's referring to.

"Don't fight it," she says. "You look good on your toes."

"I'm trying...I'm just trying not to..." he mumbles.

He's trying not to come. But he can't escape her touch.

She understands. Her panties are soaked, she's torturing both of them. She wanted him inside her from the moment Xavier left, but she also likes being inside him, seeing all of him quake, his nakedness next to her fully clothed body.

She likes being master.

“Please don’t make me cum like this, please let me inside you, please, please…”

She urges him up on to the countertop and tells him to lie on his back while she takes off her clothes. He obeys, and she looks at the shape his prone body cuts in the dimly lit room, the silhouette of his chest rising and falling, his cock hard and shining from the olive oil, his hands clenching restlessly as he waits for her. She undresses and drinks him in. His look is sharp and hungry as she climbs on top of him, and when she slides him into her slick folds, his chin lifts, his eyes roll back. She lets his hands roam over her thighs, hold her hips as she rolls them over him.

He makes soft, appreciative noises while she rides him, every inch of him blushing as always. She keeps him deep inside, thrusting in little pulses. Then she moves up down, anchoring herself with five fingertips pressed to the center of his chest.

“Oh gods, oh please,” he gasps, “You feel so good, M…mmm….”

It’s on the tip of his tongue. Oh, if she slapped him, he would say it, she’s certain.

Instead, she says, “I’m going to come all over you. You’re so good, Rafayel. I love you.”

Right then, she notices (as she only occasionally can) his pupils. Their inhuman shape. And she remembers (as she only occasionally does) that Rafayel, her lover, and her friend who she adores, is not human.

And for a split second, she feels afraid of him.

The feeling is so fleeting, she could mistake it for excitement. But it is not. It’s definitely fear.

She is looking into those same monster eyes when he says, “I love you, too,” and she melts and feels terrible at the same time for being shaken by something so shallow.

“Can you…can you hold me down?” he asks.

“I promised I wouldn’t.”

“Please??”

She looks at him pityingly. She’s not sure if holding down counts as ‘restraint’ since he could probably overpower her if he wanted—but she wants to follow Zayne’s rules to the letter, having already fucked up once and hurt his feelings.

“Don’t ask me to break a promise,” she says.

And he bites his lip hard, as if to punish himself. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

She had no intention of making him feel guilty, but he does, and she’s apparently twisted enough that the look of contrition on his face pushes her over the edge.

She comes, gripping his waist, her cunt pulsing around him. She bites back the moan she wants to release because she doesn’t want Xavier to hear. She grinds him through her orgasm, and everything is so slick and soft between them, and Rafayel passes his thumb over his tongue before reaching out to press it gently to her clit. And her orgasm gets another wave, an even bigger rush of feeling from that little, calculated touch.

She looks down at him, chasing her breath. He is so beautiful and such a mess, tendrils of his purple hair adhered to his forehead.

Rafayel’s mouth opens wide, his chin lifts again, revealing his slightly-too-sharp canines. “Mmmm…” he says, seeming to grope for words.

Say it. Call me master.

“Mm…my….my beloved bride…” he says, and she feels him spill hotly inside her.

She doesn't slow her pace. A little cry seeps from him but she clamps her hand over his mouth. His eyes widen, but his cry continues, muffled by her palm.

She loves him so much, it makes her soul want to fly out of her body.

When he quiets down she slowly takes her hand away. She leans forwards on to him, rests her chest against his, and feels his heart pounding against her own pulse. His arms close around her. His hugs are always tight and tremulous like he wants to squeeze her hard enough to meld with her.

“Wow,” she whispers. “’Bride,’ huh?”

“Gonna start on me right away, huh?” he whispers back.

“It just surprised me,” she says.

“Well…” he says, and she feels the tips of his digits tracing the path of her spine. “I already told you not to take the roleplay too seriously.”

He is embarrassed and she suddenly finds herself bereft of any desire to tease him. “Can I take it seriously if I like it?” she asks.

He raises an eyebrow. “You like it, huh?” He takes her head in his hands and kisses her, then holds her face close to his own for a moment, scrutinizing her. His brow furrows. “What happened to you, huh? When did you turn so sweet? Where’s my little witch?”

She laughs, presses her forehead to his. “She is dead,” she says, expecting him to laugh, or just start singing the song from the Wizard of Oz. She loves it when he sings, even jokingly.

But his expression softens to something far too close to sadness, and she sits up.

“What?” she says.

He shakes his head, and whatever fleeting thought he had is no longer readable in his face. “Nothing. I’ll just appreciate the sweetness while it lasts,” he smiles. “Also, if you could take a mental note? This is why I don’t eat off countertops. You never know what’s been on a countertop.”

***

One week passes and Rafayel and his love are in another kitchen, his own. Zayne is there too, and this time it's all business, baking treats for for a staff event at the hospital.

But Rafayel's been increasingly anxious, thinking about the favor he must inevitably ask of them, and his thoughts are rushing a mile a minute through his head, so fast he can’t catch one, and it’s no good it’s no good…he has to come up with a plan. He promised himself that he would not lie to them anymore, that he would find a way to dig himself out of the hole that he made and never jump down into it again.

But the fact of the matter was that there were things he could not safely walk away from without seeing them through. And there were also matters of duty.

He watches his beloved bride make a batch of brownies with her lover, who could also be fairly called his lover (except he’s not calling him that, not until he wears the goddamn cuff links he gave him). As he watches them, he becomes increasingly anxious, unable to stop thinking about the unsafe things, the matters of duty. There are too many balls in the air, and if he drops a single one of them, the people who will be hurt are the ones in front of him, who are happy, innocent, leaning adorably into each other. And so he is fidgeting, hanging back, dipping in every once in a while to nibble at the ingredients, which is a surefire way to get Zayne to glare daggers at him.

God fucking damn, how would he ever tell them about Onychinus when the conversation would have to start, “Long ago, in Lemuria, there was a god that reigned over the people of the sea, but he was not very good at being a god…”

“We’ll make half with nuts, and half without. Of course I’ll make something entirely different for the staff with nut allergies at my apartment…Rafayel, stop eating the nuts,” he says.

“That’s what she said,” says Rafayel, eating the nuts. He’s on autopilot, he’s definitely being annoying, but he has no idea how to slow his mind or stop fidgeting.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” says Zayne.

Meanwhile his beloved is cheerfully softening the butter, digging around for more cocoa, being generally sweet and helpful, as she always is with Zayne, and historically is not with Rafayel—though recently, she’s been different with him, too. Nicer. He isn’t sure how he feels about it.

“Is cocoa okay if it’s past the expiration date?” she asks.

“How far past?” asks Zayne.

“Oh, like…a year?”

“That’s a no.”

“Rafayel, why don’t you get rid of anything? Did you move here with this? I thought we had all the ingredients…” she says.

“Keep looking, there’s a good one somewhere in there, you just found the decoy,” he says, pinching a bit of sugar from the bag and dropping it on his tongue. Zayne looks at him, thoroughly unamused, but also as if he’s studying him.

“What?” says Rafayel. He knows Zayne can’t read his mind but it often feels like he can, and he really doesn’t want it read right now.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Of course.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you’re being all…ansty…anstsier than usual,” she says. She tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, and he allows it, but wants to pull away.

“I’m fine,” he says, trying hard not to sound not-fine.

His lover and Zayne glance at each other, and he knows, he knows he’s not fooling anyone.

But she finds the non-decoy cocoa, and the non-decoy flour and the brownies are looking good, and he manages to steady his hands to melt some chocolate on the stove, so he’s not just being a pain in the ass anymore, but his mind is on a loop, and he can’t follow their conversation well enough to participate in it.

When he reaches for the chocolate chips, Zayne wordlessly chops the back of his hand with a spatula.

“Ow, jeez,” Rafayel says, recoiling and rubbing the spot. A little pink line forms.

He meets Zayne’s eyes, and for a moment, Rafayel’s brain stops whirring.

This is the touch he needs.

But Zayne doesn’t offer any more. He resumes stirring, then moves out of the way so that she can take over with the handmixer, combining all the ingredients while Zayne cleans up.

“It’s Yvonne who has the nut allergy, right?”

“Her and the new PA, yes. It’s not terribly severe.”

“I’d hate to be allergic to something…” she says. “I’m so stupid, I’d probably forget and eat it and die, and you’d bring me back to life just so you could kill me again—”

Rafayel feels his chest squeeze and forces himself to focus on the spinning whisks of the hand mixer, but the way it thunks against the side of the bowl feels like someone banging the side of his skull.

“I would never do such a thing,” says Zayne, and he is unreadable in that moment, which drives Rafayel’s anxiety to the point of combustion. The mixer stops. She unplugs the device, ejects the whisks.

Zayne’s all the way over at the sink, but when Rafayel swipes his finger over the edge of the bowl, he’s somehow standing right next to him.

“Do not touch the batter again,” he says, and he sounds absolutely serious, and absolutely bereft of emotion. It is an icy warning that stops both her and Rafayel.

But only temporarily. Because Rafayel has found something strong enough to distract him from his thoughts.

Zayne’s cold voice is magnetic.

Everyone feels it, and not because he’s so competent or full of daddy aura or whatever stupid shit people want to call it. No, people respond to Zayne like this because he is more than human and somewhere, deep down, people know, he is literally above them.

His beloved bride likes to say that Zayne’s super power is being so good, he makes you want to be good too. And for her that may be true. But for Rafayel, his power is sometimes just that: power.

He touches the batter again, of course.

With all ten fingers.

She gasps audibly. Hilariously. He can’t believe this timid act from her, but it’s definitely entertaining.

Zayne only stares at him cooly.

She is backing away from them, from the bowl, and it occurs to him that maybe she’s not reacting like this because she’s timid. Maybe he knows something that he doesn’t. About this guy she’s known for…sixteen years….

Yeah, he should probably be backing away too.

But he’s not.

He stands there with chocolate batter all over both sets of fingers realizing he didn’t have a plan for what to do next.

He moves his fingers to his mouth, the best taunt he can think of being to lick the batter from them…seductively? Is this a seduction?

Sure.

But as he moves his hand to his mouth, Zayne closes the distance between them in one stride.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

The voice. And yet, he still doesn’t even look angry, which is even more arresting.

“Put your hands up,” says Zayne.

Rafayel smiles, and slowly raises them. “Like this? Am I surrendering?”

“Don’t lick your fingers. Don’t wash your hands.”

He’s so smug. He’s so certain Rafayel will do what he asks. Of course he is going to do what he asks, but only because how could he not cave to the curiosity…if he doesn’t do it, he won’t find out what happens if he does. And if he refuses, Zayne will punish him in the worst imaginable way, by letting the matter drop, and calmly expressing his disappointment later.

The thought makes him shudder.

Zayne remains inches away from him. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but that was thoughtless and mean.”

Was it? Was it that bad? Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his love, backed up against the cabinets, looking at him with horror like the heroine in Titanic, hanging on to that door in the ocean watching her lover drown in the sea—she could maybe save him, but there’s no way she’s taking that risk. He would laugh, except  he knows he’s already pushed his luck. Goodbye dear Jack, you were poor anyway.

“We’ve been doing all the work. You’re not helping, you’re just skulking around, acting miserable. We were nearly done and now we need to start over. That’s not funny, or endearing, or cute.”

“I didn’t mean it cutely,” Rafayel says. His tone is even.

“Can you explain yourself?” asks Zayne.

And even though Rafayel knows he only wants to know what possessed him to put his hands in the batter, the question stings, because his precise problem is that he can’t explain.

“Not at all, sir,” he says, and, unfortunately, he is unable to keep the sad tone out of his voice.

Zayne stares at him for a moment, then looks over at his beloved, who is still wide eyed with anticipation and not a small amount of schadenfreude.

He rubs his face then, sighs. “You’re impossible,” says Zayne, and Rafayel inwardly gloats at the fact that he has absolutely, positively gotten under his skin.

“I was only playing,” he says. “I thought you’d be mildly annoyed. You’re this pissed about something so childish? Maybe you’re the impossible one.”

This does nothing to diffuse the situation. But Zayne doesn’t seem to be any angrier hearing it. He takes yet another step, until there is hardly even air between them. Zayne has a few inches on him in height, so to meet his eyes, Rafayel has to look up, which he thoroughly resents in this moment.

“Don’t get chocolate on anything, do you understand? Don’t let a single drop of it fall, and don’t touch anything.”

Rafayel doesn’t even know how that’s going to be possible. The sticky ooze has already found its way to his wrists. “Sure thing,” he says, and he knows his tone is laced with sarcasm. “Whatever you say. However I can make this up to you.”

Ah, yes. He’s such an asshole.

I hope he kills me, he thinks. It’s a casual thought, one that he has three to five times a week. He doesn’t think he means it seriously—but he certainly thinks it a lot.

“You can’t make it up to me. What you can do is stop talking, and get on your knees.”

“What?”

“I want you to kneel,” says Zayne.

His heart jumps up into his throat for a moment, that astonishing feeling that only his beloved bride and Zayne can illicit.

“Zayne…” she says quietly. “You said…”

Ah, now she’s going to speak up?

Rafayel looks from her to him. “Said what?” he asks.

“I’m not answering questions at the moment,” he says. “Kneel, now, before I make the kneeling significantly more uncomfortable for you.”

He wipes the smirk from his face, but refuses to drop his chin. Zayne’s being impressively mean, this man whose been soft and forgiving with Rafayel in ways no one has ever been, ever, and it does hurt, it really does. He wishes he’d held out a little longer before he pushed him here. He wishes he had at least waited until he wore the cufflinks.

But now, he’s fairly sure Zayne’s vicious enough to spread rice on the floor in the time that he hesitates to comply, so he lowers himself, slowly. It’s difficult without the use of his hands, which feel perfectly disgusting to him. But he makes it down, right knee then left, and finds himself at eye level with Zayne’s crotch, which is inches from his face.

For an awkward moment he’s just there, staring at the button of his pants, the bulge of his cock. He waits for him to touch him in some way, grab his hair, lift his chin to stare him down. But he doesn’t.

“I’m going to ask one more time…can you explain yourself?”

Rafayel looks up at him. “There’s nothing to explain,” he says. “I’m just being a fun submissive lover. A Domesticated Fish.”

The thought occurs to him—perhaps this is exactly the position he’ll be in when Sylus’ cronies shoot him.

He realizes that the thought has shown on his face, because he sees a flash of worry in Zayne’s expression, immediately followed by anger.

“Fun…” Zayne says. “Alright then. I’ll finish the game. Open your mouth.”

The batter is awful, it’s dripped down his wrists, it’s ruining the cuffs of his shirt, he’s sure. He bristles at the command to open his mouth, predictably regretting everything he’s done up until this point because as Zayne pointed out surely there’s an easier way to get some comfort, get some sex. But his lips are parting, there’s no other choice, there’s no other outcome, he’s set himself in motion.

The doctor unbuttons, unzips. And then there it is, their Very Local Legend, held lightly at the base by Zayne’s perfect surgeon hands. Rafayel still hates him just a little, and his god-hands, his god-dick, his infinite fucking beauty, his sweet scent. And Rafayel can hear her, behind him, shifting, her breath audible and quickening.

Zayne doesn’t make a move at all. He simply holds himself, until Rafayel opens further, presses his lips to him and leans into it, lets him glide into his mouth. Rafayel hears him sigh as he presses forward slowly. His instinct is to take him in his hand, but he’s covered in the goddamn batter.

He’s so stupid. His arms ache.

Zayne pushes even further into his mouth, grazing the entrance to Rafayel’s throat before receding abruptly, then pushing into him again. “Keep it up,” he says. “You won’t make a mess. Nothing gets on me. Nothing gets on the floor. You’re the only mess here, Rafayel.”

Rafayel inhales, takes as much as he can, undulates his tongue--he has only done this once to Zayne, and the good doctor didn’t let it go on long before he’d dragged him up, kissed him, fondled him, fucked him. He had held him close, and Rafayel could still feel him inside of him the whole next day, could still feel the warmth of his arms around him, and his thighs against him. Rafayel had later asked if he’d not done well with his mouth, and Zayne assured him he had done too well, so well that he couldn't resist the urge to be even closer to him.

But that Zayne is not this Zayne, the one who is pressing his hips forward and back, slowly, again and again, who will not stop, who will not pull him into his arms. And nevertheless, Rafayel loves the taste of him. And every time he hears her breathe, it sends a jolt of fucked-out joy through him, knowing she sees, she's watching, she knows exactly who and what he is. Rafayel sucks, leaning into his thrusts and Zayne's groans let Rafayel know he likes it. And yet, he continues to glower down at him, and it’s hard not to notice that he doesn’t smooth his hair, doesn’t tell him he’s doing well.

Rafayel’s arms shake now. He has held them up too long.

“Don’t put them down,” Zayne warns.

Rafayel doesn’t know what choice he’ll have if this goes on much longer--he can feel them lowering against his will as Zayne fucks his mouth. Still, he keeps his lips flush against his shaft, determined that, whatever else is happening in Zayne’s mind, at the least he cannot fault Rafayel for not wanting him to feel good.

“Is this what you wanted? Is this fun?” Zayne asks, between breaths. Rafayel cannot answer, but he looks up, with eyes he hopes convey a kind of apology.

His arms continue sinking. “Keep them up,” says Zayne.

Rafayel looks up at him, pleading with his eyes.

“Don’t you dare,” he says, as dark a threat in his voice as Rafayel has ever heard. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to call out to his god strength to save him, even though he knows this has been long lost to him. He moves his mouth over Zayne’s cock faster, his lips soft but curled tight around him, his tongue attentive, alive. The feel of Zayne’s velvety skin is sexy, his scent is sexy, his arrogant demand for compliance is the sexiest thing of all.

But full cooperation is something that Rafayel is losing the capacity to give.  He is going to fail, his hands will touch the floor or his lap and then, what then? What will Zayne do to him? What else will Rafayel let him do?

Suddenly, he feels relief. His arms are no longer falling, they’re being lifted.

Her hands are around his forearms. She not only holds them up, she extends them, letting him stretch and relieving the his pain and fatigue.

She’s finally come to rescue him, at her own peril. But when he looks up at Zayne’s face he sees something like approval. Which doesn’t guarantee she won’t be flung into the hot water along with him, but perhaps he’ll only boil them briefly.

Zayne’s hips do not slow, and Rafayel squeezes his eyes closed, feeling grateful to her.

“You’re lucky,” Zayne breathes, “that she’s such a nice girl.”

Her strong arms grip him, the front of her body presses against his back. He can feel the warmth of her breath against his neck. She loves Rafayel’s struggle in spite of herself, he knows her…

But. She is there. She is a nice girl.

Maybe it’s the sight of them that pushes him over the edge, but who could say…Zayne makes no noise when he comes, and who knows what’s going on in his face, because Rafayel is barely keeping his body and soul together, his eyes squeezed shut, unable to even feel his arms—he did not know it was a thing for lips to ache. But when Zayne comes, fills his mouth, he knows the expectation.

Nothing gets on Zayne. Nothing gets on the floor.

Rafayel is the only mess here.

He swallows, holding Zayne’s cock in his mouth until he’s finished…and then some more, until Zayne slips out slowly.

And Rafayel looks up, slightly miserable, hard as a rock. He tilts his head to wipe the edge of his mouth on his shoulder.

Rafayel sees him swallow hard. Zayne opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, but decides against it, instead straightening himself and zipping his pants.

“Zayne, hey—” Rafayel says hoarsely.

But he's walking from the room.

“Get up and clean yourself up,” Zayne says, not even looking at him.

But Rafayel is on his feet fast, moved by a jolt of real fear that he might leave, that he might actually be mad enough to leave, even after doing that.

“Please. Don’t,” Rafayel says, chasing him to the door, and all it costs him is the last of his dignity. He almost grabs his sleeve before he remembers he’s still covered in chocolate.

Zayne glances at his hand, the aborted attempt to touch him. Rafayel realizes he probably looks panicked, because he is.

And then Zayne looks guilty.

“I’m not leaving-leaving. I’m taking a break. You’re in time-out.”

“…what am I, a toddler?”

“Your self-designation is Domesticated Fish.”

“That’s technically her designation…”

“I want to be alone just for a few minutes. And I want you to think about something…”

“Oh, I am in time-out…”

“Yes. You are. I want you to think about the fact that I didn’t touch you with my hands. Not once.”

Rafayel doesn’t know where this is going, but his heart is breaking a little. “What am I supposed to do with that? Other than wish you had…”

He hears her approaching them quietly, and feels doubly bad about what’s happening, because this must suck for her, to have to shut up and watch mother and father fight.

“I don’t have to restrain you physically,” says Zayne. “I don’t have to do anything physical at all to keep you right where you are. You do what I say because you want to. You’ll do what I say because I say it.”

Rafayel stares at him. This motherfucker.

“You have no idea—” he begins.

“I do actually have a pretty good idea,” says Zayne. “And I do know this isn’t all a game to you. You want something real, you want real safety.”

His heart begins to pound. He couldn’t possibly know…does he know?

“You’re right,” says Rafayel.

“Well, I’m trying to provide it. I can provide it,” he says. He’s very quiet, but those hazel eyes are fierce. “I don’t need to tie you down to keep you safe from yourself. When it’s important, you’ll listen to me, because you want to.”

You're wrong, he wants to say. Nothing holds me, nothing stops me, nothing can save me. You'll see. 

But then he asks himself why he did everything Zayne said, the answer is, because Zayne is who he is, and because Rafayel wanted to.

So he says nothing. He’s ready for time out.

Zayne nods, interpreting Rafayel's silence correctly. “Now. I love you. But you’ve been annoying as hell today. Give me fifteen minutes, alright?” he says, opening the door.

“Wait, you what?” says Rafayel.

“You heard me,” says Zayne, and shuts the door behind him.

As soon as he is gone, he turns to her, his brain glitching, trying to catch a thought.

“What the fuck just happened?” he says.

She lifts her eyebrows and sighs. “You don’t really want me to answer that question, do you?”

He considers it.

“No, you’re right don’t…”

“C'mon, you need to clean your hands…”

He follows her to the kitchen sink.

She looks sheepish. “Are you…are you good?”

He looks down into the sink, watching the chocolate be washed down the drain. But it was on too long, and now his skin is dry and kind of itchy and he scrubs them pink.

“…yeah, I’m good,” he says. He makes himself stop and take the towel from her. “You know…I really love you. I love you like fucking crazy. But God, you’re a terrible bodyguard.”

***

Everything is cool, she’s sure.

Zayne came back after a while, cooled down, semi-apologetic, and Rafayel laughed it off, but also hugged him a little long, and said he would order all the brownies he wanted, just text him the details, every bit of it, he’s got it.

She left with Zayne, who held her hand in the car. She didn’t say anything, and eventually he murmured, “It wasn’t about the brownies."

“Everyone knows that,” she says.

“He’s still keeping things from us, and they’re worse than I even imagined at first.”

“You know more than I do, don’t you?”

He squeezes the steering wheel. “I was giving him a chance to tell you. But if he doesn’t now…I’ll fill you in. Regardless…I’m not sure I handled that very well.”

“You handled it the way you knew he wanted you to,” she says.

And he had nodded, but she knew he felt guilty because Zayne’s guilt was heavy, palpable. Zayne’s guilt was one of the darkest forces in nature, it could poison a whole room.

And the second darkest force was her jealousy, which was very real, and obviously made no sense, because she wanted Rafayel in the first place; but when Zayne said he loved him, when he actually said that out loud…

But it’s cool. Or…it’s going to be cool, because she loves Rafayel.

Zayne drops her off at her apartment, and before she can go to sleep, she feels compelled to check on him.

He doesn’t even say hello.

“Yes? Have you called to apologize?”

“For what?”

“For whatever secret plot the two of you have against me?”

“What makes you think there’s a plot?”

“There’s always a plot, but the one I’m referring to is the one where you get all bent out of shape and say ‘Zayne, you said…' And then you both stop and look at each other, and I ask what you’re talking about and Zayne’s like ‘shut up and choke on my cock.’ That plot…”

She smiles. He’s the worst.

“He just told me to be gentle with you. And I was afraid he was about to not be gentle with you. It’s not really some kind of diabolical secret.”

“Is that why you’ve been so nice?” he says.

“Yes. But also I want to be gentle with you… I want you to know that…you know, you can trust me?”

“You don’t think I trust you?” he says.

“You don’t,” she says.

He’s quiet on the other end of the line.

“Trust is overrated,” he says.

“It’s literally the foundation of a healthy relationship,” she says.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says.

“Well…is it helping for me to be gentle?”

“Not really. It would help for you to be yourself.”

It’s her turn to be quiet. “Can I tell you something?”

“…of course.”

“Sometimes…I have a hard time feeling who ‘myself’ even is? Like yeah, I’m a hunter, and I’m the girl with the weird heart condition, and I like to play games and hoard plushies…I’m yours and I’m Zayne’s and I’m Grandma’s and Caleb’s…but like…I don’t remember a thing before I was eight and Zayne refroze my popsicle for me? And I didn’t even remember that till he told me about it?”

“I see…”

“I’m feeling better lately…better with you and Zayne… but I still have these dreams and like…I just feel like…I don’t know. Incomplete? Like there’s something I’m missing or something I’m supposed to be doing that I’m not.

She senses his hesitation. “That’s normal for people our age…I hear.”

“Maybe…but you know some other things that have happened lately feel not-very-normal.”

He is quiet. Long enough that she regrets what she’s said, and has to fill the silence. “Anyway, I don’t know why I said all that. Except like…to say that I am trying to be myself, but I’ve felt a little weird for a while so I just let Zayne do the thinking a lot.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” he says softly. “Zayne’s a really decent…person and he will do some good thinking for you.”

“I do want you to trust me, Rafayel. That is important to me.”

Again, he is quiet. After a long pause he says, “Stay patient with me then.”

“Alright. I will,” she says.

He gives a long dramatic sigh then. “Alright. Now that Staying Patient With Rafayel is settled upon…again…are you up for a bed time story? Because tonight I’m leaning toward Lemurian fairy tale…unless you are dead set on Main Story…or smut.”

“I would love to hear a Lemurian fairy tale…” she says, lying back on her bed. She rests her head against her pillow. Her keyring is sitting on her bedside with the little Blobbus that Rafayel made for her—one is her, one is him, and one is Zayne.

“Alright…” he says, clearing his throat. “Long ago, in Lemuria, there was a god that reigned over the people of the sea, but he was not very good at being a god…”