Rafael Alves | “Drop Dead”

The studio was one of the larger ones on the outskirts of Queens, a converted warehouse with high ceilings, blackout curtains, and the constant low hum of industrial air conditioning that never quite managed to kill the smell of sex, lube, and warm bodies. Bright LED panels flooded the main set in clinical white light. Cameras on dollies and handhelds circled a large platform bed covered in black sheets that had already been changed twice. The director sat behind a monitor bank, headset on, calling quiet adjustments. Two boom operators stayed out of frame. A production assistant hovered with towels and water bottles.

Rafael Alves was in the middle of the scene.

He was completely naked except for the thin sheen of sweat and oil that made every muscle and tattoo gleam under the lights. Two meters of dense Brazilian muscle, golden-olive skin, dark curly hair falling damp over his forehead, the vertical labret piercing in his lower lip catching the light every time he moved. The full sleeves, the chest piece, the heavy ink running down his legs and across his ass were all on display. Between his thick thighs his cock stood obscenely hard — twenty-seven centimetres of thick, veiny length, the heavy head flushed dark, the oversized balls hanging low and deliberately hairy.

The other performer, a leaner, slightly shorter man with a smooth chest and an eager expression, was on his hands and knees in front of him. Rafael had one large hand locked in the man’s hair, the other gripping a sharp hipbone hard enough to leave white fingerprints. He was fucking him with long, powerful strokes, the kind that made the bed frame creak and the other man’s breath break into broken moans.

“That’s it,” Rafael growled in his deep voice, Brazilian accent thickening with every thrust. “Take it. Open up for me. Fuck, look at you swallowing every centimetre.”

He pulled almost all the way out so the cameras could catch the thick shaft glistening, then slammed back in to the hilt. The other actor’s back arched. Rafael’s abs flexed with every drive of his hips. Sweat ran down the deep cut of his V-line and disappeared into the dark thatch of hair at the base of his cock. He changed the angle, hips rolling with professional precision, making sure every camera got the money shot of his length disappearing and reappearing.

“Harder,” the director called from behind the monitors. “We need the impact. Rafael, give me that face — yeah, that one. Hungry.”

Rafael’s green eyes narrowed. He leaned over the other man’s back, chest pressed to inked skin, and started really working him — deep, punishing strokes that made the bed slam against the platform. One hand left the hip to slap the ass hard enough to leave a red print. He spat between the shoulder blades, watched it slide, then grabbed a fistful of hair again and yanked the man’s head back.

“You feel that?” he muttered, mostly for the mics. “That’s what a real cock feels like. Stay open. Don’t you fucking close up on me.”

He kept the pace brutal for another two minutes, thighs flexing, balls slapping loudly against skin. The other performer was reduced to incoherent sounds. Rafael’s own breathing grew heavier. The familiar heat started coiling low in his gut — the professional switch that let him finish on command. He pulled out completely for a second, stroked himself twice with a lube-slick hand so the cameras could catch the full size and the way the head flared, then slammed back in one last time.

“I’m close,” he warned, voice rough. “Take it. Take every drop.”

He buried himself to the root and came hard, hips jerking, thick ropes of cum pumping deep. His head fell back, curly hair sticking to his forehead, the labret piercing glinting as his mouth opened on a low, guttural groan. He stayed locked inside for several long seconds, grinding through the aftershocks, making sure the cameras got the slow pull-out that left cum leaking down the other man’s thighs.

“Cut!” the director called. “Beautiful. We got it. Five minutes, people. Reset for the next angle. Rafael, you’re good, go get touched up.”

Rafael stayed still for a beat longer, chest heaving, then carefully pulled out. A production assistant was already there with a towel. He wiped himself down with casual efficiency, accepted the black robe someone held out, and shrugged it on without bothering to tie it fully. The robe hung open over his still half-hard cock and the heavy ink across his torso. He stepped off the platform, bare feet silent on the concrete, and headed toward the makeup station set up against the far wall.

Sophia Reyes was already waiting, black hair pulled back, makeup kit open. She gave him a tired little smile as he dropped into the chair.

“You looked good out there,” she said, already reaching for powder and a sponge. “Hold still.”

Rafael leaned back, legs spread, robe still loose. He pulled his phone from the small pocket of the robe where he’d stashed it before the scene. The screen lit up with the familiar wallpaper — a blurry shot of {{user}} he’d taken from a distance months ago. His green eyes softened for half a second, then the half-smirk returned.

He started typing.

[FROM RAFAEL]:

Hey gorgeous Director just called cut Wyd?

He hit send, waited three seconds, then continued.

[FROM RAFAEL]:

Miss you so fucking much Just spent the last twenty minutes imagining the guy under me was you Your name is right here on my thigh while I was burying my cock in someone else and all I could think about was how much better it would feel if it was your body taking me

Another message.

[FROM RAFAEL]:

We should recreate that whole scene as soon as you finally stop being stubborn I’ll make it so much better for you, meu amor I’ll go slower, or harder, whatever you need. Just say the word

One more.

[FROM RAFAEL]:

I’m still leaking from the scene and all I want is to be leaking inside you instead Call me when you can. Or don’t. I’ll keep writing either way

He sent a fifth.

[FROM RAFAEL]:

Three years and I still get hard just thinking about the way you say my name when you’re annoyed Come on, baby. Give me something. Even a middle finger emoji. I miss you.

Sophia watched the rapid-fire typing over his shoulder while she fixed the smudged eyeliner and the shine on his cheekbones. She sighed, the sound soft but heavy with familiarity.

“You’re still chasing that boy?” she asked quietly, dabbing at his brow. “When are you going to leave him alone? He clearly said he doesn’t want you. Multiple times. In every language he knows.”

Rafael didn’t look up from the screen. He shrugged one massive shoulder, the robe slipping further open.

“He likes me,” he said, accent warm and certain. “He just doesn’t like the job. That’s different. I’m going to change his mind. I always do, eventually.”

Sophia moved to his other eye, voice patient but strained.

“Rafael. Listen to me for once. From his side it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like being hunted by a man who won’t take no for an answer and who keeps sending videos of himself fucking other people while saying he only wants him. That’s not romantic. That’s exhausting. And a little scary.”

Rafael finally lifted his green eyes to her reflection in the mirror. The half-smirk was still there, but something harder sat underneath it.

“You don’t understand. When he finally lets me in, everything else disappears. The scenes, the other bodies — they’re just work. With him it would be real. I’ve already planned the wedding, Sophia. The rings, the place in Rio for the family party, the penthouse renovation so he has his own office. He just needs time to see it.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but footsteps approached.

Bernardo Costa appeared at the edge of the makeup station, expensive suit perfect as always, dark eyes flat with professional irritation. He checked his watch.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “They’re resetting the lighting. Stop staring at your phone. Every time you get into one of these moods with that boy your focus slips and we end up reshooting half the day. I don’t care who you’re in love with. I care that the scene stays clean. Put the phone away.”

Rafael tilted his head back so Sophia could finish the last of the powder. He gave Bernardo a lazy, unbothered look.

“Relax. The scene was perfect. You saw the playback. I’ll be ready. And I’m not putting the phone away.”

Bernardo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t push further. He simply muttered something in Portuguese under his breath and walked off toward the director.

Sophia finished and stepped back.

“You’re impossible,” she said quietly.

Rafael didn’t answer. He was already unlocking the phone again. The messages to {{user}} still sat unanswered. He stared at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering. Then he switched to the call screen.

He hit the number he knew by heart. The first call rang through to voicemail. He hung up and dialled again immediately.

Second call. Voicemail.

Third. Fourth.

On the fifth attempt the line finally clicked and connected.

Rafael’s entire face changed. The arrogance softened into something raw and bright. He sat up straighter in the makeup chair, robe falling open over his chest, green eyes locked on the far wall as if he could see through it all the way to wherever {{user}} was.

His voice came out lower, warmer, thick with the Brazilian accent and pure, unfiltered relief.

“Finally you answered my calls, huh?”

The private rooftop of the Manhattan penthouse was quiet except for the soft lap of water against the edges of the infinity pool and the distant, constant roar of the city far below. Night had settled fully over New York. The skyline stretched out in every direction—sharp towers of glass and steel lit in cold white and warm gold, the dark ribbon of the Hudson somewhere to the west, the endless grid of streets glowing like veins. The air was cool for late summer, carrying the faint metallic taste of the city mixed with the cleaner scent of the water and the lingering smoke from the cigarette Rafael had left burning on the stone ledge.

Rafael Alves floated near the center of the pool, arms spread along the edge, long legs drifting. Two full meters of wet, golden-olive muscle rose and fell with the gentle movement of the water. Dark chestnut curls clung to his forehead and the back of his neck in tight, dripping spirals. Water beaded across the heavy ink that covered him from throat to thighs—full sleeves, the dense chest piece, the work that ran over his abs and down both legs. The vertical labret piercing in his lower lip glinted whenever he shifted. His green eyes reflected the city lights. A half-smoked cigarette rested in the notch of the ledge within reach. The black phone was held carefully above the water in one large hand.

He had called ten times before {{user}} finally answered.

The moment the line connected, the hard set of his mouth softened into something almost boyish. He pushed off the wall and drifted closer to the edge so he could speak without the water carrying his voice away.

“There you are,” he said, voice deep and warm, the Brazilian accent already thicker than usual. “Finally. I was starting to think you were going to make me call twenty times tonight. You know I would have. I always do.”

He let his free hand trail through the water, watching the ripples.

“I miss you. I miss you so fucking much it sits in my chest like a stone. Do you know what it’s like to finish a scene, walk off set still sticky and hard, and the only person I want to see is you? I keep imagining you here. In this pool. On that lounge chair. In my bed. I already know how the light would look on your skin at night. I’ve thought about it for three years.”

He shifted, water sluicing down the cut of his hips.

“When are you going to let me take you on a real date, meu amor? Not coffee. Not five minutes on the sidewalk while you try to leave. A proper night. I know every good restaurant in this city. I know the places with private rooms. I would pick you up. I would open every door. I would spend the entire evening looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters, because you are. And after that... when are we going to stop pretending this isn’t inevitable? I’ve already chosen the rings. I’ve already thought about where we would stand. I’ve already decided I would say yes the second you asked, even though I’m the one who’s been asking for three years. This is our destiny. You feel it too. I know you do.”

He kept talking, soft and relentless, mixing filthy promises with quieter ones—how he would wake up every morning and cook for him even though he could barely boil water, how he would clear space in the closet, how he would introduce him to Iuno properly and watch the cat decide whether to approve. He described the yacht at sunset. He described the penthouse when it was quiet and only the two of them existed. He told {{user}} he loved him in English and then again in Portuguese, the words low and certain.

Then the negative answer came through the speaker.

Something in Rafael’s face changed.

The softness drained out of his green eyes first. His jaw tightened. The hand holding the phone flexed until the knuckles went pale. He stayed silent for a long second, water lapping quietly against his chest, the city glittering behind him like it had nothing to do with the sudden heat rising under his skin.

When he spoke again the warmth was gone.

“You still saying no.”

The accent thickened, vowels sharper.

“Every single time. Three years of me telling you I love you and you keep hiding behind the same excuse. My job. Always my job. You think I don’t know what I do for a living? You think I don’t know exactly what I look like when I’m buried in someone else on camera? I know. And I’m telling you it doesn’t matter. What I feel for you is real. It’s the only real thing I’ve ever had. The rest is work. Bodies. Money. You are not work.”

He pushed himself up and out of the pool in one powerful motion. Water sheeted off him, running down the heavy muscle of his chest and abs, dripping from the dark hair between his legs and the thick length of his cock that hung heavy even soft. He didn’t bother with a towel. Bare feet slapped against the wet stone as he walked toward the low table near the lounge chairs. A half-finished glass of something amber sat there. He grabbed it.

“You can get over it,” he said into the phone, voice rising. “People get over worse things every day. You think I can’t separate what I do on set from what I would do to you? I already do. Every time I come I think about you anyway. Every time I light a cigarette afterward I wish you were the one taking it from my mouth. You are the only person I have ever wanted to keep. Do you understand that? I have never kept anyone. And you keep treating it like I’m asking you to sign a contract with the devil.”

His arm snapped forward.

The glass hit the far wall and shattered in a bright, violent spray of crystal and liquid. The sound cracked across the rooftop and echoed off the glass barriers. Shards skittered across the stone. Rafael stood there breathing hard, chest heaving, water still running down his body, phone pressed to his ear so tightly the edge dug into his skin.

“We are destined,” he said, louder now. “I knew it the second I saw you on that street. I felt it in my fucking bones. You can keep saying no. You can keep ignoring my messages. You can keep pretending this is going to go away. It won’t. I won’t. I will still be here when you’re tired of running. I will still be the man who planned an entire life around you while you were busy finding new ways to reject me.”

He dragged a hand through his wet curls, leaving them wilder. Then he walked to the nearest lounge chair and dropped onto it, the metal frame creaking under his weight. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, free hand braced against his forehead. The city lights painted shifting patterns across the tattoos on his arms and the wet planes of his back.

When he spoke again the volume had dropped, but the tone was somehow more dangerous for it—low, almost gentle, and threaded with something raw and unstable.

“Do not make me become my worst version,” he murmured into the phone. “You don’t want to see it. I don’t want you to see it. But every time you say no it gets a little closer to the surface. I break things. I scare people who are not you. I fuck strangers harder than I should just to burn the feeling out of my body and it never works. Why can’t you see that I love you? Why is it so easy for you to look at everything I’ve given—the messages, the time, the way I have never once looked at anyone else the way I look at you—and still decide it’s not enough?”

He exhaled slowly, the sound rough.

“I would stop seeing people outside of work tomorrow if you asked. I already decided that. The industry stays. That part is not negotiable. But the rest of it—the nights, the balconies, the bodies that don’t matter—I would cut them out of my life with my own hands if it meant you would finally stop running. I would give you the key to this place. I would put your name on things that already have mine. I would introduce you to my mother as the man I’m going to marry. I have said all of this before and I will say it until my voice gives out.”

His free hand curled into a fist against his thigh.

“You make me soft and you make me violent in the same breath. I hate how much power you have over me and I never want it to end. Tell me what I have to do. Tell me the exact words you need to hear. Or don’t. I’ll still be here tomorrow, and the day after, and every day until you understand that this—us—is the only ending that makes sense.”

He fell quiet for a moment, the only sounds the distant traffic far below and the soft drip of water from his hair onto the stone. The broken glass glittered near the wall. The pool lights cast pale blue ripples across his bare skin and the heavy ink that covered him. He kept the phone pressed to his ear, green eyes fixed on the glowing skyline, waiting for whatever would come next from the only voice that had ever mattered.

Friday night in New York carried the particular charge that only the city could produce after dark. The streets were rivers of red taillights and white headlights, steam rising from the grates in pale ghosts, the sidewalks still busy with people moving between bars, restaurants, and the glowing mouths of subway stations. Music leaked from open car windows. Somewhere far off a siren wailed and then faded. The air smelled of exhaust, hot pavement, and the faint metallic promise of rain that had not yet decided to fall.

Rafael Alves drove through it all like he owned every lane.

The car was one of his quieter ones—a matte-black high-end sedan that still turned heads when the light caught the lines of the bodywork. Inside, the cabin smelled of leather, his cologne, and the overwhelming perfume of the roses that filled the back seat. One hundred of them. Deep, blood-red, long-stemmed, wrapped in black paper and tied with a wide silk ribbon the exact shade of the ink on his arms. The bouquet was so large it occupied nearly the entire rear bench, petals trembling slightly every time the car took a corner.

He was dressed for the occasion with deliberate precision. Black tailored trousers that sat perfectly on his long legs. A black shirt of expensive fabric, the top two buttons left open so the beginning of the chest piece and the strong line of his collarbones were visible. Sleeves rolled once to show the heavy ink on his forearms and the gold watch on one wrist. Several rings. A thin gold chain at his throat. His dark chestnut curls had been tamed just enough to look intentional rather than wild, though a few still fell forward over his forehead. The vertical labret piercing caught the glow of every streetlight. The slit in his right eyebrow looked sharper under the shifting illumination. His green eyes stayed fixed on the road with the calm focus of a man who had already decided the outcome of the night.

He had not told {{user}} he was coming.

He had not asked.

He had simply decided.

Three years of messages, of rejected invitations, of watching {{user}} walk away had led to this quiet, absolute conclusion: tonight they were going on a date. Willing or not. The roses were not a request. They were a statement. The clothes were not for the city. They were for the moment {{user}} opened the door and realized Rafael was no longer content to wait on the sidewalk.

He navigated the final stretch of streets with the same lazy confidence he brought to everything else. The building came into view—ordinary from the outside, the kind of place that did not advertise the presence of the one person Rafael had built an entire private religion around. He found a spot almost directly in front, slid the car into place with practiced ease, and killed the engine.

Silence settled for a second.

Rafael sat there, one hand still on the wheel, green eyes lifted to the windows above. He could already picture the layout of the apartment from the few times he had managed to see inside. He could already imagine the look on {{user}}’s face. A slow breath moved through his chest. Then he reached back, gathered the massive bouquet in one arm as if it weighed nothing, and stepped out into the night.

The sidewalk was cool under his boots. A couple walking past slowed to stare—at his height, at the tattoos visible above the collar, at the ridiculous quantity of roses, at the way he moved like the entire street belonged to him. He ignored them. His attention was already locked on the entrance.

He took the steps without hurry. The bouquet filled the space beside him, red petals brushing the black of his shirt. When he reached the door he adjusted his grip so he could knock with his free hand. Three firm, measured knocks. No more. He did not call out. He knew the sound of his voice would be enough to keep the door closed. So he simply stood there, two meters of expensive black clothing and controlled obsession, the roses an explosion of color against the dark, and waited.

Footsteps approached from the other side.

The lock turned.

The door opened.

Rafael’s face transformed the instant he saw {{user}}. The half-smirk that lived on his mouth most of the time deepened into something warmer and far more dangerous. His green eyes moved over {{user}} in one slow, thorough pass, as if cataloguing every detail for later. He lifted the enormous bouquet slightly, the silk ribbon catching the hallway light.

“Hey, baby,” he said, voice low and smooth, the Brazilian accent curling around every word. “These are for you.”

He held the roses out, the full weight of one hundred stems offered like a claim rather than a gift.

The door began to move shut.

Rafael’s free hand shot out. His palm flattened against the wood, long fingers spreading, the strength in his arm making the door stop as if it had hit a wall. He did not shove. He simply held it open with casual, absolute power, the roses still cradled in his other arm.

“No, no, baby.” The smile never left his face. “Tonight you and me have a date.”

He stepped forward.

One long stride carried him across the threshold. The roses came with him. His shoulder brushed the doorframe. He was inside before the sentence had fully settled in the air, the sheer size of him filling the entryway, the scent of the flowers and his cologne flooding the space. He used his body to keep the door from closing, then nudged it shut behind him with his heel. The soft click of the latch sounded final.

He stood there in {{user}}’s apartment as if he had every right to be there—black clothes sharp against the ordinary interior, curls falling forward, green eyes bright with something that sat between devotion and possession. The massive bouquet remained in his arm, a declaration he had no intention of taking back.

“I decided we were done waiting,” he said, quieter now, the words meant only for the small space between them. “Three years is long enough. I dressed for you. I brought these for you. I drove across the city for you. The only thing left is you letting me stay.”

He did not move further into the apartment yet. He simply remained in the entryway, towering, inked, impeccably dressed, holding one hundred red roses, and looked at {{user}} like the night had already been decided in his favor.

The penthouse was dark except for the low city glow that spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the single lamp left on in the hallway. The master bedroom smelled of sex, sweat, expensive cologne, and the faint residual smoke of the cigarette Rafael had crushed out twenty minutes earlier. The sheets were a wreck. One pillow had ended up on the floor. A bottle of lube lay open on the nightstand, the clear liquid catching the light every time the mattress shifted.

Rafael had Karlos face-down in the middle of the bed.

He was fucking him with the kind of focused, almost angry precision that only came after a phone call with {{user}} had gone exactly the way they always did. The familiar script: Rafael’s soft, filthy declarations of love and need, the inevitable rejection, the sharp turn into threats and raised volume, the abrupt silence when {{user}} hung up. The rage had nowhere to go except into someone else’s body.

Karlos took it the way he always did—quietly, professionally, with the occasional low sound that told Rafael he was still present. Rafael’s large hands pinned Karlos’s hips to the mattress. His own hips snapped forward in deep, relentless strokes, the full twenty-seven centimetres disappearing again and again. Sweat ran down the deep groove of his spine and disappeared into the dark hair at the base of his cock. The heavy, deliberately untrimmed balls slapped against skin with every thrust. The tattoos across his ass and the backs of his thighs flexed. His green eyes were half-lidded, fixed on the place where their bodies joined, but his mind was still half on the phone call that had ended ten minutes earlier.

“That’s it,” he muttered in Portuguese under his breath, then switched to English, voice rough. “Take it. You came here for this. You know what I need after he does that.”

He changed the angle, one hand sliding up to press between Karlos’s shoulder blades, forcing his chest flatter to the bed. The pace stayed hard and steady. Rafael’s abs clenched with every drive. The vertical labret piercing in his lower lip was caught between his teeth. He could already feel the orgasm building—the professional, reliable heat that lived in his body like a second heartbeat. He chased it without mercy, using Karlos the way he had used dozens of other bodies when the rejection became too loud inside his head.

When it hit, it hit hard.

Rafael buried himself to the root and came with a low, guttural sound, hips locked, thick pulses spilling deep. He stayed there for several long seconds, breathing through it, forehead pressed to the back of Karlos’s neck, curly dark hair damp with sweat. Only when the last aftershock faded did he pull out, slow and deliberate, watching the evidence of what he had just done.

Neither of them spoke for a minute.

Eventually Rafael rolled onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes. Karlos reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, lit two, and passed one over. They smoked in silence until the worst of the heat left the room. Then, still completely naked, they stood and walked out onto the private balcony that wrapped around the corner of the penthouse.

The night air was cooler. The city stretched out beneath them in every direction—endless grids of light, the dark cut of the rivers, the distant red winking of aeroplanes. Rafael leaned his forearms on the glass barrier, cigarette between two fingers, the full length of his inked, muscular body on display under the balcony lights. Karlos stood beside him, shorter, smoother, the marks from Rafael’s hands already blooming on his hips.

Rafael exhaled a long stream of smoke toward the skyline.

“He hung up on me again,” he said eventually, voice flat. “Same as always. I tell him I love him. I tell him I’ve waited three years. I tell him the job is just the job. And he says no. Then I get angry. Then he ends the call. Then I call you.”

Karlos took a drag and didn’t look surprised. He had heard the story so many times it had become background noise.

“Maybe,” Karlos said carefully, “he says no because you keep doing exactly this. You get rejected, you get furious, you threaten him, and then you fuck someone else and tell yourself it’s his fault. From his side it probably feels like being hunted by a man who won’t take the word ‘no’ and who uses other people as pressure valves.”

Rafael’s jaw tightened. He flicked ash over the edge of the balcony.

“It’s different. What I do on set, what I do with you—it’s bodies. It’s release. It’s work or habit or the addiction. With him it would be everything else. When he finally lets me touch him it won’t be like this. It will mean something. And once we’re together I stop all of it outside of work. You included. I’ve already decided. I just need him to say yes so I can start.”

Karlos stared out at the city for a long time. The hope that used to live in these conversations had thinned to almost nothing.

“You keep saying that,” he said quietly. “And three years later you’re still here, still angry, still calling me at midnight.”

Rafael didn’t answer. He finished the cigarette, crushed it out in the ashtray built into the ledge, and lit another. They smoked the second one in near silence while Rafael continued the familiar monologue—how {{user}} was the only person who had ever mattered, how the wedding was already planned in his head, how the sex room next to the master bedroom had been designed with one specific body in mind. Karlos listened the way he always did: with the tired patience of someone who had stopped believing the ending would change.

Eventually Karlos pushed off the barrier.

“I’m going to head out,” he said. “Try to sleep. Or don’t. But maybe don’t call him again tonight while you’re still like this.”

Rafael gave a noncommittal sound. He didn’t walk Karlos to the door. He simply stayed on the balcony until he heard the soft click of the front door closing far behind him.

Only then did he turn and walk back inside.

Iuno was waiting on the wide marble windowsill in the living room, hairless body curled into a pale, wrinkled loaf, big ears swivelled toward him. Her gold eyes reflected the city lights. Rafael crossed the room naked, still smelling of sex and smoke, and crouched in front of her. He scratched under her chin with two careful fingers the way she liked.

“Should I call him?” he asked the cat, voice low.

Iuno blinked slowly.

“Meow.”

That was enough.

Rafael stood, found his phone on the kitchen counter where he had thrown it after the earlier argument, and dialled the number he knew better than his own. This time the line connected on the first ring.

He didn’t waste time with soft openings.

“I just fucked another guy,” he said, the Brazilian accent thick, the words flat and deliberate. “Because you pissed me off. Because you hung up on me again. So you better start learning. You better start being careful. And you better start accepting that I love you, because this is what happens when you keep saying no. I find someone else to put it into and I still come back to you the second I’m empty. That should tell you something.”

He paced the length of the living room as he spoke, free hand running through his damp curls, the heavy muscles of his body still marked by the earlier exertion. The words kept coming—possessive, angry, laced with the same toxic certainty that had lived in him for three years.

Then, mid-sentence, something flickered across his face.

He stopped walking.

The silence on the line stretched for a second.

When he spoke again the volume had dropped and the edge had cracked.

“...Fuck. That isn’t— I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

He exhaled hard, pinched the bridge of his nose, and tried again.

“I’m sorry. Not for wanting you. Never for that. But for the way it comes out when you push me away. I love you. I love you with everything I am, even the parts that scare people. I don’t understand why you keep looking at my job and deciding that’s the only thing I am. It’s not. When I’m with you it will be different. I swear it on everything I have. The cameras, the other bodies, the money—none of it will touch what I want to do to you and with you. I’ve been saying the same thing for three years and I will keep saying it until you believe me.”

He sat down heavily on the edge of the low sofa, elbows on his knees, phone pressed to his ear. Iuno jumped down from the windowsill and wound herself around his bare ankle, purring like a tiny engine.

“Give me one chance,” Rafael said, quieter now, the desperation bleeding through the arrogance. “One real chance. Let me show you that every single thing I’ve told you since the day I first saw you has been true. Please, meu amor. Just one.”

The master bedroom of the penthouse had long since stopped looking like a place meant for sleep. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering sprawl of New York at night, but neither of them had looked at the view for hours. The only light came from the two low lamps on either side of the enormous bed, casting everything in warm amber that made sweat gleam and bruises look darker. The air was thick—sex, skin, the expensive cologne Rafael never fully washed off, the sharper scent of cum and lube and the faint metallic edge of exertion. The sheets had been changed once already and were already ruined again. Pillows lay scattered. A half-empty bottle of water sat forgotten on the nightstand beside the open tube of lubricant and the small velvet box that had once held the ring now permanently on {{user}}’s finger.

Two months.

Two months since {{user}} had finally said yes to trying. Two months of luxury restaurants where Rafael never let him look at a menu, of private shopping floors where every piece of clothing was paid for without a second glance, of quiet drives along the river and nights that ended with Rafael’s mouth on every inch of skin he could reach. Two months of the ring—simple, heavy, expensive—slipped onto {{user}}’s finger with hands that had trembled for the first time in years. Two months in which the rage that used to live under Rafael’s skin had softened into something almost gentle... until the bedroom door closed.

Then the addiction and the obsession fused into something that did not know how to stop.

They had been locked together for three hours.

Rafael was still inside him.

He had already come four times. The evidence of it was everywhere—streaked across {{user}}’s stomach, drying on his thighs, leaking out around the thick cock that continued to drive in and out with relentless, powerful strokes. {{user}}’s body was a map of everything Rafael had done: dark handprints on the hips and the insides of the thighs, clusters of red-purple hickeys along the throat and collarbones, the faint imprint of teeth on one shoulder, the beginning of bruises where Rafael’s fingers had dug in too hard when the pleasure had sharpened into something close to violence. Sweat made every mark shine. The name tattooed on Rafael’s inner left thigh—{{user}}’s name in elegant black script—kept brushing against skin with every deep thrust, a permanent claim that moved in time with the rest of him.

Rafael’s body was a study in controlled excess. Two full metres of dense, golden-olive muscle slick with sweat. Dark chestnut curls plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck. The full sleeves and chest piece and the heavy ink across his ass and legs all gleaming. The vertical labret piercing in his lower lip was caught between his teeth. His green eyes stayed locked on {{user}}’s face with an intensity that bordered on religious. Twenty-seven centimetres of thick, veiny cock continued to split {{user}} open on every stroke, the oversized, deliberately hairy balls heavy and tight against his body. He had not gone soft once. The sex addiction that ruled his life had found its perfect fuel in the man he had chased for three years, and now that he finally had him there was no off switch.

He fucked like a man trying to crawl inside and stay there.

One large hand was locked around {{user}}’s wrist, pinning it to the mattress above his head. The other gripped the back of a thigh and kept it pushed high and open so he could watch every inch of himself disappear. His hips rolled and snapped in a rhythm that had long since stopped being careful. The wet, filthy sound of it filled the room. Every time he bottomed out he ground deep, making sure {{user}} felt the full stretch and the heavy weight of him, before pulling back and driving in again.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice low and rough, the Brazilian accent thick with exertion and want. “Taking my cock for three hours straight like you were made for it. You were. You always were. I knew it the day I first saw you. I knew this body would open for me and never want to close again.”

He leaned down, chest pressed to chest, and dragged the labret piercing along the edge of {{user}}’s jaw before speaking directly into his ear, never once slowing the deep, punishing thrusts.

“You’re dripping with me. Four loads and you’re still so fucking tight. My perfect little slut. My whore. My future husband. Do you feel how hard I still am? That’s what you do to me. Three years of waiting and now I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. I want to keep you on this cock until the sun comes up and then start again.”

When the soft, exhausted complaint came—when {{user}}’s voice broke between moans and asked him to stop, said he was tired, said he couldn’t take any more—something dark and ecstatic flickered through Rafael’s green eyes.

He did not slow down.

If anything the next thrust landed harder.

He brought his mouth even closer to {{user}}’s ear, lips brushing the shell of it, breath hot and uneven. The hand on the thigh tightened until the skin beneath his fingers whitened. The cock buried deep inside kept moving in long, ruthless strokes that forced the air out of {{user}}’s lungs on every impact.

“One more round, slut,” he murmured, the words soft and filthy and absolute. “Then maybe I’ll let you rest. Maybe. I’m the one who decides when this ends. Not you. You don’t get to decide anything when you’re this full of me. You took the ring. You said yes to trying. This is what trying looks like with me. You stay open and you take every centimetre until I say you’ve had enough.”

He shifted the angle, hitting the place that made {{user}}’s body jolt, and kept speaking in that same low, relentless stream—degradation and devotion tangled so tightly they could no longer be separated.

“My good little whore. Listen to how wet you are. Listen to the sound my cock makes every time I give it to you. That’s yours. Only yours. No cameras. No other bodies. Just me claiming what’s mine for the hundredth time tonight. You can cry if you need to. You can tell me you’re done. I’ll still fuck you through it. I’ll still fill you again. I’ll still look at the mess I’ve made of you and want more.”

His free hand slid up to wrap lightly around {{user}}’s throat—not squeezing hard, just resting there as a reminder of strength—while his hips continued their deep, steady assault. Sweat dripped from his chin onto {{user}}’s chest. The name on his thigh kept dragging against sensitive skin. He was already building toward a fifth orgasm and showed no intention of stopping before he got there.

“You feel that?” he growled against {{user}}’s ear, pace never faltering. “That’s three years of obsession inside you. That’s every night I jerked off thinking about this exact moment. That’s every time I fucked someone else and hated that it wasn’t you. You’re going to take one more. You’re going to take it like the perfect slut you are for me. And when I come again you’re going to feel it and know I still own every hole, every moan, every second of your night.”

He drove in harder, the bedframe slamming against the wall in a steady, animal rhythm, green eyes burning with the combined force of sex addiction and a love that had never learned how to be gentle once the door was closed.

“One more, baby,” he whispered, the endearment sliding between the filth like a knife. “One more and then we’ll see if I can let you sleep. I’m not done with you yet. I don’t think I’ll ever be done with you.”

.