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Phayu knows.
He knows exactly what feeling is tearing through his insides right now—scraping like a gnarled snag deep within him, hooking onto his ribs, clawing its way to his heart.
It’s terrible, ugly, and shameful. But he can’t shake it off. Can’t get rid of it.
Because all he can think about is Rain, Rain, Rain… It could've been an obsession, a loop stuck in his brain—but for him, that name is sacred.
Rain stands with his back half turned, engrossed in a conversation with some guy. He laughs and tilts his head back, exposing his neck—a sight that attracts Phayu like a magnet. He’d sink his teeth into it right here and now, just for the thrill, just to put on a show for the unsuspecting crowd. Let them stare, let them envy, let them understand exactly who belongs to whom.
Rain doesn’t deliberately provoke him, nor is he even close to drunk—Phayu made sure of that, personally keeping track of every single glass he drank.
Phayu himself had only left for a few minutes to say goodbye to the club owner, who happened to be friends with Phakin, and when he came back, he found his boyfriend next to that sleazy bastard.
He doesn’t approach, keeping enough distance to avoid doing anything irreparably stupid, but his entire being is ablaze. It's poison, seeping through him, gnawing at his very essence.
Rain notices him a little too late, beames with a radiant smile, but as soon as their eyes meet, he instantly pulls away from the stranger and comes right back to Phayu.
The drive home crawls through a silence so thick it hums, vibrating in the spaces between them. The seatbelt bites into Phayu’s chest, pressing against frayed nerves stitched together by fabric and a flimsy illusion of control—pitifully fragile under the crushing weight of these suffocating, stomach-churning emotions.
Though his lover endures the trip with quiet resilience, the moment they cross the threshold, that composure cracks.
A breath, a hesitation—then, barely above a whisper:
“I—”
But he doesn’t get another word out before Phayu’s tongue is already inside his mouth, pushing insistently—a surefire way to silence him before explanations even begin. The kiss tastes of cherry daiquiri and the sharp tang of iron from lips torn raw by too many bites, prompting Phayu to go deeper, rougher—to the point of frenzy—until his lungs give out, deprived of the last breath. And a clash of teeth is inevitable, but it’s only collateral damage, as Rain’s head is pressed against the wall, his chin locked in a steel trap.
Phayu’s fingers are strong, know their job—calloused tips dig into the sharp line of a jaw that has nowhere to run. His index finger traces a slow, teasing path along a cheek, while his thumb presses against the bone with a merciless force. They would’ve long since crept under the skin to settle there, to make a new home, but their owner takes pity on the poor thing in his grasp, holds back—though given the chance, he wouldn’t hesitate to bury himself beneath Rain’s flesh.
Rain doesn’t turn away, doesn’t try to break free—if anything, he pushes into it, meeting this unfeigned roughness head-on. Phayu never encounters resistance. Whether it’s gentle caresses or raw, biting intensity, Rain takes it all—without question, without hesitation, without reserve. Equally does he crave gentle touches and deep, blossoming bruises, for he is trained, molded for Phayu alone, pliable out of habit, like clay in the hands of a master.
He melts into it, moaning languidly, sweetly, as if his vocal cords were given to him solely to please the ears of the one who stands before him. His body arches, and there it is again—that milky-white throat, the sharp protrusion of Adam's apple—a temptation that can drive a man to sin.
Phayu’s hand slides down from Rain’s chin, dancing over the taut sinews just below, tracing each distinct line, before his grip suddenly closes around the neck—squeezing hard and relentless until spots bloom behind his eyes. For a few fleeting moments, oxygen is denied, forbidden, stolen—as a sign of punishment, ensuring no one dares encroach on what isn’t theirs.
Yet Phayu is merciful—so just as quickly, he lets go. Instead, his focus shifts to the hollow near Rain’s left collarbone, where he sinks his teeth with a savage snarl, this time without restraint. The disturbed skin blooms with fresh bruising—the first of the night, but unlikely the last. He moistens it with his tongue far more than necessary, then exhales, a cool breath ghosting over the heated flesh.
Rain responds with a shiver, his heartbeat stuttering, pulse hammering wildly beneath his jugular vein. So Phayu doesn’t neglect it either—no, he tends to it with precision, dragging wet, meticulous kisses along its length before marking it with yet another blooming scarlet stain.
The temperature in the room rises steadily, beads of sweat forming on Rain’s skin, leaving Phayu no choice but to chase them with his tongue and soak them up like divine nectar. But that damned shirt is always in the way, its collar needing constant tugging, shifting—an unbearable nuisance. No saving it now. It’s already been soiled by wandering eyes, already tainted. So Phayu lets the buttons fly, tearing the fabric apart with a sharp, satisfying rip—but he doesn’t take it off completely. Instead, he slides it down over Rain's elbows and wraps the sleeves tightly around his wrists to bind them in makeshift restraints.
Bare skin meets his gaze—the chest, the torso, revealed in all its unguarded splendor. Phayu pauses for a beat, devouring the sight with his eyes, unable to get his fill. Rain is dizzyingly beautiful. Lean, toned—but carrying that unbearable fragility that drives Phayu mad, stirs something raw and primal in his blood. He feels like a starved predator cast into barren woods—one who’s finally caught its last remaining prey. But he doesn’t consume it whole. He takes his time, savoring every bite, peeling it apart piece by piece and stretching out the feast with slow, deliberate hunger.
And yet Rain is confronted with a cascade of sharp pinches—Phayu doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t hold back, doesn’t waste time on drawn-out preludes. He tugs without shame and kneads the soft skin in harsh contrast, his nails grazing over the sensitive peaks, rolling them between his fingertips. Whether they stiffen from the chill or the tension doesn’t really matter—because Phayu knows the truth. Knows Rain’s body too well to misjudge the cause. It’s desire, pure and simple. This is Phayu’s territory. He owns it, claims it with every touch, and no power in this world—not even death—could make him give up what’s his.
Meanwhile, the burning heat of his mouth closes around the shell of Rain’s ear, melting it with ragged breaths. Phayu lavishes it with such fervor that a web of tiny blood vessels bursts beneath the surface, leaving a vivid mark, bold and unmistakable.
Satisfied with his work, Phayu drops to his knees, arms coiled tight around Rain’s waist, dragging him in—only to ruin him further. His tongue drags over the skin above his navel, hot and claiming, branding him in ways that won’t fade. A few more teasing strokes, and then, in one swift motion, he strips Rain of both pants and underwear. Lips trail lower, dragging over the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, stubbornly ignoring the painfully throbbing erection.
Rain’s pupils dilate, darkening his irises. His moans dissolve into an incessant, needy whimper that forces Phayu to rise to his full height once more, circling behind him. Gripping Rain’s shoulders, he pushes him forward, and now nothing stands in the way of arching his spine, pressing him down, knees sinking into the plush cushions of the couch.
Rain’s cock glistens, slick with impatience, craving attention—but Phayu plays by his own rules. Settling in comfortably, he drinks in the sight before him, greedy in his admiration of those perfect, sinful curves. And then, without a second wasted, he spreads those trembling thighs wide and buries his face in that exquisite, rounded ass.
As Phayu fervently explores Rain’s tight entrance, dipping his tongue in and teasing the delicate walls, one of his hands wanders along the spine and the other grips his thigh hard enough to leave dark bruises—desperate to keep the boy still. He licks greedily, not sparing a single inch, lips meeting the flushed skin nearby, nose pressing deep into the hollow above Rain’s coccyx.
His movements are wild, following a broken, desperate rhythm, his head dipping up and down with reckless hunger. Phayu is drowning in lust, alternating between deep, insistent thrusts of his tongue and light, almost-innocent caresses.
The ring of muscle is already soaked from his efforts—obscene, glistening—but still, it isn’t enough. Never enough. He spits, not just once, but several times, rubbing the slick mess over Rain’s buttocks, down to his balls, smearing it everywhere. And then, without pause, he presses in—two fingers at a time, sliding over the loosened rim.
“P’Phayu,” the name breaks the silence, torn from Rain’s throat in a strangled rasp.
But tonight, no voice is allowed. So Phayu’s free hand wastes no time, fingers shoving past parted lips, deep into Rain’s throat. And without needing a single command, Rain takes them in willingly, sucking with the kind of shamelessness that sets Phayu’s blood on fire.
The arousal borders on agony now—Rain’s flushed tip is slick with pre-cum, pulsing, desperate. But Phayu doesn’t fare much better. The belt clatters to the floor in a hurry, the buckle hitting hard, jeans and boxers pooling at his feet. And then, finally—finally—his throbbing length is freed, only to drive in without warning, sinking deep in a single, relentless thrust.
There are no barriers left between them—they are one, consumed by the fierce flame of passion. Rain takes him in easily, stretched from the last time and softened under the worship of Phayu’s mouth and hands. But there is no tenderness now. Phayu yanks him closer, fingers tangled in his hair with a brutal grip, the other arm holding him firmly over his stomach. His pace is ruthless, possessive—as if someone could burst in at any moment, turn up uninvited and try to steal Rain away.
Their closeness is more intoxicating than any illicit high. Phayu drives in to the hilt, then nearly pulls out completely before slamming back in, over and over again. But as euphoric as it is, he doesn’t chase pleasure. His goal is something else entirely. What little self-control remains shatters. And with a series of brutal, merciless thrusts, he spills over with a deep, guttural roar. Rain follows moments later, trembling violently, lost in the throes of bliss so intense it dissolves into delirium.
Still plunged deep in the blistering heat, Phayu frees Rain from the twisted ruin of his shirt. And when he finally pulls away, a slow, sticky trickle escapes that thoroughly wrecked entrance, pooling beneath them—staining the upholstery with the raw aftermath of their fever.
None of them rushes to the bathroom to wash. Not yet. Later, Rain will avert his eyes in shy embarrassment, and Phayu will call for dry cleaning. But for now, they sink into the pillows—sweat-slick, messy, and utterly spent.
The night’s events don’t disappear; they simply settle beneath the surface, smothered under the weight of lingering pleasure. And since Phayu’s hunger has been thoroughly sated, conversation is no longer a risk.
“He was actually asking for Sig’s number,” Rain murmurs, absentmindedly tracing lazy patterns over Phayu’s shoulder, a small smile playing on his lips.
Phayu’s look says it all—he doesn’t give a damn about excuses. Next time, he won’t hesitate to put Rain in chains if anyone so much as crosses the line.
But he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he presses the softest kiss to Rain’s cheek and pulls him close, holding him with all the tenderness he can muster.