The following evening found me in the news studio, makeup brushes against my skin as I braced myself for the impending interview. Fifteen minutes, they’d assured me, for which I was profoundly grateful. Levi remained engrossed in a whirlwind of phone calls, his attention fully consumed by his work. So far, so good. The fragile truce remained unbroken. Thank the heavens. The prospect of tackling a philosophical tome, particularly one curated by Levi’s… unique intellectual sensibilities, was a daunting one.

A harried assistant director gave me a thumbs-up, signaling that they were almost ready. I took a centering breath. The weight of the situation, the refugees, the ethical tightrope I was walking… it all felt heavy.

The makeup artist dabbed a final bit of powder on my forehead. "You look great, Raphael. Just be yourself."

I offered a smile. "Right."

A producer ushered me towards the set, a brightly lit space with cameras and cables snaking across the floor. The interviewer greeted me with a reassuring smile. "Thank you for being here, Raphael. We really appreciate you lending your voice to this important issue."

I nodded, trying to project an air of calm sincerity. "Of course. It's… important to help in any way we can."

The cameras started rolling. For the first few minutes, it was standard fare – questions about my work, my public image, and then the inevitable segue into the refugee crisis. I spoke carefully, choosing my words with a precision I usually reserved for defusing arguments with Levi. I focused on the human element, the desperation and resilience of those displaced, trying to inject some genuine emotion without sounding overly sentimental or, gods forbid, 'childishly naive.'

Then came the inevitable question, the one I knew was coming, the one that had been the crux of my argument with Levi.

"Raphael, your involvement in this campaign has garnered significant attention, and some critics have suggested that it's… well, that it's leveraging your celebrity for a cause. How do you respond to that?"

My composure wavered for a second.

"To claim that my public influence plays no role in my involvement would be disingenuous," I stated, meeting the interviewer's gaze directly. "I am here, in part, because my experiences during those twenty days at the foundation – the lack of basic comforts, the shared hardship – ignited within me a profound desire to assist. It wasn't about publicity. It was about witnessing human suffering firsthand and feeling a fundamental obligation to act, a responsibility rooted in basic human decency. And while I cannot deny the potential for my public profile to amplify the reach of this crucial campaign, to garner more aid for the very people with whom I share a nation, a history now tragically fractured by war… that is a consequence, not the primary motivation. What I am trying to convey is this: I am here because I genuinely want to help, to amplify the voices of those in need, and to reach as many hearts and hands as possible."

The interviewer nodded thoughtfully. "That's a very articulate and heartfelt response, Raphael. It addresses those concerns directly. Now, shifting our focus to the situation on the ground..."

She moved on to specific questions about the needs of the refugees, the logistical challenges, and the long-term goals of the aid efforts. I answered as honestly and as clearly as I could, drawing on the information Levi had compiled and shared with me. I spoke about the urgent need for shelter, food, medical supplies, and the longer-term requirements for education and rebuilding lives. I even managed to weave in a few anecdotes from my time at the foundation, focusing on the resilience and spirit of the people I had met, without veering into overly emotional territory.

Fifteen minutes stretched into twenty, then twenty-five. Despite my initial apprehension, I found a rhythm.

"Raphael, thank you again for sharing your perspective and your commitment to this vital cause. Your voice will undoubtedly make a significant difference."

A wave of relief washed over me as the cameras stopped rolling. I had navigated the public scrutiny and personal ethics without a single sarcastic remark or ill-advised jab. I had even managed to sound… genuinely caring.

…

I ripped the tie from my neck, and strode into the living room. Levi was exactly where I expected him to be, sprawled across the couch in a pose of profound ennui, remote in hand, the television screen flickering, undoubtedly waiting to dissect my every word.

I sank onto the cushions beside him. I fumbled with the buttons of my shirt, undoing two to allow my constricted throat some breathing room.

"It's done, Levi," I said, the words a little breathless. "And… even though the whole thing felt… complicated, ethically murky… I don't feel entirely awful. I actually… I think I managed to say what I truly wanted to say."

Levi lifted his head, scanning my face. "Indeed, the promotional snippets for your broadcast have been rather ubiquitous, dear," he remarked. "I am, therefore, keenly interested to ascertain the precise content of your pronouncements."

"I recounted my personal motivations for getting involved," I explained, meeting his intense gaze, "and I also detailed the logistical hurdles, drawing both on my own observations and the information you specifically instructed me to convey."

"Shhh…" Levi murmured, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. "No spoilers, my dear."

Wow. A genuine anticipation.

"Alright, Levi, indulge your anticipation," I conceded, a wry smile playing on my lips. "I, however, require a drink to process this surreal experience." I turned and headed towards the glass cabinet where we housed our liquor reserves, selecting a bottle of robust red wine. The satisfying pop of the cork echoed in the suddenly quiet room as I returned to the couch, generously filling my glass. Just as I settled back, the interview began to play on the television screen. Gods. It was profoundly unsettling to watch myself on TV, a bizarre out-of-body experience. I mean, yes, I inhabit characters for a living, but that's fiction! This… this was real life.

I covered my eyes with my hand.

Levi chuckled, his gaze still fixed on the television screen. "Oh? Is this an expression of shame, or some other novel emotional experience?"

"No, it's nothing like that," I mumbled, peeking through my fingers. "It's just… deeply strange to witness yourself on television. Utterly mortifying, you know? It's like the first time you hear your own voice played back on a recording, that jarring realization of ‘Do I actually sound like that?' Yes. That sensation."

"One would logically assume that the frequent projection of your image onto visual media would have desensitized you to this phenomenon," Levi observed.

"It's different, Levi," I reiterated, the distinction feeling crucial. "I inhabit fictional personas. This… this was real."

"Hm..." Levi mused, his brow furrowing slightly in contemplation. "Therefore, the weight of consequence, the tangible impact of your words and their potential ramifications, is what renders this experience 'intolerable'? Or perhaps," he added, his gaze flicking briefly to mine, "it is the inherent moral complexities of the situation that contribute to your discomfort?"

It's not just vanity or awkwardness, though those are definitely part of it. It's the responsibility. Knowing that my words, could actually influence people's perceptions, their willingness to help. That's a heavy burden. And the morality of it… am I truly helping? Or am I just another privileged celebrity inserting myself into a tragedy? Am I amplifying voices, or just adding to the noise?

"Both," I admitted, as I took a sip of my wine.

"My dear," Levi continued, his gaze still fixed on the television screen, "what is it that you require from me in this moment? Do you seek a reiteration of the paramount importance of tangible outcomes? Or perhaps you desire validation of your moral compass in navigating this complex situation? To be perfectly candid," he added, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his eyes, "I am not entirely certain of the specific form of support you currently require."

I don't even know myself. Validation? Maybe. Reassurance that I didn't completely sell my soul or exploit a tragedy for relevance. But also… maybe I want him to see the messy, emotional turmoil that underlies my actions, the conflict he sidestepping. I want him to acknowledge that this isn't just about logistics and outcomes for me.

"Perhaps a bit of both," I conceded, taking a measured sip of my wine, the anticipation of his response tightening a knot in my stomach.

"The tangible outcomes of this endeavor will become apparent once the broadcast has reached a wider audience," Levi observed. "Given the temporal proximity of the interview to the acute phase of the crisis, I anticipate a rather significant influx of donations. Your presence was impactful, Raphael, not merely as yourself, a fellow Cyrusian immigrant, but also as the husband of the Saint of Ascaria." He paused, finally turning his attention fully to me. "It was a commendable interview, Raphael. You effectively articulated your motivations as altruistic, a sentiment that will undoubtedly resonate with a broader spectrum of potential donors. And yes," he added, a note of approval in his voice, "your willingness to assist is, indeed, laudable. However," he continued, his gaze returning to the television, "in my honest assessment, what lacked genuine altruism was the guilt you experienced upon being presented with the opportunity for this interview."

Guilt, of course. The one messy, uncomfortable emotion I was trying to bury under layers of good intentions. He sees it, clear as day. And he's right. There was guilt. A nagging feeling that I was somehow profiting, however indirectly, from the suffering of others.

"Why do you perceive that guilt as lacking altruism, Levi?" I asked with genuine curiosity and a touch of defensiveness.

"Because guilt, in this context, is a luxury afforded by privilege, Raphael," he stated. "I can assure you with absolute certainty that not a single one of the refugees you assisted at the foundation harbored any concern for your internal emotional state. Nor do the refugees who resorted to stealing food from aid workers; their motivation was a fundamental need for sustenance. They acted out of necessity, devoid of the self-reproach you experienced."

Ouch.

"So, the ideal is to act without any internal conflict, purely driven by the desired outcome?" I clarified, swirling the remaining wine in my glass.

"There is no inherent ideal state, Raphael," Levi stated, his gaze unwavering. "Nor is there an intrinsically 'good' or 'bad' action. There are simply actions, and their consequences. Consider this a victory; by all measurable metrics, you have achieved a 'good' outcome. However," he reiterated, his tone devoid of sentimentality, "understand that the concepts of inherent 'good' and 'bad' are abstract constructs that hold no intrinsic meaning for me." He paused, then added, his voice taking on a note of clinical detachment, "Since my neurological architecture is fundamentally incapable of processing such subjective moral frameworks – and let me assure you, even if it were, I would find them irrelevant – I operate under my own set of principles, my own ethical imperatives. And in this particular context, all those principles converge upon the singular objective: the maximization of donations."

"But doesn't the 'how' we achieve the outcome matter at all? Doesn't intent factor into your 'principles'?"

He snorted. "Raphael, after all this time, you still pose such… naive inquiries. No. The methodology employed to achieve the desired outcome is of negligible consequence to me. My aversion to violence and murder stems purely from their aesthetic unpleasantness. Furthermore," he continued, his tone shifting slightly, "why this intense preoccupation with your single interview? Do you possess even a rudimentary understanding of the countless similar engagements I have undertaken in the past fortnight at the border? I have escorted humanitarian aid ambassadors through squalid tent cities – a tedious exercise in public relations, a blatant waste of my time, yet I endured it. Why? Because those individuals held the authority to allocate resources for the refugees' welfare."

"It's not about the significance of my interview, Levi," I clarified, hoping he grasped the underlying sentiment. "It's about the fundamental discord I often experience between my genuine desire to assist and… well, me."

There. I think I managed to convey my feelings without resorting to sarcasm or insults.

The interview concluded.

"Ah," he murmured. "So, your intent was not to engage in intellectual sparring, but rather to seek emotional reassurance. Understood, dear. You executed the interview commendably, and your internal conflict regarding the purity of your altruistic motivations is, in fact, a manifestation of your unwavering moral compass. Let me assure you, the impact of this interview, your efforts in translating, and your direct distribution of sustenance at the foundation are all unequivocally aligned: they constitute acts of genuine assistance."

He sounded… almost… kind?

"So, I managed to be a decent human for one day?" I quipped, a genuine warmth spreading through me. "Thank you, Levi. That was… genuinely kind. And, dare I say it, rather nice of you to acknowledge."

"Decent?" he echoed, a smile playing on his lips. "Raphael, are you entirely cognizant of the individual to whom you posed that particular query, dear?"

"Yes, Levi, I am acutely aware," I retorted, the warmth already beginning to dissipate. "Your monumental ego rarely misses an opportunity to re-center the conversational orbit, does it?"

"Ah, but my dear Raphael," he countered, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "that was not the impetus behind my query. I was merely extending an invitation… to embrace the allure of the shadows. You would find the company more stimulating here."

"Oh, for the love of..." I groaned, rolling my eyes. "Here we go again."

"My dearest Raphael," he said, his tone shifting to one of exaggerated concern. "Do not misinterpret my intentions. I am merely a devoted husband expressing concern. You see, my beloved spouse endured a rather taxing interview today. And his chosen method of unwinding? Wine. A truly lamentable selection of libation. This particular vintage exudes an aroma suspiciously akin to industrial-strength detergent, and the palate… regrettably echoes that olfactory assessment with an equally chemical bouquet."

"Hold on," I interjected as the scattered pieces of his pronouncements clicked into place. "Oh my god! Levi… So, when you were talking about embracing the 'dark side,' it wasn't about actual villainy, was it? You were suggesting I embrace a less… guilt-ridden perspective so I wouldn't feel so 'bad' about the interview! You're actually… being nice!"

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"Ah, my perceptive Pulla," he purred. "You have finally begun to fathom the profound depths of my… attachment."

"Wow…" I breathed, still slightly stunned by the revelation. "That has to be the most convoluted, darkly poetic way anyone has ever told me not to feel guilty."

"Indeed," he replied, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "I believe I articulated that sentiment earlier, with considerably less… theatricality, yet you seemed to find it lacking in impact. Your delayed comprehension leads me to surmise that you possess a certain… fondness for my more theatrical pronouncements."

"Fondness might be an overstatement, no offense intended, Levi," I conceded, a small smile playing on my lips. "But yes, in its own uniquely dramatic way, it… did help."

"I am gratified to hear it," he replied, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. "Now, I find myself inclined towards the consumption of an alcoholic beverage. And before you commence with your predictable expressions of concern regarding the preservation of my sobriety, allow me to reiterate a crucial distinction. I was a drug addict, Raphael, not an alcoholic. Understood?"

I do tend to lump all substance abuse under the same umbrella in my worry. It's my own clumsy way of caring.

"Alright, Levi," I conceded. "Have your drink. I'm not going to… police your choices or start a lecture. I get it."

He rose from the couch and walked to the glass cabinet. Selecting his preferred bottle of scotch and a heavy-bottomed glass, he returned to his seat.

"Hm…" he murmured as he poured. "How many months has it been now? Six, wouldn't you say?" He took a tentative sip, a slight grimace flickering across his features.

"Wow…" I breathed, a genuine wave of admiration washing over me. "Over six months, Levi. That's… truly remarkable." A beat of concern followed. "But… you didn't seem to enjoy the taste? Did it not sit well?"

"It appears my gustatory receptors require a period of adjustment to reacquaint themselves with the nuances of single malt," he conceded, swirling the scotch. "I find myself… curious as to the physiological effects of this substance after such a prolonged absence." He took another, slightly larger sip. "Also," he continued, his gaze meeting mine directly, "thank you for acknowledging the duration of my sobriety. And finally, to preempt any further unspoken concerns, no, I do not experience any residual craving for opioids."

I took a slow sip of my wine. "So, this is all just… a controlled experiment on your own physiology," I observed, a hint of wry amusement in my voice.

"Why would I engage in falsehood?" he countered. "I was, indeed, curious to ascertain the precise temporal threshold before the inclination to suppress my… less palatable tendencies with alcohol manifested. However, I find myself presently devoid of any such compulsion. My current pursuit is purely one of scientific inquiry into the effects of inebriation."

"Levi," I began, a knot of confusion tightening in my chest, "perhaps the wine has dulled my comprehension, but you need to be far more explicit. I'm not following your train of thought at all."

He took another deliberate sip of his scotch. "My extended period of abstinence has resulted in a certain… bluntness of expression," he explained, his gaze steady. "My period of sobriety was, in part, a test of my internal controls – an assessment of how long I could refrain from succumbing to the… temptation to resolve my frustrations in a manner that might be construed as excessively theatrical, potentially involving individuals in positions of power during moments of economic instability. As I have not yielded to such impulses, I have maintained control without pharmacological assistance. However," he conceded, "I do indulge in tobacco on occasion; the internal combustion provides a certain… satisfying sensation. My current consumption of alcohol, once again, is driven by mere intellectual curiosity regarding its effects."

"I suppose that explains the unwavering commitment to your home office setup," I added, a nervous chuckle escaping my lips.

"Precisely," he confirmed, taking another sip. "My self-imposed professional relocation was, in essence, an act of public service, however unconventional. Had I continued to frequent those governmental offices, the temptation to crush their skulls beneath the impeccably polished soles of my footwear would have been… considerable. And frankly," he added, a dangerous glint returning to his eyes, "entirely justified. Their collective incompetence managed to precipitate a catastrophic devaluation of our nation's currency by a staggering margin in a mere two months – a period during which I was enduring a rather unpleasant cycle of puking and vomiting."

"Gods, alcohol really did a number on me," I murmured, leaning my head on his shoulder. "Homicidal rage as a form of public service… You are a truly singular being, Levi," I added, a dark chuckle rumbling in my chest.

He took sip of his scotch, then cupped my cheek with his warm hand, his thumb stroking my skin lightly. "Ah, my Raphael," he murmured, a rare tenderness in his voice. "You have always possessed a certain… appreciation for my villainy. For that, I am profoundly grateful."

Maybe, in a strange, twisted way, I do appreciate it. It's part of what makes him Levi, this complex, terrifying, and occasionally surprisingly tender man I somehow ended up married to.

"Yeah…" I murmured, as I nestled further against his shoulder. "That particular brand of villainy is… uniquely your charm. And," I added softly, closing my eyes, "I do appreciate this rare tenderness, Levi."

"Rest assured, my Raphael," he replied, his voice a low rumble against my temple. "Such displays are a singular occurrence, a privilege reserved solely for your deserving self." He paused for a moment. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have a hypothesis regarding the effects of rapidly ingested single malt to test." With that, he tilted his head back and drained the entire contents of his glass in one swift motion.

"The hell, Levi?!" I exclaimed, pushing myself upright to look at him. "If you're intent on getting drunk, at least choose something else! Vodka, tequila, anything but burning your palate like that!"

"Tequila or vodka?" he echoed, a look of utter disdain crossing his features. "Vodka possesses a modicum of acceptability when incorporated into mixtures. Tequila, however," he declared, reaching for the scotch bottle to pour himself another glass, "is an abomination, in all its conceivable permutations."

"You know, for someone who claims to dislike inefficiency, that seems like a remarkably inefficient way to get drunk."

He chuckled. "An astute observation, my dear. Inefficient, perhaps, by conventional metrics. But what alternative is there? Subject myself to the indignity of… beer? The very notion is abhorrent." He shuddered dramatically and took another substantial gulp of his scotch.

"No, Levi," I sighed, gesturing towards the mini bar. "Go concoct one of your bizarre mixtures. Add your syrups, your strange bitters – whatever concoction pleases your palate. Just… dilute the scotch before you give yourself alcohol poisoning out of sheer stubbornness."

Levi chuckled again, a seductive sound that sent a shiver down my spine despite my annoyance. "Are you expressing concern, my Raphael? How… touching." He leaned closer, his warm breath ghosting against my ear, sending another unwelcome tremor through me. "Be a good boy for me, Pulla," he murmured, the endearment laced with deliberate sweetness, "and bring me some dark chocolate."

He knows my weakness for praise. Fuck.

"And what precisely," I murmured, "does a 'good boy' receive as a reward for facilitating your descent into a scotch and sugar-induced… state?"

He shifted closer, and nipped at my earlobe. "You know perfectly well what you will get, Pulla," he whispered, his voice a husky rasp.

Damn him. How could such a simple gesture ignite such a potent wave of arousal? Fuck. I am truly a pig. A pathetic, easily manipulated pig.

Ugh.

Yes, I was actually going to do it. Fetch his damn chocolate. Like some pathetic, well-trained god. Damn it, Raphael. I trudged to the kitchen, located his preferred brand of dark chocolate – the obscenely expensive kind, naturally – and returned to the couch, the foil-wrapped bar clutched in my hand like a shameful offering. My god. I actually did it. Fuck me. Though, the prospect of him actually fucking me wasn't entirely unwelcome. Not at all. He poured himself yet another generous measure of scotch, the clinking of the bottle a soundtrack to my self-degradation, and met my gaze, a knowing glint in his eyes.

I was literally serving him, feeding his massive ego, his ridiculous god complex. And yet… a shameful thrill coursed through me. I truly did enjoy his effortless dominance. So much.

"Here," I mumbled, extending the chocolate bar towards him. It felt less like a gift and more like a tribute to a dark deity.

He took the chocolate, his long fingers brushing against mine. His lips curved into a satisfied smirk as he examined the packaging. "My devoted Pulla," he purred, his voice a low rumble that resonated deep within me. "You truly understand the delicate nuances of my… indulgences."

"It seemed the most efficient method of achieving silence," I muttered, stubbornly refusing to meet his knowing gaze, my cheeks burning with… anticipation.

"My Pulla resorts to rudeness?" he murmured, a playful yet undeniably dominant tone lacing his voice. He crooked a single, imperious finger at me. As I took a step closer, the side of his palm struck the back of my knee with surprising force. My legs buckled instantly. And just like that, I found myself kneeling before him.

Effortless. That's the most infuriating part. The almost bored way he can exert complete control. It's power play, pure and simple. A shameful part of me… anticipated it. Even craved it.

"Must you always resort to physical… demonstrations?" My gaze remained fixed on the intricate patterns of the rug beneath my knees.

"Allow me to offer a more precise demonstration of physicality, then," he murmured, leaning in. Instead of the forceful touch I braced for, he extended his pointer finger, the very tip of it resting lightly against my chin.

And damn me! Against my will, against my better judgment, my face tilted upward, drawn by that subtle touch. Fuck. Raphael, you pathetic pig.

I tried to wrench my gaze away. But he wouldn't allow it. His finger was replaced by the firm grasp of his entire hand, cupping my jaw and tilting my face back up to meet his. His smug expression was now softened by a distinct amusement. Why did he have to be so devastatingly attractive, even in his moments of blatant control?

"My dear Pulla," he murmured, his thumb stroking the line of my jaw, "I propose a simple transaction. I will limit my scotch consumption to a mere two glasses, after which we will retire to the bedroom. The sole condition? That your captivating gaze remains fixed upon mine for the duration."

Two glasses. That's all it takes for him to have me exactly where he wants me. A part of me is already counting down the sips.

"Fine," I whispered.

He released my jaw, leaning back against the plush cushions of the couch, a smugly satisfied smirk playing on his lips. But beneath the surface amusement, a flicker of something else danced in his eyes. Something… calculating. Plotting. Scheming. Oh no.

The absolute bastard, extended his leg, pressing his shoe against my already aching crotch. A sharp moan escaped my lips. The sensation itself was undeniably pleasurable. But it was the degradation, the complete and utter feeling of submission under his casual, dismissive touch, that was the true drug, the addictive poison of my own personal hell.

His smirk widened. He didn't increase the pressure, didn't need to. My breath hitched, and I squeezed my eyes shut, a wave of shame, arousal, resentment, and that undeniable thrill of surrender crashing over me.

"Keep your eyes open, Raphael." The low command that cut through the haze of my senses. "Enjoy the view."

His eyes never left my face. Two glasses. And then… the bedroom.

"What view," I managed, my voice a low tremor, "am I meant to find so… captivating?"

He took a sip of his drink. As he swallowed, his shoe rubbed against my already throbbing crotch. Gods… This damned devil. He moved with such an unapologetic dominance. Shame? Guilt? Foreign concepts to him. He was the embodiment of a perfect dominant. I couldn't even fathom behaving with such a complete lack of inhibition. Casually pressing my foot against someone's crotch? Utterly impossible for me. Yet, here I knelt, utterly enthralled.

"Why, the view of your… devotion, Pulla," he purred. "The way your eyes betray your struggle, the way your body responds despite your protests. It is… quite captivating, wouldn't you agree?"

The level in the glass was slowly decreasing.

"One more glass, my Pulla," he murmured, his gaze dropping momentarily to my mouth before flicking back to my eyes. "Try not to look away. The anticipation, after all, is half the… enjoyment."

My gaze, flickered to the liquid in his glass. It was a brief shift, but Levi's eyes caught the movement.

"Ah, losing focus already? The terms of our little agreement were quite clear, were they not?"

"S-Sorry…" I managed to stammer out. Gods… Just as the pressure against my crotch was reaching a fever pitch, just as my body was beginning to betray my will, the bastard stopped. He withdrew his leg. My gaze dropped to the rug. Fuck! I had lost. I had fucking lost. Manipulated once again by his cruelty.

"Such a regrettable lapse in concentration, my Pulla," he murmured. The calculating bastard. He tilted his head back and drained the remaining scotch from his glass in one gulp.

The frustration churned within me, a bitter cocktail of desire and resentment. I clamped my mouth shut, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. He, in turn, continued ignoring me, his attention fixed on some distant point in the room. My god, what a pathetic display of feigned obedience on my part, met with his total indifference. Every single one of his carefully calculated actions seemed to burrow under my skin. He poured and swiftly consumed one last generous measure of scotch.

"Hm..." he murmured, a slight slurring already creeping into his voice, "four glasses. By my calculations, in approximately ten minutes, Pulla, I will be entering a state of mild inebriation. Prepare yourself accordingly." He then added, a hint of theatrical disappointment in his tone, "Sadly, it appears the dance of power between us will have to be postponed for another evening." As he spoke, I couldn't help but notice the subtle flush creeping up his neck and across his cheeks.

"Prepare myself for what, exactly?" I asked.

I watched as his fingers fumbled with the top button of his shirt collar. Ah. The heat. A distant memory surfaced; tipsiness, a similar fumbling with clothing, and the bewildered faces of Maya and Finn. Acting on instinct, I rose swiftly from my kneeling position and grasped his wrists. "Levi, stop. What are you doing?"

"It's… hot," he mumbled, his eyelids drooping, his blinks slow and exaggerated. Ah, yes. It was coming back to me now. This level of intoxication seemed to regress him. Almost… cute.

"It's the alcohol making you feel warm, Levi."

"Does… it… matter?" he slurred, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. "It is still… hot… I do not… enjoy… the heat."

"Gods, okay, let's just go to bed, Levi," I said, guiding him. "I'll get you some water." He swayed slightly as he stood, then leaned forward, placing his forehead against mine. "Pulla," he murmured, "you are always warm, too."

Gods, he's more unsteady than he's letting on. Four glasses of neat scotch in quick succession… that's a lot.

A soft chuckle escaped my lips, a genuine warmth overriding the earlier frustration. "I'd almost forgotten how… endearingly uncoordinated alcohol makes you, Levi. Come on, let me help you to bed before you trip over your own feet."

"My dear Pulla, I am perfectly capable of locomotion," he protested, a playful slur in his voice, his movements were already a touch less precise. "However, I much prefer the prospect of moving with you."

He swiftly slid his arms beneath my knees and effortlessly lifted me into the air. Fuck. There I was again, dangling precariously, suspended in his strong embrace. I wrapped my legs around his waist, to regain my balance and draw myself closer.

He carried me into the bedroom, his steps a little wobbly but no less purposeful, and laid me down on the soft mattress. Ah. The power games of the evening, the teasing manipulations… the pieces finally clicked into place. Tonight wasn't about control; it was about unrestrained intimacy. And Gods, I was more than ready.

His lips, trailed along my jawline, his breath coming in slightly shorter bursts. A low hum rumbled in his chest as he nuzzled deeper. "You smell… particularly intoxicating tonight," he murmured, a soft sigh escaping him as he spoke.

He crawled on top of me, and pressed his body more fully against mine. He broke the kiss, his breath warm and slightly ragged against my lips. "Raphael," he whispered. His hand grasped the hem of my shirt, pulling it upwards with a clumsy urgency.

The urgency, the slight clumsiness, sent a fresh wave of heat through me. I arched slightly beneath him, reaching up to tangle in the hair at his nape. His lips found mine again, our tongues tangling with a newfound abandon.

"Pulla," he breathed, his forehead resting against mine. "I want you… so much."

"Gods, Levi," I murmured, my grip tightening in his hair. "I want you too." He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his body pressing insistently against mine.

"Pulla…" he murmured, the endearment laced with a newfound vulnerability, "do you… enjoy it when I am… possessive?"

Possessive doesn't even begin to cover it. Consuming. All-encompassing. Sometimes suffocating. And yet... the thrill of knowing I'm the sole object of that intense focus... it ignites something primal. It's a dangerous dance, walking that edge between desire and control, but with Levi... it's always been that way. And tonight, with the alcohol softening his usual rigid edges, that possessiveness feels less like a demand and more like a desperate need.

"Gods, yes, Levi," I breathed, almost involuntary sound. I arched my back, pressing my hips against his, a silent invitation to deepen the connection, to claim me completely. His hand slided down my side, his touch tender.

"Pulla…" he murmured against my ear, his breath warm and slightly ragged, "how much… how much is too much?"