11:47 PM
"But they're shaped like flowers and seashells, Rafayel! Seashells!" Nana emphasized this point by poking his chest with her finger. "That's basically made for you. You're literally from the sea."
Rafayel chuckled, pulling her closer against his side. They were nestled in bed, the ocean breeze drifting through the open window of his Whitesand Bay studio. The moonlight painted silver across the sheets, and Nana was still going on about those damn macarons.
"I heard you the first five times, cutie." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "And the twenty times before that over the past week."
"But I really, really want them." She looked up at him with those big eyes, her bottom lip jutting out in the most adorable pout he'd ever seen. She looked like a real-life doll—small and delicate and impossibly cute. "They're famous now. Everyone's talking about them. What if they sell out?"
"They won't sell out." He cupped her face, kissing her pouty lips softly. "I promise I'll get them for you first thing in the morning. I'll camp outside the bakery if I have to."
"Really?" Her face lit up.
"Really." Another kiss. "Now can we please sleep? It's almost midnight, and you have that early meeting tomorrow."
"Okay, okay." She snuggled into his chest contentedly. "Thank you, Rafayel. You're the best husband ever."
"I know. You tell me daily." He smiled, wrapping his arms around her. "Now sleep, cutie. Dream about your precious macarons."
"Mm. Pink ones shaped like flower petals..." Her voice was already drowsy. "So pretty..."
Within minutes, her breathing evened out into sleep. Rafayel pressed one more kiss to her hair and closed his eyes, ready to drift off himself.
He should have known better.
12:34 AM
Rafayel woke to the sensation of movement. Lots of movement.
Nana was rolling.
Like a sushi roll.
She rotated across the bed, taking the blanket with her, wrapping herself in it like some kind of adorable burrito. Rafayel watched with sleepy amusement as she rolled right past him, completely cocooned in the blanket that had been covering them both.
"Cutie, that's my blanket too," he mumbled, but she was dead asleep, now occupying the other side of the bed in her blanket cocoon.
Rafayel sighed. This was a nightly occurrence. Nana was the most chaotic sleeper he'd ever encountered—rolling, kicking, stealing blankets, somehow always ending up in the strangest positions.
He didn't bother trying to reclaim the blanket. It was a losing battle. Instead, he shifted to the edge of the bed—his usual spot after the Great Blanket Theft—and closed his eyes again.
The things he did for love.
1:15 AM
Rafayel was just drifting back to sleep when he felt it.
*Thump.*
Something landed on top of him. Something small and warm and starfish-shaped.
Nana had rolled again. This time, right off her side of the bed and directly onto him. She was sprawled across his chest like a starfish, arms and legs spread wide, face pressed into his shoulder.
Still fast asleep.
Still wrapped in the blanket like a burrito.
"Cutie, you're crushing me," Rafayel mumbled, but he was smiling. Even in sleep, she sought him out. It was endearing.
He tried to shift her to a more comfortable position, but she made a disgruntled sound and clung tighter. Fine. He could sleep like this. He'd slept through worse.
He closed his eyes again, one hand resting on her back to keep her from rolling off the bed entirely.
Everything was fine.
Until her hand started moving.
At first, it was innocent. Her small hand rested on his chest, fingers occasionally twitching in whatever dream she was having. Rafayel barely noticed.
Then her hand slid lower.
Down his chest. Over his abdomen. Lower still.
Rafayel's eyes snapped open. "Cutie?"
No response. She was still asleep, her face peaceful and relaxed against his shoulder. But her hand kept moving, sliding down, down, down—
It slipped inside his sleep pants.
"*Cutie*," Rafayel hissed, his whole body going rigid.
Her small hand wrapped around him—his very rapidly hardening cock—and squeezed gently. Like she was testing the firmness of something.
"Mmm," she hummed in her sleep. "Macaron..."
Rafayel wanted to die.
His wife was fondling him in her sleep while dreaming about macarons.
"Nana," he tried again, his voice strained. "Wake up. You're—ah—"
Her hand moved. Stroked him slowly, exploratorily. Like she was examining the shape and texture of her dream pastry.
"Pink macaron," she mumbled sleepily, her thumb brushing over the sensitive head. "Want this one... so soft but firm... perfect..."
Understanding dawned with horrifying clarity. In her dream, she thought she was holding a macaron. A pink, flower-petal-shaped macaron.
And she was comparing it to his very awake, very hard cock.
"Oh god," Rafayel groaned, his hips jerking involuntarily into her grip. "Cutie, you need to wake up—"
"Mmm, mine." Her grip tightened possessively, and she started stroking with more purpose. "My macaron. So pretty. Want to taste..."
Rafayel's brain short-circuited.
He tried to move her hand away. He really did. His hands came up to grip her wrist, intending to gently remove it from his pants. But the moment he touched her, she made a distressed sound and her hand moved faster, like she was afraid her "macaron" would be taken away.
"No," she mumbled, her sleeping face scrunching up. "Mine. Rafayel said I can have it in the morning. Want it now..."
"I meant the actual macarons," he gritted out through clenched teeth. "From the bakery. Not—fuck—not this—"
But his body was betraying him. He'd been starving for her touch for days—she'd been so busy with her arts , and they hadn't had time for intimacy. Now here she was, innocently stroking him in her sleep, and his control was fracturing.
Her hand found a rhythm, and he couldn't help but thrust into her grip. His breathing grew ragged, and his hands, which had been trying to stop her, were now gripping the sheets instead.
"Cutie, please," he managed. "You have to—ah—stop—"
"Pretty pink," she sighed contentedly, her thumb swiping over the tip where pre-cum had started to leak. "Sticky? Is this the filling?"
Rafayel nearly died of embarrassment and arousal in equal measure.
That was it. He couldn't take it anymore.
He grabbed her wrist firmly and pulled her hand away, and the loss of contact made her whimper. Before she could protest—still asleep—he flipped their positions, pinning her beneath him on the bed.
"Nana," he said loudly, directly into her ear. "Wake up. Now."
Her eyes fluttered open, confused and disoriented. "Rafayel? What—"
"You," he said, his voice strained and rough, "were dreaming about macarons. And in your dream, you decided my cock was a macaron. And you've been fondling me for the past five minutes."
She blinked sleepily. "What?"
"You. Grabbed. My. Dick. While. Sleeping."
Understanding slowly dawned in her sleepy eyes, and her face turned bright red. "I—what—I didn't—"
"You did." He pressed his very obvious erection against her thigh for emphasis. "You said it was pink and soft and firm and pretty. You said you wanted to taste it. You compared it to a flower-petal macaron."
"Oh my god." She covered her face with her hands. "I'm so sorry! I was dreaming about the bakery and there was this display case and I reached for the prettiest macaron and—"
"And it turned out to be me."
"I didn't know!" She peeked at him through her fingers. "I was asleep! I can't control my dream hands!"
Despite his frustration and arousal, Rafayel couldn't help but laugh. "Your dream hands have excellent taste. But terrible timing."
"I'm sorry," she said again, but she was giggling now too. "Did I really call it pretty?"
"You did. And pink. And you said you wanted to taste it."
The giggling stopped. Her eyes darkened slightly, her gaze dropping to where his erection was still pressed against her. "I mean... now that I'm awake..."
Rafayel's breath caught. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't look at me like that. Don't—" He groaned as she shifted beneath him, her thigh brushing against him deliberately. "Cutie, I'm hanging on by a thread here."
"Then don't hang on." Her hands came up to his face, pulling him down for a kiss. "I woke you up. I started this. Let me finish it."
"You were asleep—"
"I'm awake now." She kissed him again, deeper this time. "And I'm very, very sorry for the accidental fondling. So let me make it up to you."
"Make it up to me," he repeated, his control slipping further with every word.
"Mm-hmm." Her hand slid down between them, finding him again—this time fully intentional. "I did say I wanted to taste the pink macaron, didn't I?"
Rafayel's restraint shattered.
He kissed her fiercely, pouring all his pent-up frustration and desire into it. She responded enthusiastically, her hands working at his sleep pants, pushing them down until he was bare against her.
"I've been starving for you," he confessed against her lips. "Days of barely touching you because you've been so busy. And then you grab me in your sleep and nearly make me come from a sleep-handjob—"
"That's very pathetic," she teased, even as she moaned when his hand slid under her sleep shirt.
"You try having someone stroke you while unconscious and see how long you last." He pulled her shirt over her head, then made quick work of her sleep shorts. "Now I'm going to make you pay for torturing me."
"It was an accident!"
"Doesn't matter." He kissed down her body, biting and sucking marks into her skin. "You started this. You called my cock pretty. You said you wanted to taste it. Now we're both going to suffer the consequences."
His mouth found her breast, and she arched into him with a gasp. He worked her over thoroughly—licking, sucking, biting—until she was writhing beneath him.
"Rafayel—please—"
"Please what?" His hand slid between her thighs, finding her already wet. "Please stop? Please continue? Please make you come?"
"All of it—any of it—just touch me—"
He pushed two fingers inside her, and her back arched off the bed. "Like this?"
"Yes—oh god—yes—"
He worked her with his fingers while his mouth continued its assault on her breasts. When she was gasping and trembling, he pulled away completely.
"No—" she whimpered at the loss.
"Patience, cutie." He positioned himself between her thighs, his cock pressing against her entrance. "You wanted the pink macaron so badly. Let's see if it tastes as good as you imagined."
He pushed inside in one smooth thrust, and they both groaned at the sensation. She was tight and wet and perfect, and he had to pause to keep from coming immediately.
"So this is what you were dreaming about," he managed, his voice strained. "This feeling. Me filling you."
"I was dreaming about macarons," she protested breathlessly.
"Same thing, apparently." He started to move, setting a deep, rolling rhythm. "Your subconscious knew what you really wanted. Not pastries. Me."
"Cocky—ah!—much?"
"Just accurate." His thumb found her clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. "Admit it. You'd rather have me than any macaron."
"I can have both—oh god right there—"
"Greedy." But he was smiling, even as his pace increased. "My greedy little wife who wants macarons and cock at the same time."
His fingers worked her clit expertly while he thrust deeper, harder, chasing both their releases. When she came, clenching around him and crying his name, he groaned and followed her over the edge, spilling inside her.
But he didn't stop.
"Rafayel—what—"
"I said I was starving for you." He was already moving again, still hard inside her. "One round isn't nearly enough. Not after you tortured me with that sleep-groping."
"That wasn't torture!"
"It was. And now you're going to make up for it." He flipped her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up. "I'm going to fuck you until you forget all about those damn macarons."
He took her from behind, the new angle letting him go deeper. His hands gripped her hips as he set a punishing pace, and she buried her face in the pillow to muffle her moans.
"Don't hide those sounds," he commanded, one hand sliding into her hair to gently pull her head back. "I want to hear you. Want to hear you say my cock is better than any pastry."
"It is—god, it is—Rafayel—"
He reached around to play with her clit, and she came again with a scream. He followed shortly after, but still didn't pull out.
"More," he said simply.
"I can't—"
"You can." He rolled them onto their sides, spooning her from behind, still buried deep. "And you will. Because you started this with your sleep-fondling and your macaron dreams."
They went three more rounds. Different positions, different intensities, but the same desperate need driving them both. By the time Rafayel finally collapsed beside her, the eastern sky was beginning to lighten with pre-dawn.
They were both covered in sweat, trembling, thoroughly exhausted and satisfied.
"No more," Nana mumbled, barely conscious. "Can't move. Everything hurts. Good hurts, but hurts."
"That's what you get for grabbing my dick in your sleep." But Rafayel pulled her close, pressing gentle kisses to her face. "Are you okay? Was I too rough?"
"Perfect." She snuggled into his chest. "Though I still want those macarons."
He laughed—a real, genuine laugh. "Of course you do."
"But I learned something important tonight."
"What's that?"
She looked up at him with sleepy, satisfied eyes. "The 'macaron' in my dream was way better than the real thing could ever be."
"Damn right it was." He kissed her softly. "Though I'm still buying you the actual macarons. I promised."
"Can't. Bakery doesn't open for three more hours, and we haven't slept."
"Then we'll nap for two hours and fifty-nine minutes, and I'll sprint there." He adjusted them so they were more comfortable, pulling the blanket—which had somehow migrated to the floor—back over them. "Deal?"
"Deal." She yawned. "Though you should know, I can't be held responsible for what my hands do while I'm sleeping."
"Oh, I'm very aware now." He caught her wrists playfully, pinning them against his chest. "Which is why I'm holding these hostage. For safety."
She giggled sleepily. "Safety from what?"
"From accidentally fondling me again and starting round six."
"Would that be so bad?"
"Yes, because I'm 400 years old and you're going to kill me with your insatiable appetite."
"You're the one who went five rounds!"
"You started it with your sleep-groping!"
They dissolved into laughter, tired and happy and thoroughly satisfied.
As they finally drifted off to sleep—Nana's hands safely trapped against Rafayel's chest—he made a mental note:
Tomorrow, buy the macarons. All of them. Every flavor. Especially the pink flower-petal ones.
Because his wife had dreamed about them so hard she'd accidentally molested him in her sleep.
And honestly? He'd take that over actual pastries any day.
🐚🐚🐚
**7:30 AM**
True to his word, Rafayel stumbled to the bakery on three hours of sleep, bought every pink macaron they had, and brought them home.
Nana squealed with delight, immediately examining the pretty flower and shell shapes.
"They're perfect!" She kissed him enthusiastically. "You're the best husband ever!"
"I know." He collapsed on the couch, exhausted. "Now eat your macarons and let me sleep for three days."
She bit into a pink flower-shaped one, her eyes lighting up. "Oh wow, it's really good! Want to try?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because," Rafayel said, covering his eyes with his arm, "last night I learned that my wife apparently can't tell the difference between me and a macaron. My ego can't take the comparison."
Nana dissolved into giggles, nearly dropping her pastry.
And Rafayel, despite his exhaustion, smiled.
His chaotic, macaron-obsessed, sleep-groping wife.
He wouldn't have it any other way.
🐚🐚🐚