GUYS JUST LOOK AT MY BABY DADDY 😮💨
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GUYS JUST LOOK AT MY BABY DADDY 😮💨
260608 baekhyunee_exo instagram update
Reverie dump🍀
(260122) EXO @ M COUNTDOWN
jaebeom x last pics
🐦⬛ some random sylus ramblings idk its 5am please take this offering im going a little bit insane about him
thinking about feeling sylus's skin through his shirt.., the warmth and power there still tangible beneath the fabric. small intimacies like that are important to meee,,
running your hand down his clothed back, then sneaking it underneath his shirt and feeling his bare skin beneath your palm. so soft with just a bit of give to it. feeling his muscles flex under your fingers as he moves to thread his own through your hair in return. i just want to touch him so bad i might cry. Tbh..
you express interest in touching him intimately for the first time, and you receive a flirty, cocky response in return, but are also given full access. sylus is taken by surprise when instead of reciprocating his heated words, you press your cheek against his chest, over his heart, and run your hands up his sides beneath his shirt, your eyes closed in quiet focus. you treat him as a delicate treasure to be worshipped and revered and valued in a way he's never properly experienced before. he'd soften so sweetly and hold you close, enveloping you in his larger form and pressing a kiss to your temple. enjoying the feeling of your small hands exploring their new territory.
feeling his hand gently pressing against the small of your back when you get distracted in public, guiding you. holding his hand to avoid being separated in a crowd, then keeping them like that even as you leave the crowded location. playfully swinging your joined hands a little bit and enjoying his amused response. going to a concert with him and letting him cover your ears when the music gets a little too loud for you. the size of his hands compared to your head making you flush a little bit.
he always runs warmer than you, so you tend to lean into his touch whenever he offers it. he finds this adorable, and sometimes likes to see how far you'll lean when you're too tired to realize he's messing with you. eventually your sleepy protests win him over, and he wraps you back up in his embrace and gives you all the kisses you want.
chasing traces of his scent on your clothing when you miss him. curling around his pillow while he's gone, and eventually feeling the mattress dip behind you while you're half asleep, warm hands pulling you backwards until your back rests against against his warm chest. ticklish little kisses are pressed to your neck as he wraps his long arms around you to hold you close. trying not to cry when you tell him that you missed him, and feeling his heart stutter against your back when your voice cracks.
"Did-mhm-did we seriously have to stay at that auction for so long?" You murmur, stumbling backwards into the entryway. Sylus's hand cradles your head before it can hit the wall, though he pins you up against it quite tightly.
"I'm sorry you found it so dull, sweetie. I'll make it up to you." He grins, your lipstick smudged around his mouth. You're too busy yanking at his tie to really admire it, loosening it just enough to tug at the fabric of his shirt. His hands feel like they're everywhere, unzipping your dress and pulling it down just enough to reveal your chest.
"Are we r-really about to fuck right here? Can't even wait to get upstairs?" You gasp out, though you're already unbuckling his belt. He chuckles at the irony, undoing your bra with ease.
"We haven't christened this hallway yet. It's only right to be thorough." It's his turn to leave marks along your neck, tongue tracing along your heated skin. Your rebuttal dies in your throat and you relax against the wall.
Still, you find it in you to undo the fly of his pants and shove them downwards.
"Now look who's eager, hm?" He teases quietly. Of course, the urgency at which he tugs your underwear aside tells a different story.
"S-Sylus come on just fuck me! I've been patient all evening..." You whine, palming his hard cock through his briefs. His breathing turns heavy as he slowly grinds into your touch.
"I would hardly call your actions tonight patient. You only lasted thirty minutes before trying to coax me into the bathroom for a "quickie" as you called it." His teasing is murmured into your hair as his fingers sneak between your legs to sink into your wetness.
"Don't act like you didn't want to." You moan, head falling to his shoulder as his fingers find a quick pace.
"Oh sweetie, I always want to."
EXIT STRATEGY
CLOSURE
summary: five years after cutting ties with your childhood friends, you move on with your life. a chance encounter brings Rafayel into your life, and he's determined to help you heal and learn what a true friendship is, even when the past comes knocking.
tags: non!mc reader, f!reader, platonic soulmates, closure, healing from childhood pain
notes: part two of two! read part one here. as a reminder, this is a story about friendship and healing. you can view the relationships here as pre-relationship if you like, but the focus is on platonic bonds and their importance. thank you all for the love youve shown this fic!
word count: 16.3k
The final note rings out into the air. You hold it, then let it fade, opening your eyes to see the setting sun turn the sky above the ocean pink and purple. Satisfied, you stand and put your cello back in its case, then stretch. Hours of sitting in a chair and practicing have left you feeling stiff and sore.
Still, you don't regret it. You spend at least four hours a day just practicing, playing different songs before moving into blind improv, playing whatever note strikes your fancy with your eyes completely closed.
Like your grandmother, music is your refuge. But you're not following directly in her footsteps; rather than a violin, you found yourself drawn to the cello. Your parents were more than happy to buy you one and sign you up for lessons. It was a welcome distraction from the stress of being someplace completely new after cutting off the three 'friends' you had in Linkon City.
The loneliness was hard to carry the first few days, but the sweet sounds of the cello helped fill all those empty spaces. You threw yourself into learning and improving, filling the house with music.
Who would have thought that one choice would alter your life so much?
It's your fifth year after cutting ties with your childhood friends, and you've just graduating from university with a degree in music performance for cello. Already, you've joined an orchestra, passing the audition two months before graduating. Surrounding yourself with other performers has been wonderful. Some you can even call your friends, though your experience with friendships so far have left you overly cautious in getting too close to anyone.
Sometimes, it's hard to believe that this is your life now.
You have your own house, living in a small cottage next to the beach, in a quiet neighborhood away from the busier areas of Whitesand Bay. It's strange to be back in Linkon, but you're far enough away from the district you used to live in that it doesn't really feel like the same city.
Nothing in your life has gone the way you thought it would, but you think it's for the best. The life you have now is one you're proud of, one that makes you happy when you thought you'd never be truly happy again.
There is something to be said about leaving. A peace that comes with it. In choosing to walk away for your own sake and seek out something better. Once you got used to it, the quiet wasn't so bad. The loneliness isn't so crippling when it's what you wanted instead of a consequence of being left behind. Solitude became addicting and there's a certain freedom in knowing that when things get bad, you can always leave. The door is still open behind you. You don't need to stay in any cage.
It does also mean you keep everyone at a distance; you don't let anyone close now, always leaving an escape route in any relationship. It's not healthy, but it keeps you from being hurt again, so you'll take it.
The life you have now is quiet, but peaceful. You wouldn't trade it for the world.
(Sometimes, you wonder about them. Nine years is a lot to erase and emotional wounds don't fade overnight. You preemptively blocked the three on social media when you first got your new phone so you wouldn't hurt yourself trying to get a glimpse of their lives. It was a good choice. More than once you tried to take a peek at their Moments' page, and only your past self saved you from another night of heartache.
Still.
They were your closest (only) friends for nine years. It's only natural that you'd miss them.
You've been missing them for a long time, long before you ever left.
It's a wound that will never fully heal.)
You take your cello back inside, then check on the garden, hunting for any weeds that have popped up between the flowers. Butterflies drift past and the sun sinks into the golden hour that makes everything shine like magic.
The weather is so nice you can't resist the urge to take a walk on the beach, going barefoot to enjoy the warm sand beneath your feet.
The waves crashing against the shore is a soothing white noise, keeping your mind from wandering too far. Whitesand Bay is popular for tourists, the ideal beach for any type of trip. The main beaches are always crowded and busy, but the residential areas keep the beaches private to prevent disturbances in neighborhood. That means only a few other people are out on the beach at the same time as you, letting you enjoy the peace and quiet.
There are a few sculptures and murals farther up near the road that you like to visit when you go on walks. This neighborhood is apparently popular with artists of all kind. You're beyond lucky to have gotten the house you did, able to practice for hours on end without getting a noise complaint. Instead, your nearest neighbors tell you often how much they love listening to you play when you run into each other. Some of the other neighbors have slipped notes into your mailbox, requesting certain songs. You make sure to practice at the same time everyday so they know when to listen in for their request.
Sure, you're not particularly close to anyone these days, but this little neighborhood and your own passion for the cello is healing something in you that you thought would forever be broken.
You're a rising star in the world of classical music. People seek you out for your talent with the cello.
No one's around to overshadow you. For once, you get to be special, to take pride in your skills. You've already got plans to travel with an orchestra, playing around the world in grand venues.
But that's for later. For now, you practice for you current orchestra, a local one that plays in theaters and opera houses.
You can't help but hum a portion of the song you've been practicing most recently, walking along the beach. Hermit crabs scuttle away from you and sea shells poke out from beneath the sand. The sun sinks farther, golden light disappearing in favor of purple turning into the blue of twilight. Soon enough, the moon will be out, shining bright enough to hide the stars.
You reach the end of the private beach, sand turning into tide pools and rough sea rock. From there, you turn and make the walk back, thinking about what to eat for dinner.
It's such an ordinary day, but it makes your heart swell with light.
It really is shocking to look back to your time in school and remember how unhappy you are. You never once thought life could be so good to you. You wish you could go back and give the girl from six years ago the reassurance that she's making the right choice, that things will work out and she'll be happy.
The urge to look into your past friends hits again.
You call your parents instead.
The next day follows routine: you wake early and make breakfast, water the plants, take care of chores, attend rehearsal, then explore Whitesand Bay a little more by choosing a new place to get lunch. After that, you return home and practice the cello some more, setting up in the little tiled corner beneath the arched trellis covered in jasmine.
The low, somber tones of the cello sing into the air, drowning out the ocean. You play from memory what you rehearsed earlier in the day, then play a few requests. When you finish a piece you decided to play just for yourself, someone claps.
You startle, jumping in your seat as your eyes snap open.
Standing on the other side of the garden gate is beautiful woman with dark hair swept up into an elegant bun.
"Hello!" she says with a warm smile, "I didn't mean to scare you. You play so beautifully, I couldn't help but stop to listen."
"Oh, thank you!"
"Are you part of an orchestra?"
"Ah, yes," you nod. "Right now I'm with the Whitesand Symphony Orchestra. We've got a show in two months, if you're interested."
"Very interested! I've had the pleasure to work with the Whitesand Symphony Orchestra before. A wonderful group, no doubt more wonderful with you in it."
"You flatter me," you say, unable to hold back a smile.
"It's only the truth. Would you mind very much if we talked a bit?"
You put your cello away and tuck the case beneath the arched trellis. "Not at all. I'd be happy to."
"Wonderful." She holds her hand out from over the gate. "I'm Talia, a soprano singer."
You take her hand and introduce yourself in return. She invites you out for a walk on the beach, half small talk and half business. She's got a show she wants to put on soon, performing songs she wrote for herself, and was seeking musicians to play with her.
"I am simply enchanted by the way you make your cello sing," she says, breathlessly, "I would just love to have you play for a performance of mine."
Talia is bright and warm, a comforting person who is the perfect mix of polite and friendly. She's attentive too, in a way you're not used to. It's enough to make you flustered, unsure of how to handle that steady attention, the careful consideration of every word you offer her.
Your curiosity about her singing is what pushes you to agree to play with her once she gets the performance planned.
It's nothing you've ever done before and nerves twist in your stomach. But the excitement pushes you forward.
To think that someone heard your playing, saw the efforts of your years dedicated to cello, and wanted you to play for them…
You're glad you chose to go down this path.
She promises to attend the concert in two months before she heads off to return to her evening. You expect that to be it until the performance is over, but Talia returns at least twice a week, happy to listen to you practice and then talk to you afterwards. She mentions that she's in Linkon for the time being to support her nephew, and that she's excited to bring her husband over from Verona for her performance. She slyly suggests introducing her nephew to you, since you're apparently around the same age.
You laugh it off, unsure about meeting anyone else while your orchestra performance is coming up soon.
Besides, being introduced to someone by a family member is always awkward. There's a reason you don't like having your parents trying to set you up with people.
The conductor gives everyone in the orchestra a few tickets to pass along to family and friends. You immediately mail two over to your parents, then save the last two for Talia.
She's overjoyed when you present the tickets to her, promising to listen for you specifically during the concert.
Both of you become too busy to meet up regularly two weeks before the concert, but Talia makes sure to text you often, never caring when your responses are late coming or awkwardly short and formal. Her usual kindness helps you loosen up to lightly joke around with her the more you text, and you even gather the courage to ask for her opinion in which black dress you should wear during the performance.
Orchestra takes over your life completely in the last week as everyone practices nonstop for hours on end, playing in the venue to get used to it. Familiarity chases away nerves and the conductor is determined to have everyone play at their best.
Time seems to pass by in the blink of an eye. Suddenly, you're setting up for the concert, smoothing down the fabric of your dress. Around you, the rest of the orchestra members chat lightly as they set up their instruments, making sure everything in clean and put together properly, playing test notes that echo through across the stage.
Spotlights come on, the crew above the stage adjusting everything to make sure everyone is in the light. There's just another half hour before your first official performance with an orchestra and your take several deep breaths to keep calm. Your palms are sweating. As one of four cellists in the orchestra, you can't hide within a row of the same instruments. Any mistakes you make will be very noticeable.
"Nerves hitting you?" Jason asks, leaning closer to you. He's another cellist, one you've played with several times in university.
"If I pass out, make sure you drag my body away to someplace where no one can see me," you respond.
He laughs, then reaches out to pat your shoulder. "Relax, you're gonna be fine. You're one of the best cellists I've ever met. Trust yourself a little more, yeah?"
"I'll try," you offer, taking your bow in hand.
He mimics you, and the two of you play a quick set of scales to make sure everything sounds right.
People begin to settle down in their seats, positioning their instruments to begin playing. The conductor smooths down his suit lapels, then stands on his podium. He claps his hands together to get everyone's attention, waiting just a few seconds for the light chatter to die down as everyone turns to face him.
He lifts his hands, nodding to the winds section. They follow his lead to play a portion of the opening song, getting into the rhythm together. He does the same with all the other sections, making sure the whole orchestra is in tune and on time, no discordant notes jumping out of the symphony.
The conductor lowers his hands, and everyone lowers their instruments. You take a final centering breath, pulling yourself into the focused state where the rest of the world fades away.
"Everyone," the conductor begins, "Doors will open in just a few minutes. In half an hour, we'll begin the concert. Now is the time for any last minute restroom runs or water breaks. And above all else, I want you all to know that I am immensely proud of how we've come together over the past few months. This will be a wonderful performance, and I'm excited for the audience to celebrate your skills just as I do."
You join in with the others in applauding, calling out their own thanks and appreciation to the conductor.
The stage becomes a rush of movement, everyone hurrying to run to the restroom or grab some water. You join in the small crowd of people leaving the stage just to walk around the halls backstage, getting rid of some of the anxious energy that's built up.
This is hardly your first performance. You've done solo concerts plenty of time in university. You've played with the orchestra there, too. But the lingering doubt of your own talent never leaves you and you always fear letting the audience down, suddenly forgetting how to play and making a fool of yourself. It'll never happen, of course, with the muscle memory of just how much you've practiced guiding you through every song, but the fear remains nonetheless.
You're called back to the stage with the other stragglers, hurrying to get to your seat while the curtain is still down. Jason gives you a good luck fist bump, a custom the two of you started in your freshman year at university, and then you're both setting up your cellos, bows drawn and ready, sheet music open on the stands.
The rest of the orchestra settles down around you. As you all become still and focused, the sounds from the audience begin to filter in: shuffling feet, the low din of conversation, a few coughs here and there.
A hush falls upon the crowd. The curtains lift the next moment, revealing nothing but darkness, and then the lights come on, shining down on the stage.
The conductor lifts his arms. You take a deep breath, lifting your bow up to play the first note, and the concert begins.
Time moves differently while you're performing.
While preparing for it seems to last several centuries, decades upon decades collapsing into themselves the hours before opening night, the moment you begin to actually play before the audience, it speeds by in the blink of an eye. Music rises into the air and you add to it with the notes you've learned by heart over the past few months. Everything falls into place and you're no longer just you on the cello, but a part of a greater whole, interconnected. The world narrows down to the music sheets, the cello, the growing dull ache in your wrists as you play for an hour straight until intermission.
The ten minute break is spent rolling your wrists out and stretching with the other cellists. Part of you is still floating somewhere off in the distance, making this momentary pause from the music feel dream-like and easily forgotten.
The rest of the concert passes by similarly, and you almost can't believe it when you draw the bow on your final note, extending it, letting it echo through the stage and slowly fade out.
Applause rises from beyond the stage. The lights blind you, keep you from seeing anything pas the first few rows, but of those rows, you can see people give a standing ovation. The conductor turns and bows to the audience, then spreads his arms wide to prompt the audience to give even louder applause to the members of the orchestra.
You stand with the others at the conductor's cue, then take a quick bow, holding onto the neck of your cello with one hand.
Once the applause peters out and the lights brighten, people begin to leave. You join the others backstage to put your cello and bow into their case and pick up your purse, then say your goodbyes.
The performance trance fades and you're left exhausted but pleased. The only thing on your mind is dinner and sleep.
You almost don't notice the calls of your name as you enter the lobby. It takes a few seconds of searching to find your parents waving at you. Smiling, you change course to meet them, hugging first your mother then your father. They congratulate you on the successful concert and praise your skills with the cello, then eagerly pry details of your current life out of you with the skills of a master interrogator.
Your father is the one to help you escape, clocking how tired you are. He makes you promise to visit them for dinner once the concert finishes out in two days, then pulls your mother away as she throws one last insistence that you start looking for dates soon.
Shaking your head fondly, you pick up your cello case again and head out the door make the walk back home.
"Wait up!"
For a moment, you think that call is for someone else. Then you place the voice as Talia's and turn to face her.
"I'm so glad we caught you before you left!" she says, speed walking towards you in her heels. Following after her is a man with purple hair and bits of paint staining his white shirt.
This must be the Rafayel she's been wanting you to meet for so long.
"Hey, Talia," you greet, "I'm glad you could make it. What did you think of the concert?"
She claps her hands together, delighted. "Oh, it was beautiful! The conductor wrote some truly stunning pieces. I would love to work with him some time. And what did you think, Rafayel?"
"It was nice," he answers blandly. "I couldn't really pick out your playing from everyone else's, but I'm sure it was decent."
Talia slaps his shoulder. "Don't be rude!" And she turns to you, apologetic. "I'm sorry, he's a little sour that I pulled him away from a painting while he was 'in the zone'. Though he really needn't take it out on you."
"I don't mind," you say, shrugging. "I wasn't expecting him to be able to pick out cellos from the rest of the orchestra anyways."
Rafayel glares at you. "Wow, excuse you? My ears are great. I can absolutely pick out cellos."
"If you say so," you reply, disinterested. He's not really the silly sweetheart Talia described him to be; the attitude he has on display right now makes you glad you've refused to meet him before. At least now you can say that the two of you have talked so there's no need for her to push for you to meet him again.
"I totally can," Rafayel insists, pouting.
…Okay, so you're not done with this topic apparently.
"Defensive much?"
"Am not!"
"Literally proving my point," you say. "Are you always so determined to make a bad first impression? I'm almost impressed by how quickly you put your foot in your mouth."
He flushes, all the way up to his ears, and you can't bite back your grin. Talia rolls her eyes, but smiles at you as she lightly slaps Rafayel's shoulder again.
"I'm sure you're eager to rest after your performance," she says, "We won't keep you for any longer."
"Good riddance," Rafayel mutters under his breath. You graciously pretend not to hear him, even as he eyes you for a response. Talk about immature.
"Alright. Thank you again for coming! It's always nice to know the tickets I gave away were put to good use." You take a step back. "I'll get going now. Got a long walk back."
"Wait, you're walking?" Talia asks.
"Carrying that?" Rafayel adds, pointing his chin to your cello case.
Your gaze darts back and forth between the two of them. "…Yes? Is that a problem?"
"As a matter of fact, it is," Talia says primly. "We'll drive you back. His car has plenty of trunk space for your cello."
"Thanks for asking, Auntie," Rafayel grumbles, "My car is totally yours to offer to whoever you please."
"I'm glad we're in agreement. Help her with her cello?"
He rolls his eyes, but doesn't protest, moving to take the case from you. You frown and move it away from him. "I can carry it just fine myself."
"I know, but she wants me to do something nice for you. Let me or neither of us will ever hear the end of it."
You glance at Talia, who is watching you two with an expectant expression. Hesitantly, you hand it over, watching warily as Rafayel takes hold of the handle and lifts the case up with ease. He fishes a set of car keys out of his pocket and tosses it to Talia, who snatches them cleanly out of the air and turns on her heel to walk to the parking lot.
With no other option, you follow after them, anxiously keeping an eye on your cello case. As a fellow artist, though of a different field, you don't think Rafayel would purposefully damage your cello. But since he's not a musician, you're not sure he knows how walk around with a giant instrument without causing harm.
Despite your worries, he's careful with your cello. The earlier friction between the two of you is left behind as he keeps the case off the ground, stabilizing it with his other hand as he walks.
Talia leads you to a fancy sports car. The sight of it makes your eyebrows rise, wondering how rich they actually are. You quickly smooth out your expression to something more neutral when you catching sight of Rafayel smirking at you, clearly pleased by how impressed you were with the car.
What an annoying guy.
She pops the trunk open and Rafayel lays the cello case in it slowly and carefully. You let out a relieved breath once it's safely down. He doesn't slam the trunk closed either, which you're begrudgingly grateful for. Most people use too much force, not accustomed to being careful with instruments. Apparently Rafayel is a little more thoughtful than that, thankfully.
He opens back seat door for you with a flourish. "After you, fair lady."
You roll your eyes, but get into the car.
He closes the door once you're seated, then moves to take the passenger seat. A glare from Talia and a finger pointing to the back makes him circle around the car to sit next to you.
"Got put in time out, huh?" you can't help but comment.
"It's not time out," he protests as Talia sits down and starts the engine. "She just wants me to make friends with you and thinks this is what's going to do it."
"So not time out, but a play date?"
"You know, I liked you better when your mouth was closed. Can we go back to that? I think we should go back to that."
"I think you should instead reflect on this experience. It's how people feel when you open your mouth. Maybe it's time to do a little thinking on that."
"I can't believe she told me you were a 'sweet girl' with a talent for music. Where's the sweetness? I only see a sour old maid in the body of a twenty-something nobody."
"I'm only a sweet girl to people who deserve it," you say with a bright grin. "Perhaps one day you'll be worthy of it. I highly doubt it, though."
Rafayel gasps in offense, then begins a long monologue about why he does deserve it, listing out everything he thinks is a positive trait about himself. You wonder to yourself if he's ever going to question why he even wants your sweeter side when the two of you have been like cats and dogs from the first second together, but Rafayel is on a roll and clearly doesn't intend to stop. You listen with half an ear, amused despite yourself, and catch Talia's eyes in the rearview mirror.
You don't burst out laughing, but it's a near thing as you wretch your gaze away and try to keep your composure as Talia drives down the streets of Whitesand Bay.
A hand snaps by your ear, making you jump. You glare at Rafayel, batting his hand away.
"Are you even listening?" he demands, "I'm clearly talking!"
"Talk about something worthwhile and I'll listen."
You really did intend to ignore him for the entire ride, then go home and never see him again, but Rafayel keeps drawing you back into this verbal spar. It's more fun than you want to admit. You've never been like this with anyone else, always preferring to go quiet and let yourself fade from the conversation rather than be rude out loud. Something about Rafayel brings out a fire you didn't know as burning in you, and you can see in his eyes that he's enjoying this too.
It's almost a disappointment when Talia pulls up outside your house.
Rafayel goes quiet, peering out the window to get a good look at where you live.
"My place is bigger," is his observation.
"Compensating for something?" you suggest as you unbuckle your seatbelt and open the door. He follows suit, opening the trunk before you can and lifting the cello case up.
"I'll carry this to your door," he says, "So you can have your hands free to unlock it."
"Oh. Thanks." His sudden moments of thoughtfulness throw you, cracks in your understanding of his characters. He's annoying and easy to rile up, but surprisingly considerate at the same time. You've never met someone so confusing and entertaining.
You dig your house keys out of your purse, then lead Rafayel up the walkway to your door. You open it and set your purse on the small table at the entryway, then take your cello from him. He keeps a hand on it until he's sure you've got a good grip on it.
"Thanks again," you say, "And thank Talia for the ride from me too."
"Sure thing," Rafayel says, stepping away. "I'll see you later."
"Please don't."
You wave to Talia as Rafayel gets back in the car, allowed in the passenger seat this time. They drive away and you close the door. Now that you're home, you kick off your heels with a great big sigh of relief and make your way to the bathroom, eager to have a relaxing bath with the lavender scented salts you rarely let yourself use.
You unwind for the day. A successful opening night means you treat yourself to take out from your favorite curry restaurant on Linkon. Once your stomach is full and sated, you fall into bed and are asleep in no time.
With opening night done, there are only two nights of concert left. You expect the second day to be quieter and more boring since no one you know will be in the audience. Closing night will come with a celebratory dinner afterwards, so you have something to look forward to, but that's still a day away.
Day two goes similarly to opening night. Pre-performance nerves come back, but they're easier to shake away now that you've played each piece for an audience. You yawn as you leave the venue, wondering if you should bring a pair of flats to change into for the next night so you don't have to walk home in heels with the weight of your cello against your hip as you carry it.
"Need a ride?" comes an unfortunately familiar voice.
You freeze, close your eyes and hope it's not who you think it is, then look at Rafayel.
"What are you doing here?"
He's leaning against the wall of the lobby, idly spinning his car keys around his index finger. "I thought you could use a ride home, since you were ready to walk all the back to your house last night. And look at that! I was right."
"I haven't agreed to let you drive me home."
"But you will. I mean, between walking home in heels and getting a ride in my car, the answer's obvious, don't you think?"
You hate that he's right. Part of you wants to insist on walking just to spite him, but you wouldn't but it past him to slowly drive beside you the whole way, window rolled down to annoy you.
"Fine," you relent. "Since you're so kindly offering, let's get going."
He moves to take your cello case from you again, and you figure you might as well indulge in his politeness while it lasts. Though, you do show him how to properly carry the case so it doesn't bump into anything and damage your cello.
The two of you fall back into rhythm, cheerfully sniping at each other as you get in the car and join the slow moving line of people leaving the parking lot.
He brags about an exhibition he's done that ended with all his paintings sold and more prestige to his name. You retaliate by calling him desperate for attention and saying that your own skills are too good to be bought like that. You don't give material objects, but experiences that people chase after.
Rafayel never gets seriously offended and every insult carries an undertone of laughter. He very unfortunately endears himself toward you and you can't help but wish that the drive would last longer. He doesn't seem eager to say goodbye either, happy to let the car idle in front of your house as you move from the fun back-and-forth you're having to complaining about overbearing managers and conductors.
It's only after your stomach growls, reminding you of important things like hunger and how tired you are, that you force yourself to get out of his car. Rafayel follows once again, carrying your cello up to the door for you.
"Should I be expecting to see you tomorrow?" you ask as you unlock your front door.
"Obviously. If I'm committed, I'm committed."
"Cool. Tomorrow, then."
He hands over your cello and stares at you for a long moment after you smile at him in thanks. Was that weird of you to do? You're not rude, unlike him, and you know how to thank someone for what they do for you no matter your personal feelings.
You heft your cello case up to get the weight of it on your hip and awkwardly nod to him. "Alright," you say, "See you tomorrow."
Rafayel blinks like he's coming out of a trance. "Right," he says, "Right. See you." And then he turns and retreats back to his car, though he doesn't leave until you wave at him and go inside.
When the concert finishes the next night, closing out the weekend of performing, the orchestra is in high spirits. The joy and relief of a successful concert sweeps you away as well, hugging the other cellists backstage. The conductor reminds everyone of the reservation he's made at a popular restaurant in two hours, wrangling promises out of everyone to be there on time.
You say quick goodbyes to the other cellists then head out to the lobby. Instead of waiting by the door, this time Rafayel waits right where you enter the lobby, snatching the cello case out of your hands before you can even process that he's there.
"Rude," you say, allowing him to carry it for you.
"The correct thing to say right now is thank you," he returns, already walking to the door.
You decide to play along for once. "Thank you," you say as dramatically as possible, holding the door open for him. Rafayel sticks his tongue out in response because he's secretly never left middle school.
You open the backseat door of his car as well, watching to make sure your cello is placed gently and held in place by the seatbelt. Before you can move to the passenger seat, Rafayel grabs hold of your shoulders and says, "Wait for one second."
Curious about this change in routine, you do, watching as he grabs something from the driver's seat.
The bouquet he pulls out is large and colorful, full of white, pink, and purple flowers, wrapped with a gold ribbon. He passes it to you with a sincere smile. "Congratulations on a successful show," he says.
You take the bouquet gently, feeling touched to the point of tears. You lift the bouquet to hide your face in the flowers, grinning helplessly.
The only other flowers you've ever gotten were from Zayne at your high school graduation, and your parents at your university graduation. You would have never expected Rafayel to get you anything, especially for a show he only attended because Talia dragged him along.
"Thank you," you manage to say, blinking back happy tears, "These are lovely."
Rafayel shrugs awkwardly, looking away. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I've got great taste. Don't make such a big deal out of it. Let's get you home."
He opens the passenger seat door for you and you carefully slide in, taking care not to crush any flowers.
He's clearly uncomfortable with your sudden display of gratitude and brings up all sorts of topics to distract himself. It takes you a few minutes before you feel composed enough to fall back into the easy banter that springs up between you two. You then discover how easy it is to send him into angry, impassioned rants when you get common art history knowledge purposefully wrong.
Insisting that the Mona Lisa was painted by Mona Lisa herself nearly made him miss the turn onto your street, furiously arguing with you and bringing up facts that you happily ignore in favor of pissing him off more.
"Get out of my car," he says angrily, "I can't believe I'm sharing space with someone so uncultured."
You laugh at him, hopping out. Even while grumbling, he gets out to carry you cello to the door again.
"Can't believe you," he continues as you open the front door, "I don't even want to show you my paintings anymore. You clearly won't appreciate them properly. Ugh. Whatever, get some sleep or something."
"Sure, sure. I have dinner with the rest of the orchestra later tonight, but I'll be sure to get plenty of sleep after that."
"Wait, really? Where?"
You give him the name of the restaurant the conductor has reserved for the night. You've never gone before, but you've heard nothing but good things. Now that the concert is over and you can focus on other things, you figure it would be a good idea to look up where it actually is so you don't get lost trying to find it.
Rafayel glances around, brow furrowed. "Do you have a car?"
"No, I don't really need one. Linkon's got decent public transportation and I usually just take my bike during the day."
"Hmm. No."
"No, what?"
"You're not taking the bus. I'll drive you," he decides with enough finality you don't feel like arguing. It's his time, anyways! You'll just kick him if he complains about driving you around when he's the one who offered.
Besides, it'll be faster than taking the bus and walking. And maybe you want to keep spending time with him, too.
"If you say so," you say agreeably. "Pick me up in an hour and a half? I need to showed and get changed."
"How about I just hang out here until you have to go? That's way more convenient than driving back home just to come back here again."
You hesitate. With the concert taking up so much time, you haven't really been able to clean as you normally would. You're in no state to host a guest, much less one you've known for barely three days.
"Won't you be bored?"
"Nah, I'm sure I can find some way to entertain myself. What do you say? Gonna invite me in?"
Well. It's not like he can say anything about your house that will actually hurt you. You shrug and push the door open. "Fine. Come on in. Shoes off at the door, please."
Rafayel shuffles in with your cello. You hurry to take your heels off, and run to the kitchen to set the bouquet on the counter, then take your cello from him so he doesn't accidentally drop it as he tries to toe off his shoes. You leave him at the door to set your cello down in the living room, near the back door to the garden. Rafayel appears soon after, looking around with clear interest.
"Feel free to take a seat," you tell him, nodding to the couch. "Remote's on the table if you want to watch anything. I won't be long, so don't go poking around while I can't see you!"
"I make no promises," he says with a grin as you head for your room.
You shake your head, amused, then close the door behind you. Normally, you'd take your time and enjoy a nice hot shower before getting ready for the dinner. With someone else in your house, you speed through your usual routine, blow drying your hair instead of letting it air dry. You get dressed in comfortable black dress pants and a pale blue blouse, not too formal but still classy enough that you won't feel out of place in a nice restaurant.
Rafayel is on his phone when you reemerge, the television on and playing a medical drama at a low volume.
"You're not playing with any other groups for the next few months, right?" he says without any context.
"No?"
"Cool. Auntie's gonna buy your plane tickets to Verona so you can stay with her for a month and practice for her performance."
"I can buy my own tickets."
"But you won't! Just accept it, she's excited to host you."
Apparently your next month is spoken for. No time for any other plans. You'll reschedule with your parents for some time when you're back in Linkon City.
It is incredibly flattering that Talia wants you to play for her so much.
You drop down onto the couch next to Rafayel, checking your own phone for any messages and notifications that came in while you were performing.
Rafayel peeks over to see what's on your screen, rudely, and you shove him away with your elbow. "Nosy, much?" you say.
"You can't blame me for being curious! What, you can invite me in but you can't let me see what's on your phone?"
"Exactly."
"You're ridiculous," he complains, slumping back. "I just wanna know what your other friends are like."
You hesitate, good mood plummeting. Rafayel frowns at you, clocking the suddenly change in mood. You shrug and say, "I don't really have any friends."
"You have me," he argues.
…You didn't actually know he thought of you as a friend. The two of you just met, after all.
"It's been three days since we met."
"And? We get along well enough and I enjoy spending time with you. So we're friends. Don't be weird about, okay?"
"Sure, I guess. Bet you'll get bored of my in a week's time."
"I would not," he replies confidently, "Listen. We clicked instantly. Finding someone I can talk shit with so easily is practically unheard of. You're out of your mind if you think I'm ever going to stop bothering you."
That's such a weirdly sweet thing for him to say. You wish you could believe him, but nine years of friendship all for nothing but silence and hurt remind you why you shouldn't put much faith in his words.
Rafayel gives you a hard look. "You don't believe me."
"It's a nice sentiment and all," you say, "But it won't last. No one else ever did."
"Old friends treat you bad?"
"I'd rather not talk about this with someone I met three days ago."
He lifts his hands in surrender at your tone, then glances at the time. "Want to head over now? You'll be a little early, but that also means you can grab a good seat before everyone comes in fighting for a chair."
"Sure." You take the escape he's provided, eager to leave the uncomfortable conversation behind. You have to keep reminding yourself that you don't really know Rafayel, that three nights of being driven home hardly equate to trust. It's so easy to talk to him that you almost forget that you haven't known each other all your lives. Nothing has ever been this easy with your old friends. It scares you a little, how smoothly Rafayel fell into your life.
He talks about random things the whole drive over, easily accepting your silence and not prodding you for details, though his frequent glances betray his curiosity.
"Let me know when you're ready to be picked up!" he calls as you head into the restaurant. You give him a thumbs up and walk inside to get started with your dinner.
You're not the first person there, despite being early, and you're deeply relieved to find Jason already sitting at a table. The two of you talk about future plans until the rest of the orchestra starts filing in, settling around tables in the largest dining hall the restaurant has.
The conductor gives a small speech once everyone's seated. His clear pride in the success and efforts of everyone there makes something warm settle in your chest.
Then waiters are flitting around, grabbing everyone's orders, and you let the good food distract you from everything else for the next few hours.
Rafayel texts you two hours later, asking if you're still alive. You let him know you're doing well and that you'll be heading out in another hour. As soon as that hour passes, he sends a barrage of stickers, artsy bird bonking its head against a window, demanding attention. You send back a cat rolling its eyes, but say your goodbyes to Jason and the others at your table, thanking the conductor for everything as you pass by the leave the restaurant.
Out front, Rafayel taps the steering wheel impatiently.
"You didn't have to wait out here when I hadn't called you yet," you say, putting your seatbelt on.
"Well, you weren't communicating enough! Besides, it's late and I didn't want you to be drinking too much."
"Oh, I don't drink."
"Not a fan of the taste?"
"More like I never had a reason to?"
He side eyes you. "How did you get through university without drinking until your liver cried for mercy?"
"I just never went out. Not like I really had anyone to go out with anyways. The club and bar scene isn't really for me."
Rafayel looks at you thoughtfully. "Well, if you want to experience some of that scene, I know the best bars in Whitesand Bay. I promise they're all quieter places that you'd enjoy."
"I don't know…"
"Tell you what. You think up a list of everything you haven't been able to do because you didn't want to do it alone, and we'll do them together."
"You don't have to—"
"Apparently I do! Usually people just accept when I say that we're friends. But you're making me work for it. I'm gonna get you to admit we're friends soon enough," he says, vaguely threatening. "It's only a matter of time."
"Weirdo," you say with a laugh. "Fine, I'll make the list, but you're not allowed to complain about anything on it. Think you can handle that?"
"It's a deal."
…
True to his word, Rafayel insists on going out with you every chance he gets to cross things off your list. You were hesitant to share some of the things on it, embarrassed by how much you missed out on by being unwanted and uninvited, but Rafayel refused to let you be ashamed of trying new things. His insistence and patience helped you become more comfortable, looking forward to the days when he would text that he's on his way.
So far, while in Whitesand Bay the two of you have done: 1) roller skating through a park, 2) snorkeling, 3) rating the drinks across three of Rafayel's favorite bars, 4) picnics on the beach, 5) a trip to the farmer's market.
And when you went to Verona to begin practicing for Talia's performance, Rafayel tagged along and dragged you outside every time you finished practicing. He became your tour guide for Verona, taking you to the best hole in the wall cafes and restaurants, local artist galleries, antique shops and boutiques, even a hidden cove on a beach that only locals know about.
It's the most fun you've had in a long, long time. Laughter comes easy when you're with him and you barely notice the time passing by, too distracted by all the stupid things he says.
Rafayel is both determined to make you accept his friendship and incredibly sincere in his affection for you.
He doesn't ask about your old friends, thankfully, but sometimes he gets a look on his face, almost looking through you to your past, offended on your behalf for how you've been treated before. It usually comes when you thank him for waiting for you while you bought a souvenir, or how startled you are when he remembers something about you.
Talia never seems to mind that he steals you away so often. She's content to wave the two of you away with a warm smile as soon as practice finishes.
Everything is going smoothly and you're comfortable with the pieces you have to play. None of them are complex, meant to accompany Talia's singing in the background rather than demand attention from the audience. The other musicians, a cellists, flutist, and violinist, are easy to work with and just as dedicated to their craft as you are.
It's only a week before the performance that Talia reminds everyone to have their clothes prepared. She requests everyone to wear light gray formal wear and minimal accessories. You realize rather belatedly that you haven't packed any clothes fit for performing in and quietly start to panic as everyone else nods and assures her that they have everything ready.
"I need to go dress shopping," you tell Rafayel when he appears to spirit you away after practice.
"So suddenly?"
"I didn't bring anything I can perform in for Talia's concert. I need to get something decent today so I don't have to do panicked last minute shopping the day before we perform."
"I know a few good places to start," Rafayel says, "Come on, I'll help you pick out something nice."
Relieved to have his help, you follow after him as he leads you down the street and to the charming main street of Verona's seaside district. The stone roads are smooth and clean, and lights are strung up between the buildings, giving it a magical feeling. It's always busy here no matter the time of day, filled with tourists wanted to indulge in luxury. Rafayel walks with the ease of a local while you scramble to keep up, dodging around people.
He takes you to a fancy boutique that most people pass by without entering, instead choosing to look longingly inside. You feel out of place as soon as you enter; the place is fancy and modern and you're jeans and tank top stand out like a sore thumb.
"Start looking over there," Rafayel directs you to one side of the store, "I'll look on that side. We'll meet in the middle and have you try on everything that might work."
"We could just go to a normal store. I don't have the money to just get a fancy, high end dress suddenly!"
He gives you strange look. "Who said you were paying? I brought you here and I have the money to spare. Don't worry about it and start shopping!" He gives you a light push to the rack of dresses, then quickly hurries away before you can retaliate.
By now, you know he's not going to relent. He'll trip you and run ahead to pay if he has to. He's done it before.
Whatever, you'll just find a way to pay him back later.
Shaking your head fondly, you beginning to look through the dresses available, looking for first any that are light gray, then seeing if any fit your tastes. With those criteria, the selection is sparse. You end up with only two dresses to try on: a satin floor length mermaid gown with a slit going up to mid thigh, and a sweetheart pleated satin ballgown with a lace corset.
Rafayel only brings back one dress for you to try on: a metallic silver drape gown with a neckline a little too low for your comfort.
He catches your expression when he presents it to you and rolls his eyes. "At least try it on," he says. "It won't hurt to see how it fits you."
The store attendant helpfully guides you to the dressing room, hanging the dresses onto an empty rack outside the door so you can try on each dress one at a time.
You start with Rafayel's pick just to get it out of the way. He nods approvingly when you exit the dressing room, doing a little spin for him to see.
"It looks good on you," is his verdict, "It's your confidence that needs work, not your appearance."
"That's not helpful," you say, escaping back into the dressing room to try on the next dress.
He politely claps with the other two dresses, reluctantly impressed with your choices. You like both of them and can't choose which one to go with. When you say as much to Rafayel, he starts grilling you on accessories and shoes to help decide which dress would work best. You just give him wide, befuddled eyes, and he breaks off laughing, promising to help with those as well.
With his advice, you go with the sweetheart ballgown. It's wrapped up and packed into a hard bag at the counter, and then Rafayel is shoving you aside to hand over his card.
The attendant smiles at the action and comments on how sweet it is for him to be treating his girlfriend to a new dress.
You both choke and sputter, denying it.
"I promise you I have better taste than this," you insist, pleadingly.
"Excuse you, I'm a catch!" Rafayel gasps. "But yeah, we're not dating. I'm too high maintenance for her to handle. Her loss, honestly."
The attendant laughs and apologizes for the assumption, then wishes you a good evening.
Rafayel grabs the bag before you can, and steers you out the store with a hand on your shoulder so you can't snatch it back from him. He's weirdly insistent on carrying your things for you and you still don't know why. It's been weeks. Surely you should have an answer to this by now that isn't 'he's just weird like that'.
But here you are.
You go through two more stores to get all the accessories chosen and your shoes bought. It's overwhelming, so you gladly let Rafayel handle everything. Most of your own clothes shopping is at small, quieter stores, where you go in and out quickly. You know your own tastes and what you want, so it's just a matter of finding those things in your own size. No need to deliberate over everything the store has to offer when you clearly know what you want.
At the very least, Rafayel seems to be having the time of his life. He takes his time, looking through various accessories and holding them up to you with a considering eye. He gets you way more than what you need for one performance, but he insists that you have extra for future concerts, so you give in and let him spend his money as he pleases.
Most of the accessories he buys are adorned with pearls, but he does get a few simple silver pieces as well, and a pair of earrings despite the fact that your ears aren't pierced.
Going to the shoe store after that was a relief, if only because you got to sit down while Rafayel wandered the store, looking at what's offered. He darts back every few minutes with another pair of heels for you to try. You do have to draw the line at five inch heels; you're not athletic in the slightest and just looking at how high those heels are make you feel like you're falling.
He does jokingly return with an eight inch pair that you threaten to hurl at his head.
Rafayel has a discerning eye. He's an artist, it should be expected that he has more refined tastes. After seeing the dresses you chose for yourself, he's clearly got a better idea of what your tastes are and accordingly searches for things he thinks you'll like.
You're really going to owe him so much for this.
He insists on getting two pairs of heels for you: simple silver strap heels for this concert, and a pair of golden heels with angel wings extending from the backs.
With all the bags your shopping trip had ended in, you're able to take half from Rafayel, teasingly spinning out of reach when he tries to take them back.
You think you're starting to understand why people like shopping with their friends so much. With your old friends, you always ended up watching MC dress Caleb and Zayne up until Caleb forced her to put on the outfits he put together for her. You had to pick out your own things and only occasionally got one of the others curiously looking at what you had chosen. The only time you asked about why MC doesn't dress you up the same way, she had said that you had a quieter vibe and wouldn't like how much energy is needed to try on all those clothes. She didn't want you collapsing in the dressing room after she runs you ragged with outfit after outfit!
…Yeah. You preferred to go clothes shopping by yourself after that.
Though you are tired from shopping with Rafayel, you don't want the evening to end just yet. It doesn't take much convincing at all to wander around the streets of Verona with him, enjoying the night life that arrives as the streetlights turn on.
You take in the sites, gently ribbing Rafayel as he complains about his manager Thomas insisting he return to Linkon City soon to finish a painting. All his groaning and grouching about people interrupting his 'pondering time' means he can't get the mood of the paintings right, as he needs such specific circumstances to create anything. It's clearly not procrastination, so you take to coming up with more absurd reasons as to why he does all of that until Rafayel can't argue with you, laughing too hard to speak.
You return to Talia's house well after the moon has come out, struggling to bite down your laughter so you don't interrupt her night. Rafayel shushes you frantically between giggles, sneaking up the stairs to leave your newly purchased outfit in your room.
The light, giddy joy that settles in you from that night stays for the rest of the week, all the way up to the evening of the performance. You can't remember the last time you spent so long laughing, your cheeks a little sore with all the smiling you've been doing. Rafayel just makes everything fun. It's as if all your worries melt away the second he bursts into the room, already in the middle of a dramatic monologue of whatever is on his mind that given moment.
Talia does forcefully shoo him away after lunch, stating that she can't have him distracting everyone as they set up.
He still sticks around long enough to drive you and Talia to the hotel where she's rented out a ballroom for her concert. She has enough ties in the community that such a large, extravagant space is needed, and you have no doubt that there will be others who are visiting Verona just to listen to her sing.
The staff have already decorated the ballroom, a few round tables and chairs at one end, close to the tables where food will be set out for people to pick through at their leisure. There's a spot in the corner, slightly elevated, for another small group of musicians to play at after Talia's concert.
The actual concert will take place outside, in the gardens that overlook the ocean. It's apparently a very popular place for weddings, so it's always kept in good shape and carefully decorated. Chairs are set out for people to sit and enjoy her singing, and the stage has chairs for you and the other instruments accompanying Talia's voice.
You and Talia are the first to arrive, but within ten minutes, everyone is there and preparing. You've all been given a room for the night, just to have a place to leave your cases and so you can change into your formal clothes before the concert begins. The hotel staff have been happy to have you all in, no doubt due to the open invitation Talia gave them to sit in on the performance as well, and you're all welcome to stay the night and get a free, complimentary breakfast the next day.
You're more interested in trying a new cafe with Rafayel the next day, so you doubt you'll stay the night, but you appreciate the gesture nonetheless.
With everything set up, you practice with the others for a few hours to make sure you're all ready to perform at your best.
Talia does a few vocal warm up, but saves singing for the concert, not wanting to put too much strain on her voice.
An hour before the concert is set to begin, you head back to your hotel room to change into your dress. You grab something small to eat as well, generously provided from the hotel's restaurant.
The dress fits you well, and you can't help but admire yourself in the mirror, doing a small twirl just to see the fabric move. Then you get to work on fixing up your hair, using a hair stick Rafayel got you to sweep your hair up into a simple, elegant updo, carefully held in place. You add a thin necklace with a pearl pendant and a matching pearl bracelet to complete the look.
Satisfied, you head back to the garden to sit down and wait for the concert to start.
People are steadily filing in as the other musicians join you. They gather in small groups, chatting, or find seats immediately. Everyone is dressed to the nines and you're immensely grateful that you let Rafayel get this dress for you; the usual, semi-formal ones you are more comfortably buying would not have been enough.
Talia enters with Rafayel and her husband, who walk her up to the stage, then into their reserved seats in the front row. Just her presence is enough to have people sitting down and quieting themselves, looking up at her with admiring eyes.
She begins with a quick welcome, thanking everyone for taking the time to attend her concert. Then she shifts her feet, and you take your cue to lift your bow.
The flute comes first, a single smooth note that lingers in the air. It invites the other instruments to join; first the piano with a gentle series of falling notes, and then the violin and you on the cello, coming in with low notes in the background to give the music more depth. You lose yourself to the familiar songs, carefully threading each note of your cello with the singing of the other instruments as Talia's voice rises and falls, a perfect harmony each time, captivating the audience. It still captivates you, honestly, but you're here to play for her, to make her shine, and that's all the motivation you need to keep your focus strong and steady, bow dancing across the cello strings.
The evening darkens around you as the concert goes on. The sun has fully sunk below the horizon and the soft pinks and purples of the sky fade into the night. Stars glimmer overhead and the moon gradually brightens, shining down on Talia.
She looks magical. Mythical. Like she walked right out of the pages of a fairy tale just to enchant the audience for a night.
The crowd is enraptured. The moment her voice drifts down and steadily fades out, an awed silence settles over the space. Applause comes a little late, but it's large and loud, thunder breaking apart the spell she cast on everyone.
Talia beams and takes a bow. Then she gestures to the musicians behind her, and you join the others in taking a small bow fo your own.
She thanks the audience and invites them into the ballroom for dancing, eating, and socializing, taking her husbands hand to walk with him down the aisle between seats. The rest of the crowd follows, swept along in her wake.
You stick back and linger with the other musicians, rolling out your wrists and shaking out your fingers. Rafayel is already gone, needing to stick with Talia for the first hour in the ballroom, but he promised to grab a plate of the best finger foods while you put your cello away, so you don't bother seeking him out yet.
Only the piano player goes into the ballroom immediately after the performance. Perks of playing such a large instrument: moving it around is someone else's problem.
You hurry to get your cello packed up again in your hotel room, and take the time there to take off your heels for a few minutes. They look great and you're glad Rafayel found them for you, but wearing them for hours on end is deeply uncomfortable.
Well, there is a reason why people say beauty is pain.
Once you feel rested enough, you put your heels back on and make your way to the ballroom. You're not used to staying after a performance. Usually, you go back home after saying your goodbyes to the people you played with, and then pass out for the rest of the night. It's odd to return to a venue without your cello in hand. It almost feels like you're doing something wrong.
You slip in through the main entrance and skirt around the edges of the room, looking for Rafayel in order to get the food he promised you. People are gathered around Talia, talking to her eagerly.
Off to the side, Rafayel speaks to someone, giving them their full attention.
That's interesting. You begin to walk over, wondering what could have him so focused on someone when he's usually so quick to wander off and pay attention to nothing but his own thoughts.
"Hey, Raf," you say as you get closer, "I hope you got that plate for me—"
He shifts, turning to face you with a grin. In doing so, he reveals the person he was talking to.
MC.
You freeze right then and there, rooted in place as you meet her wide eyes. She's shocked; she must have just gotten her and missed the whole performance if she didn't know you were here. She's not dressed for the night either, wearing what you recognize as a hunter's uniform.
She says your name, breathless and hopeful, and you feel sick.
Five years.
Five years and all it takes is hearing her voice again to revert you back into the insecure teenager whose only friends didn't want her. You had been doing so well, chasing happiness in your life without them in it, and now she's come crashing back to make it all mean nothing.
Rafayel looks between the two of you, brow furrowed. "Do you two know each other?"
"No. Not anymore," you say, just as MC says, "Yes."
He looks at MC closely, and you can see him being pulled in towards her, unable to escape her gravity.
You know how this story goes: she is everything you're not and no one has ever chosen you before her. Rafayel will see how she's more fun to be with, more interesting, more everything and will only find you lacking in comparison. He'll pull away, focus his attention on her, and you'll be alone again.
Stupid, you tell yourself, This is why you don't get close to anyone.
"Okaaaaay," he says, stretching out the word, "I'm getting some mixed signals here."
"We're old friends," MC says before you can even open your mouth. "Childhood friends. We grew up together."
"That's in the past," you cut it, "We don't have any kind of relationship anymore."
She has the gall to look hurt by that. Rafayel looks at you with a sharp gaze and you can see him begin to turn against you. The hurt of that betrayal, expected but still devastating, makes your heart ache.
"Can we talk?" MC tries. "Somewhere quieter, maybe."
"No."
"Please. You left so suddenly and we never really got to have a conversation before graduation—"
"I said no. I cut ties with you and everyone else for a reason. I'm going to head back. See you later, Raf."
"Wait!" She begins to move towards you, no doubt trying to grab hold of your wrist to stop you from escaping her, but Rafayel bodily blocks her. "Rafayel?"
"She said she didn't want to talk," he says, voice hard.
You blink at him, the sight of his back filling you with a strange comfort. Is he… choosing you? Even with MC here, he's taking your side and keeping her away?
…That's not how things usually go.
"Please, we ended things on such a bad note. I just want to make things better," she pleads. "You don't understand how important it is to me."
"No, but I can understand why she rarely talked about her old friends. I knew she had been treated badly before, but I didn't know it would be you. I know you can be better than this, so why are you ignoring everything she's saying just to get your own way?"
Your chest feels tight. The confrontation is getting too much attention from the people around you. You need to get out.
You turn on your heel and start walking back to the door, eager to get away. You hear both MC and Rafayel call out to you, but the room is getting too hot, the walls closing in, and you're not sure you can keep from stress puking if you stay any longer.
Rather than return to your room, your feet lead you back into the garden. Around the back, past the stage set up for Talia's performance, is a little gate that opens up to a small path that goes down to the beach. You slip through and walk away from the hotel. The wooden steps soon turn to sand and you take off your heels before you can fall over, walking towards the waves that turn silver in the moonlight.
You let out a slow breath, then sink down to sit in the sand. No doubt it's getting all over your dress and you'll be shaking sand out of it forever, but you just can't bring yourself to care.
This was not how you were expecting the night to go.
How long has Rafayel known MC? Has he been friends with her this whole time? He never mentioned her, or anyone else, to you and you figured he was a reclusive artist who only really talked with his manager and his family. Somehow, you manged to get onto the exclusive list of People Rafayel Seeks Out, without ever knowing that MC was there too.
Behind you are muffled footsteps, sands shifting beneath weight.
"You okay?" Rafayel asks, coming to sit down next to you.
"Fine," you reply shortly, keeping your gaze fixed on the ocean.
"That was… rough, wasn't it. Here, eat something." He grabs your hand and balances a plate on it. "There's nothing worse than being upset on an empty stomach."
"I'm not hungry."
"Try? Please? Don't let all my effort to get you the best pieces go to waste."
You glance over at him and catch him pouting, making his eyes wide and watery and extra pathetic. You can't help but let out a little huff of laughter, bring the plate up to balance on your knees.
"Fine," you say, giving in. "I'll eat."
As much as you hate to admit it, the food does lift your mood a little. Rafayel got you fancy little cakes and plenty of chocolate covered goodies. He keeps quiet as you eat, leaning back against his hands as he takes in the view, completely relaxed as if you hadn't ruined his night by reacting so badly to the sight of MC.
It makes you embarrassed now. You're an adult who pays taxes and you're now a successful cellist. You can be mature in dealing with people you don't like. So what was with that overdramatic reaction to MC? Why get so defensive and run away so fast when she's supposed to mean nothing to you now?
This really is the worst.
At least the performance went well, even if you completely flubbed the event afterwards.
Once you clear off your plate, you sigh and set it on the sand. "You're not going to ask about what happened back there?"
"Not unless you want to talk about it. Do you want to talk about it?"
You shrug.
"Hm. Well, it sounds like you want to talk about it. Just get it off your chest, and if you don't want me to bring it up ever again, I won't."
You fiddle with the hem of your dress. Just as you suspected, it's covered in sand, the fine grains getting into the threads. There's a lot you can say, a lot of history you can reveal that you've kept close to your chest these five years. But there's a more pressing question on your mind. "How long have you known her?"
"Just about a year now. I met you a few months after I met her. She walked into my studio unannounced while I was painting because I was s suspect in a case. Apparently, some guy died after buying one of my paintings and she thought I did something to it that attracted Wanderers. We kept running into each other afterwards and got to know each other better."
"I never knew."
Rafayel sighs. "Yeah, well. She's usually too busy for me. Our schedules don't line up easily. I invited her here tonight, but I honestly didn't think she'd show."
"…Why are you out here with me?"
"What do you mean?"
"You invited her here. She's your guest. And she's been your friend for longer. Should you be inside with her?"
"Nope," he answers easily.
"Why not?"
"Because you're here. I may have known her for longer, but I'm closer to you. And if my best friend is upset, then I'm not going to leave her alone."
You duck your head, trying to hide the pleased flush at being called his best friend. You've never been anyone's best friend before. He's really choosing you over MC. He means what he's said.
"I'm fine on my own, you know," you say.
"Sure. I am too. But that doesn't mean we have to be alone. I want to be here for you."
"And not for MC?"
"She's got plenty of other people," he replies. There's some bitterness in his tone, one you've heard in your own voice plenty of times back in high school. "I know she's got a wider support system and plenty of people in her corner. She doesn't need me. But you do."
"I better not just be a charity case to you."
"Of course not! I'm vain, not shallow. I wouldn't be your friend just to make myself feel better. I'm your friend because you're fun to be around with. It just feels like we click, you know? Like we get each other. You don't expect anything from me and it's great, because you've accepted all of me so far. It's been really nice, having you in my life."
"Shut up," you say, shoving him, "I can't believe you. You're usually so annoying and you choose now to be sappy? I'm trying not to cry!"
"Cry all you want, it's fine. Better get all those feelings out now, right?" Rafayel scoots closer and puts an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him. You lean against him and stop holding back the tears, letting them fall as they please. You've very glad you skipped the mascara today; at least cleaning up will be easier without streaks of black running down your face.
Rafayel holds you without comment as you cry. He doesn't offer any more comfort or needless platitudes and it's just what you need. It means to world just to have someone there with you, patient and kind.
It takes some time for the tears to finally come to a stop, and by then you're tired and slightly dehydrated. With a deep breath, you sit up straight, pulling out of Rafayel's arms.
"Feeling better?" he asks.
"Yeah," you answer. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Want to go back?"
"I really just want to go to sleep. I'm probably going to spend the night here."
Rafayel sighs. "Guess I'm staying the night too."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to. Don't worry about it, okay? I'm doing this because I want to. Come on, let's head inside." He stands, brushes the sand off of his pants, then extends a hand to you. You take it, letting him haul you up to your feet.
A cold breeze sweeps in, making you shiver. Without wasting a second, Rafayel takes off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, then picks up your heels and the plate from the ground.
Normally, you'd complain about him trying to do everything for you, but you're exhausted and emotionally wrung out. You don't have the energy to do it all on your own. The warmth of gratitude grows in your chest and you take a moment to thank the universe for letting him come into your life.
He takes care not to run into many people as you return to the hotel. No one stops you to talk and MC is nowhere to be seen. You tell him your room number and he walks you there, then stays for a while to make sure you're alright on your own. He only leaves when you kick him out, insisting that you're fine and that you'd like to sleep now, something you can't do while he's pacing the length of the room.
Rafayel promises to swing by in the morning so you can get breakfast together, then leaves. You take quick shower and leave the dress on a hanger, then fall into bed, eager to put the night behind you.
True to his word, Rafayel is up bright and early, waking you up for breakfast. He's cheerful and a little too determined to keep you in high spirits, but it's effort you're not used to receiving from others, so you don't complain about it too much.
With the concert over, there's no need for you to stay in Verona any longer. You say your goodbyes to Talia and her husband, and return to Linkon City with Rafayel. He insists that you give him the rest of the week to spend time together, cross more items off your list of things you've never done before. He even helps you add new things so that there's always more to do.
The pain of running into MC is quickly swept away by Rafayel dragging you all over the city.
That doesn't mean the thought of her doesn't linger. Despite his best attempts to distract you, your thoughts keep circling back to your old friends. You made the right choice is cutting ties and moving away, but it's been so long. The wall you put up to stop any thoughts of them from coming through has crumbled into dust. Have they changed? Do they regret how they've treated you? Do they think about you at all?
The marks of their friendship is an open wound. The scab has been ripped open. You're bleeding all over again.
It's a terrible idea, but you can't help but want to talk to them all one last time. You just want the answer to the question you've been asking all this time: why did you treat me like that?
Reaching out is daunting. Terrifying. You don't want to do this alone.
"Don't be stupid," Rafayel says, flicking your forehead. "You're not alone. Obviously I'm going to go with you when you meet up with them."
"When?" you repeat, leaning away from him and sinking back against your couch.
"Yeah. You've clearly been thinking about this a lot. Just get it over with! Talk to them one more time and then it'll stop haunting you!"
"It's a terrible idea."
"Oh, definitely. But you want some closure, don't you? Even if it ends badly, at least it'll end. It won't keep hurting you like this."
"You're terrible. Stop enabling me," you groan.
"Well, someone clearly needs to do it! You're too passive. Take the risk and get it over with. I'll be with you the whole time, promise."
"I don't have their numbers anymore," you try. As much as you don't want to see them again, you also really want to have this conversation. You weren't ready for it back then, but you think you are now.
Rafayel pulls out his phone. "I gotchu. I'll give you MC's number, and she can organize the rest of your old friends into this meeting. Make it her problem, not yours."
…Well, there goes your last excuse. Sighing, you input MC's number and start typing out a message. Rafayel leans closer to read over your shoulder as you type and retype endlessly, rethinking every word you use.
Unsurprisingly, he gets bored of it very quickly. "Do you want me to write it for you?"
"Please," you say, handing him your phone.
"Kay." He types out a quick message and sends it before you can panic any more about it. "Done."
You take your phone back to see what he said. I'm ready to talk. Meet me at Rafayel's place with the others in three days at noon.
"Why your place?"
"So they don't have to come here, and we don't have a whole big scene for the public to watch anywhere else. My place is big and can be neutral ground. Plus, it'll be easier for me to kick everyone out if they upset you."
"My hero," you say drily, "Let me guess. It's also because Thomas is bugging you about a new painting and you want to have an excuse for why you're not done with it yet."
Rafayel grins. "You caught me."
You roll your eyes and turn your attention back to the movie the two of you were supposed to be watching. You're not really sure what's happening in it, at this point, but there's a body on the floor, people yelling, and an alarm blaring so clearly something important must be playing out. You gently nudge Rafayel's foot with yours and say, quietly, "Thanks. For all this."
"Oh? What was that? I don't think I heard that right! Say it again," Rafayel needles, annoying. You push his smug face away, biting back a laugh. "Noooo, come on! This is a momentous occasion! Genuine thanks! From you!"
"Shut up, I've thanked you before."
"Only when I buy you stuff because you have manners. This is different!"
"You clearly heard it, so I'm not repeating myself. Watch the damn movie."
He sticks his tongue out at you because his favorite hobby is imitating grade schoolers, and you reach for the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table to throw a piece at him. He tries to catch it in his mouth, misses miserably, and glares at you, daring you to comment as he picks it up from his lap and eats it.
You kindly don't mention it and put all thoughts of your old friends out of your mind. You'll deal with them in three days. Until then, you want to enjoy the time you spend with Rafayel.
Three days pass far too quickly. It's like you blinked and suddenly you're at Rafayel's house, following him as he tries to clean up a bit upstairs.
The office Rafayel never uses is a mess of hastily put together art supplies. Bottles of half empty paint cover the table, along with extra canvases and old bedsheets, stained with paint. He's managed to clear enough space for five chairs to fit, all the other furniture shoved against the walls.
When you asked why you weren't using any of the other larger, cleaner rooms like the other guests he entertains, he primly remarked that using the nice rooms is a courtesy he doesn't feel like extending to them.
Fair enough. It is his house, after all.
He doesn't bother bringing out refreshments, but he does make sure you get brunch with him an hour before noon.
The relief you felt at finally dealing with this years old problem with Rafayel by your side has dissipated. All that nervous energy is back, making you fidget and pick at the skin around your nails. Rafayel keeps slapping your hands, trying to get you to stop, but the urge is too strong to fight for more than a few minutes.
Even with three days to prepare, this is a lot. There's a part of you that will always been a lonely fifteen year old, wondering why your friends don't seem like care about you, and she's terrified of what they'll have to say to you. The loneliness they gave you is one you can never put down. You have no idea what to say, and though you want to keep your cool and pretend you're unaffected by them, you're sure you're going to make a mess of things.
As if knowing what thoughts run through your mind, Rafayel brings his hands up to squish your cheeks together and sternly says, "Everything's going to be fine, okay? Don't get lost in your head. I'll be here the whole time. Promise."
You feel touched only for a moment. Then he makes you nod your head, snickering as he moves your head around. You slap his hands away and jab him in the stomach as retaliation.
The doorbell rings a moment later and you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what comes next.
Rafayel goes down to bring everyone up. You take a seat, tapping your foot against the floor as you wait.
The sudden confrontation of your past is not big and dramatic. It's not a tearful reunion full of apologies or old feelings rekindled. When your old friends file into the room, it's quiet. All you feel is the old dull pain of what you once felt for them. For all the years you spent wishing they would really see you, having their eyes on you now makes you want to hide.
MC can't take her eyes off of you, drinking in the sight of you as though you came from a dream and you'll vanish at any moment. Caleb's eyes skate up and down your figure, as if cataloguing all the changes, trying to see all of you, committing you to memory. Zayne stares for a long moment at your face, then smiles—a soft, sad thing—and looks away.
They all sit down and don't say a word.
Rafayel is there a second later, dropping in to the seat next to you, crossing one leg over the other at the knee. He's reclined back, the image of careless arrogance, his very posture screaming how much he doesn't care for the other people in the room.
It's very intentional. In the months you've spent together, one of the first things you've noticed about him is how he wields image and body language as a weapon.
You force yourself to look back at your childhood friends. MC is the same height, but she's put muscle on, no doubt from her job. Caleb seems to have gotten taller, somehow, and the last softness of youth has fallen from his face. Zayne has settled into his looks, much more mature now, a pair of thin frame glasses perched on his nose.
"Sorry for suddenly calling you all here," you start, hesitantly.
Rafayel loudly makes a buzzer noise, as if you've given the wrong answer in a competitive T.V. show. "Nope, start over. Don't begin with apologies when you've done nothing wrong."
"Do you have to be here?" Caleb asks, glaring at Rafayel.
"I'm the only one she actually wants here," Rafayel gloats.
"Cut it out, you two," you snap, "This is hard enough as it is. Ugh. Fine. Long time no see, I guess. How have you all been?"
"I've been well," Zayne says, politely reverting to small talk to prevent any awkward silences. "And you?"
"Ah, same I guess. I play the cello professionally these days."
"I saw a performance of yours online. You're very talented."
How unexpected. You didn't think any of them would care about what you were doing, much less take the time to listen to you play. "Thank you."
"Why did you want to talk so suddenly?" MC asks suddenly. "You cut contact with us completely and refused to talk to me at Talia's concert. What changed?"
Well, no more stalling it seems. You take a moment to gather your thoughts and put pick out the words you want. You don't want to mess this up. This is the last time you'll see them and you want it go well, just so you can finally move on without feeling guilty about it.
"Honestly, I'm still not ready to face all of you, but I don't think I'll ever be. I wanted to put this behind me before I go any further." You take a deep breath. "Was I ever really your friend? Did I matter at all? Why did you keep me around for so long just to treat me like I was nothing?"
The guilt on MC's face is clear. She pulls down the sleeves of her light cardigan, keeping her hands busy. Zayne lowers his gaze to the floor, regretful. Caleb, though, doesn't stop glaring at Rafayel.
"You were our friend," Caleb says, "If you wanted to be closer to us, or wanted us to treat you differently, you should have said something instead of running away and hurting all of us."
You blink, shocked. There's genuine anger in his words and it hits you like a physical blow.
Rafayel leans forward, flames beginning to dance between his fingers. "Watch it," he warns.
"I did try," you say, thinking back to all those attempts to reach out to them, to be heard, to change things for the better. But it was never something you could do on your own. They had to meet you halfway, and instead they left you stranded. "You just never wanted to listen. How many times were the plans I made canceled by you? How many times was I left out? How many times was I pushed out of the conversation and ignored? Don't give me that shit about trying harder, I did my best! So why didn't you?!"
"You really hurt us all, leaving without warning," Caleb says, stubbornly pushing the blame onto you.
"And you've been hurting me for years! What is your problem, Caleb?! I am still trying to recover from the many years of being treated like I was worthless by you, and you're making it my fault?!"
He goes to open his mouth again, but MC puts a hand on his arm and shakes her head. That's all it takes to make him back down. Figures.
Even now, he doesn't listen to you.
"This was a mistake," you say tiredly. "It was never going to go well. I have my answers, I guess. You can see yourselves out."
"Wait," MC begs, "Give us another chance, please. Just to talk. I am sorry. So so sorry. I really didn't realize until you pulled away. Can't we try again? I'll be a better friend this time, I promise."
"No. Do you really think I'd ever trust you again? It's because of you that I don't trust anyone to be my friend or actually want me around."
"Um, hello?" Rafayel interjects, hurt.
You pat his shoulder. "Except for you, I guess. You're too stubborn to let me keep my distance." You turn back to the other three, feeling bone weary and exhausted. MC is teary eyed and Caleb is scowling, looking away even as he crosses his arms, squeezing himself in some semblance of a hug. He always did that when he was upset when you were younger. It looks like he hasn't broken habit.
Zayne is quiet. You glance at him curiously, but he doesn't say anything.
"I don't think there's anything else for us to say. We can move on now. Thanks for coming by, it's been enlightening."
Rafayel stands and summons a dagger into his hand with a swirl of fire. He idly twirls it around his fingers, a clear warning. "Let's go," he smiles dangerously, "Office hours are over. Time for you all to go."
Caleb stands and pulls MC with him, leaving without looking back. His shoulders are a tense line as he hunches into himself somewhat, and MC tries to catch your eye as she's dragged out, a final apology tumbling from her lips.
Zayne stays where he is.
"Aren't you going?" you ask.
"I would like to talk without them here," he says. "They tend to… complicate things. I never got to say it properly before you left, so I'd like to take that chance now: I'm sorry. I was a terrible friend to you and I didn't notice until it was far too late. There's no excusing my behavior. I should have known better, but I treated you like you were disposable even as you quietly supported me through so much."
Zayne bows his head to you and all his words are sincere. There's no attempt to make you think it was all your fault, or to make it about himself instead. He keeps the focus on you and how you were hurt. He apologizes without expecting anything in return.
Was it because he moved away after getting into medical school so young? He got to grow up partially away from Linkon City, to mature without MC and Caleb influencing him.
A weight lifts from your heart. It's easier to breathe suddenly. "Thank you," you say softly. "I appreciate your apology. I don't know if I can forgive you for all those years just yet, but I think I can get there one day."
He looks up slowly, hope shining in his eyes. "Truly?"
"Yes. You were the first one I met, remember? And you were the only one to see me that last week. MC and Caleb are more stuck in their ways, but you've changed."
"For the better, I hope."
"I think so."
He nods. "Thank you for hearing me out. And it really was nice to see you again. I'll head out now, I have a shift at the hospital in a few hours."
You stand to go with him, biting your lip as you fight the urge to do something stupid. But isn't today all about facing your fears? About doing what you can to live with no regrets?
You gather your bravery and reach out once more.
"Zayne! Before you go… can I hug you? Would that be alright?"
He pauses, startled, then his expression softens into something lovely. "Of course." He opens his arms and waits for you to come into them. You wrap your arms around him slowly. When he carefully holds you, arms around your upper back, you relax and sink into him.
Somewhere, sometime long past, there is a little girl who is scared and lonely and in a new neighborhood. Somewhere, sometime long past, there is a young boy walking up to greet the new neighbors. She peeks at him from behind her father, and he will make a split second decision right then and there. He'll hold out his hand and invite her to play. She'll hesitate but reach out and this one choice will set the rest of her life in motion.
Somewhere, sometime even now, that little girl is inside you and she clings to her first friend in Linkon, who is back in her arms after so many years of distance and heartache, and she will still be young enough to believe in new beginnings.
"I don't think I can ever have a relationship with Caleb and MC again," you say into his shirt, "But if you'd like to try again… I'll give this one more shot."
He squeezes you lightly. "I would like nothing more. I will be better this time, I swear. And if I'm not, then you are more than welcome to send your new friend to set me on fire."
"…Don't you have an ice EVOL?"
"And what of it?"
You can't help but laugh, pulling back to look at him fully. "I'm gonna need some time to process everything that happened today, but I'll talk to you soon. Okay? Here, give me your number." You pass him your phone so he can add himself to your contact list once more.
He does so, and leaves shortly after with little fanfare. Rafayel returns to his office, no doubt having eavesdropped from outside, and gives you a long look.
"So, you're forgiving the doctor?"
You nod.
"Better than the other one. What a jackass."
"Says one to the other," you tease, laughing when he flicks embers at you. "Thank you, Raf. Seriously. As rough as that was, I'm glad you pushed me to do it."
He shrugs, looking away with something sad in his eyes. "Closure is important. Otherwise you just end up clinging to ghosts. Take it from someone who's lost a lot of people: cleanly cutting ties is the best way forward, even if it hurts."
"Did it hurt for you?"
"Of course it did. But I got you in return, so I think it's worth it." He shakes his head. "Never mind all that! Let's go do something fun. How do you feel about a beach picnic?"
"Sure," you smile, "That sounds nice. Let's go shopping, buy some fancy charcuterie board foods, really make a day out of it."
"You just want an excuse to go to that fancy grocery store with my money."
"And? You get to buy stuff too. Let's go!"
You take hold of his hand and pull him out the door, eager to leave the past behind. He follows, grumbling dramatically but still allowing you to have this.
The old wounds will always remain, but they don't seem so devastating any more. Time and care have let them fade. The last weights of that painful friendship finally fall away; you hadn't even known you were still dragging it around.
You will never be that lonely girl ever again.
In her place is an accomplished cellist with a dear friend in a famous artists, and a new beginning with a renowned doctor. Her life is quiet and filled with little joys. The world sings around her and she hears not what she lacks but all she can gain should she have the courage.
It's about time for you to be braver.
You're ready now for whatever comes next.
kiss me and i might drop dead
Morning afters with Sylus must be so... hot.
Like not only are you waking up to Sylus with bed head, morning voice, and bleary eyes. But you're waking up to him fully naked, with the lingering memories of all the physical activities you two had just partook in some odd hours prior...
The evidence is not only present on your bodies - through bruises, bites, scratches, and the occasional carefully placed hickey. But your environment carries the memories too.
Clothes still lying on the floor, decorative pillows still tossed hazardously to the bottom of the bed. Sheets still in a disarray except for where they're dragged over your bare bodies.
You find yourself staring at him, your head still resting on his outstretched arm, eyes lingering on the rise and fall of his bare chest. You want to bury your face in the crook of his neck, much like you had a few hours ago. You want to devour him just as you had last night...
"Your thoughts are quite loud, kitten."
hahahahhHAHAHAHWHAHSHAHAHAHHAAHHAHAAHAHAHWHHWHQJWHAJWAJNEAJJSSJ
Sylus 🆕️ fan art 😹
𝄞 bloodhound
𓍯𓂃 hybrid sylus x female reader
(10k wc) ✦ summary: demanding, old, hostile— just a few of the warnings the man at the local shelter gave you before opening its cage. but it doesn’t matter. so long as he can protect you, all else can be forgiven. yet he’s more wolf than dog. more… man than wolf.
✦ content hybrid! sylus, nsfw/smut, hints of violence (not between mc/sylus), tension, kind of enemies to lovers-? he warms up to mc, knotting & adjusting to it, feral behavior, cunnilingus, slight somnophilia (not detailed), hinted age gap (all parties are 18+), possessive behavior, size difference,
✦ sidenote as by popular demand we have the latest installment of the lads hybrid collection 🙂↕️ i apologize in advance bc even as a wolf-man creature i made sylus older, because yall already know i love me a good ol’ fashioned dilf. dont ask me what bro is in dog years just know he’s scruffy! anyways do enjoy this lil thing while u wait for the caleb fic which i am busting my ass for :] 💕 ALSO sorry. he’s not feline this time… >_< this is def not my fav piece but i hope some of the girlies will like this one :] i did work hard on it it’s quite long. i gave it plot but tbh the smut is straight up filthy 😖 ig all we have left to do is hybrid rafayel! but that boy’s gonna have to wait lol :,) i do hav an idea for him tho ;D
With every step, it feels as if the walls of your apartment are closing in on you.
By your feet, at the front door you hardly have the coordination to close- blundering with the lock- lay a bouquet. Scattered. Flowers strew themselves across your hall as you kick the clasped bunch with the tip of your heel and glide from room to room, warily ducking into each one with your hand braced in front of your body, ready to beat and thrash and fight for your life.
In your other hand- a note. Crumpled, now. Shaking between your fingers.
You don’t think he’s gotten inside again- it seems the new home security measures you installed have thrown a wrench in his plans- for the moment, at least (although your spare key is still missing)- but you’re not wholly convinced you’re safe, either.
And to be clear, it’s better to be that than sorry: You’ll check each and every cranny of your little flat if it means reclaiming your peace of mind.
Your life is a different story though, as of late; threatened yet not something quite as simple to take back. Living with bated breath is no way to exist- neither with the perpetual looks thrown over your shoulder on the short trek back from the bus, the seemingly harmless creaks at night hurling you whole feet from your bed.
Because of that fear, you can hardly even bear to look down at the tiny paper in your hand to read it.
I loved that outfit on you yesterday babe. Can you blame me for taking a little from your wardrobe? ♡
Strangely, though, your drawer is just as you left it when you slide it from its framework almost fast enough to pop its screws, fearing the worst.
Clothes- your tee shirts, blouses for work and lacy bras, pencil skirts- fling across your bed, yet nothing is… amiss.
That outfit from yesterday.
With a gasp, you twist around to look at your hamper, and-
Sure enough, the lid is open.
✦
“-get a few new ones a week. Gets hard to keep up with ‘em all. All the personalities and quirks- a lot of them won’t even eat their kibble unless you look the other way.”
The cold brick walls and all the sounds bouncing off them (grunts, woofs, and nails against tile) become humdrum as the worker, waving a hand as he talks- rants, really- leads you through the pound.
The fluorescence lighting the place flares, whirs overhead. Everything about the setting is harsh. Obviously, you’re in no danger- but as you trail alongside him, you feel a sense of foreboding in your gut all the same. Like you’re walking into a dungeon.
The colorless walls swallowing up most of your vision make that silly threat seem an ounce realer.
You swallow, head on a swivel- yet not for fear, but sympathy as you pass an assortment of fenced-off pets. Some track you with a snarl. Some with eyes that plead. Still, they all share the undeniable tinge of distrust.
What an awful place, you think to yourself.
…But coming here had a purpose.
Your heels clip against the scratched floor and echo in rounds, a certain emptiness existing around you that seems misaligned with all the noise and sights.
Dogs in their cages— some upfront, teething at the metal, others: cowed to their corners, lying on thin blankets not quite as worse for wear.
To sum it up- creatures sapped of will. Defeated in life.
A distinct sorrow weighs in your chest, even as the employee happily drones on, a half-eaten tuna sandwich in one hand (the other: gesturing emphatically), hardly paying you any attention. To be fair, you’re giving him very little as well.
“-I mean, some don’t even eat at all. Picky things.”
Picky? You question quietly. Or without hunger? Their appetite for cheap, bagged kibble robbed right along with their appetite for life.
Your nails dent into your palm as you clench it.
It’s hard to get a word in edgewise as the man chatters away, but you manage to pile down your need to be polite for long enough to get in a:
Hey, excuse me, I asked what kind of dog you’d recommend for prot—
Clack, clack… Clack.
You come to a pause, dead-center in the walkway. The dull rhythm of his shoes remains where yours doesn’t.
“Heh. We got one a couple of months back who thinks this place is his own damn gourmet restaur-“
When he notices you’re not arm-to-arm, he, too, stops.
“Ma’am?” He turns.
“That one,” you breathe, just vaguely registering as the worker sidles up to you and glances at the cage you approach. The glint in your eye wins his interest.
For once since you entered the building, he shuts his mouth.
When he looks at ‘that one’ in question— a silver shock of fur, immersed in a shadow against the far wall— his eyes almost bulge from his skull.
A sharp laugh.
“Ah, little lady. Don’t wanna bite off more than you can chew, now. See-“
As he falls back into drivel (albeit, you lend an ear, curious now), you eye the pooch.
He looks a little wilder than the rest, a little more weathered, tucked to the corner of his cage but not quite ‘cowering’- no, he’s a touch too big and threatening for it to seem that way. More like… brooding.
…Yet you wonder all the same if that’s what he feels, too. Scared like most if not all of the others.
Your chest stirs again with that wisp of sadness.
If you could, you’d clip their collars to a leash and walk them all home, cramming them into your apartment with no thought and all heart. For reasons- countless reasons (having to do with your tiny home and even tinier wallet)- that’s not possible.
In a place as cold and unfortunate as this, he’d have every reason to be frightened, you think, but when your eyes soften with pity at him, his own narrow.
Thoughtfully, you blink.
As the worker rattles off his minor crimes around the playpen- and the hole he eats through their budget, what with his size- you can’t help but marvel at him.
Concerningly massive. With thick, silvery fur matted in certain areas, patchy with scars in others, and eyes that glow an unnatural shade of red- you can wholeheartedly say you’ve never seen the breed before. Less dog-like and more wolfish.
It warrants a raise of the brow, just what he’s doing here. Did he have an owner before? Was he abandoned by them? Or… was he just pulled from the street?
And if so, how many elephant-sized tranquilizer darts did it take to haul him here?
“So,” he says, stuffing his hand in his pockets, “Honestly, Ma’am, he’s probably not what you’re lookin’ for.” Giving your clacking heels and airy sundress a once-over, he sighs.
“We do have a Samoyed though- he was brought in just yesterday. Super playful. Great personality. Domesticated. He definitely won’t be here for long. Uh… this one here, though,” he snickers. “He’s unpredictable at the best of times. Growls when ya feed him- then growls some more ‘cause he’s still hungry... tsk,” he glances down at his hand, then. Evidently, there’s no mark there, but you think he’s imagining one that could’ve been.
“He’s on the older side, too. Can’t teach him any new tricks. And… big, as you can see. With his temperament, he’d probably tear a hole in your apartment. You, uh, you got an apartment, you said-?”
Right now, you should be thankful for all his advice- at the very least, relieved his chatter has become more meaningful, relaying all the pooch’s unruly habits. Yet you tune it all out, slightly cocking your head at the beast dog- a movement that, if you’re not imagining things, his scruffy one mirrors.
“He’s…”
“Yep. Like I said-“
“Perfect,” you breathe, falling to a crouch.
The man beside you coughs on his own spit. “What-? Uh, little lady, I seriously don’t think— hey, watch the hands! Don’t stick ‘em through!”
“-How much?”
You manage to pry your gaze from the ominous thing tucked a number of feet into his prison, cloaked and out of the light, to look up at the man. For all of the warnings and, really, defamation made against the animal— to his defense, he doesn’t lunge. Bark. Claw at the bars or slip his snout through to bite the harmless hand you extend in the space there.
No. With a lift of his whiskers, he watches.
Tuna-sandwich blinks. Eyes widening to twice their original size before he scrubs the lower half of his face.
Eventually, he shrugs. Takes a moment to process it.
As he does, you await the price with a hand already dipping inside your purse. I mean, you hope not to spend a small fortune during this outing- but it’s also an investment worth your while. There’s no saying when your stalker will show his face again. If tomorrow he’ll be waiting under your bed or in your closet for your return- hell, right now, the hackles on your neck are raised as if he could be lurking still.
A word relieves you of worries for naught.
“Nothing.”
…Wait- No, that can’t be right. Nothing? The- your future good boy is worth nothing?
“E-Excuse me?”
He sighs, exasperated. “You’d be doing us a favor,” is all he gives as an explanation. “You can have him for free.”
Dumbfounded, snapping your head back to the cage, you’re met with two crimson eyes that look almost hellish as they catch in the shifting fluorescence- and a pass of surprise on its face that appears almost… human.
“But, are you-“
“Haaaaah. Maybe it’s for the better. You’re like his savior, you know,” he comments, sparing a rather indifferent glance to the animal, “he oughta be thankful for you coming in here.”
And there, fucking again- like a blade wedged between your ribs and twisting—
“Too much longer and we would’a had to put him down.”
A squeeze of your heart.
Jaw fluttering shut, that morsel of information wipes the entirety of your hesitance out. Belatedly, you nod, perching your bag above your hip once more, a sense of determination smoothing out your features.
“When can we get him out of this cage?”
You ask without looking his way.
The sound of keys jingling on a ring has the silver-furred creature perking his left ear ever so slightly- a movement you track with curiosity as the beast’s chest swells in. It’s like he understands. Maybe he does. Maybe he’s seen countless people just like you filter in and out, pass him by, and ultimately land on a different pet to jailbreak take home.
“I can get you sorted right now,” he quips, helpful, “Just… You might wanna back up.”
Weirdly enough- and despite knowing you really should be cautious with a veritable beast from the local shelter, scarred to no end and skulking- all the tiptoeing around him is endearing in its own right.
He’s a good boy, you’re sure of it. Misunderstood, probably, like the rest of the poor, trembling things here— just in need of a nice, loving home and maybe a scritch or two behind the ear. And you’re positive, if nothing else, he’ll do plenty a good job at keeping your stalker at bay.
It takes a handful of minutes to loop the rope (not leash: rope) around his neck- yet the worker treats it as a pleasant surprise, muttering something about how he’s just a whit more cooperative today.
“Thank you,” you chime a bit breathlessly. Sure, your main goal in coming here was to find a suitable guard dog, but you can’t deny the excitement that flutters within as the gate closes to a now-empty cage, your new pet springing free.
Anticipation thrums in your chest as you eagerly accept the rope from him- “careful,” a snigger- and—
The ground beneath you all but gives way.
“Oh, sir- one more thing! What’s his name!”
He stops for a moment to turn halfway over his shoulder. Long, overgrown nails skittering across the floor as the leash tugs harshly and you’re rapidly propelled out the front door, into sunlight.
However, you do catch him shrugging.
“No clue.”
✦
A number of days pass. Those days drag by with an eagerness to get to know each other that seems only one-sided- and a caution on his end that borders uncanniness.
You buy him a fluffy dog bed (the biggest you could find; he’s bigger still). Quality food, not the rubbish they fed him at the pound. And you give him your patience; small, gentle smiles that you’re not entirely sure an animal can understand— but when you offer out your hand for him to smell, a sign that you mean no harm, he growls and retreats to his corner. He chooses one part of your tiny apartment to hunker down in and outright glares when you get too close.
This is your house.
This… was your house. Maybe you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. As a week moves on, you concede to your bedroom or the sofa and watch him with resignation as he watches you back- and contemplate if you made the right choice.
Does he seriously hate you that bad? How can you make him understand that you don’t harbor any bad intentions for him-? I mean, aren’t animals supposed to have that preternatural kind of instinct anyway? to spot malice?
What is he spotting in you?
Curled up on the couch, you hang your hand off the arm and release the new brush you’d bought days ago. It’s seeming more and more like a useless purchase, yet after countless attempts to bathe and brush him- all for naught- it’s only now starting to settle.
Work was long. That one coworker was grating on your nerves more than usual and you could’ve sworn you heard a second pair of footfalls trailing yours after the bus back- but you can only look over your shoulder so many times without attracting the attention of people who start to wonder if you’re batshit crazy.
But you're not crazy. That- That psychopath is, and his countless notes and uninvited visits to your apartment while you’re gone are all proofs of that.
But that’s changed, now. If your dog hates you, he’ll hate an intruder even more.
You sigh, holding your head in your hands as you lean forward. Like a flower wilted, folded in on itself, too heavy with its withering to support its own weight. You rub your temples when you grudgingly glance up to the wolf-sized beast sulking in the corner.
He stares, of course; buttery light twinkling in imposing, ruby eyes in a way that almost makes him seem tame. Mellow.
Not quite.
Still, you can’t bring yourself to dislike him, or regret taking him off the pound’s hands— for all his stubbornness, the hostility he barely conceals, you know all too well that fear manifests itself in strange ways. Like when you almost snarled at your deskmate today for leaning over your shoulder again to review your work- the proximity too startling to handle. You’re irate. On alert. Scared. And it’s making you do unreasonable things as a way to calcify your soft skin into a protective shell. You start to think that you must be hard: the climate calls for it.
The mutt that broods behind your armchair is the picture of ominous- big and bad and threatening long before his lip even curls in warning. Everything about him screams see, look at my scars- my sharp teeth and nails. Don’t touch me. Don’t hurt me.
Your heart stirs.
Tiredly, you offer a small smile. “You are perfect, you know,” folding your leg over the other as you pat the open space of the couch beside you. It can fit four to six people if they cram together, but you know he’d take up the three cushions beside you if he sprawled out entirely.
He regards you with a microscopic flick of his ears. “Even if you don’t like me, that doesn’t change what I think about you. If you just let me give you a bath… I’ll let you sit on the couch, deal? I’m sure it’ll be comfier than what you got now,” you offer, gesturing harmlessly to the dog bed that lays unused by the table— for this reason or that, perhaps just as a way to show you he’s completely rejecting you, he’s avoided it.
Yes, he’s just a tatterdamelion, forgotten animal, operating out of instinct and whatever feels right.
Yes, you still had to mask your hurt over it.
You sigh. “I mean, I haven’t even thought of a name for you yet. And I’m sorry, I just…” Trailing off, you give your head a small shake and stand to your feet. In your mind, with no small amount of discontent, you realize you’ve reached a watershed here— one that separates your old, normal life from a sense of great uncertainty that rests on the horizon.
And you’re terribly concerned. And tired. But God forbid you start venting to a dog about it.
“Nevermind. Goodnight, boy,” you wave your doubts off dismissively, deliberately leaving the lamplight on lest he get scared in the dark. Sometimes, you think you see eyes staring back in it, too, so you put no judgement on him.
Pattering with heavy, sock-clad feet down the hall, “Sleep tight. Just tell me if you hear anything at the door-“
A labored sigh.
Nails clacking behind you— and for one awful second you fear the worst: You’ve turned your back to a beast.
Your breath hitches with the realization, yet as you swiftly spin around- half prepared to bolt or at the very least shield your head with your vulnerable, just as fleshy arms- you’re mistaken.
There, he stands, as a massive silhouette against the living room light angling into the narrow, dim hall. He’s like a bull in a china shop- monstrous, sharp claws etching lines into the lacquer of the maple wood floor, his tail sending fur gusting behind him as it falls. You become clear of two things, then:
One) you must sweep, and soon. And two)
He’s tilting his head- in an uncannily shrewd way- towards the ajar bathroom door beside you, and as he noses it open and stares at you, it’s with expectance.
Oh, and then three—
When you don’t respond right away, he steps around you and impatiently nudges you in- headstrong as ever- through the bathroom door with a throaty huff.
✦
He smells of strawberry shortcake. Vastly sweeter than what he really is, you think with a wry but endeared smile, when you extend a slow, ever-cautious hand to pet.
To your surprise, he lets you.
Call it a truce between you both. A comfier place for him to crash at for a little more peace of mind on your end.
With all the dirt and dried muck lathered out from his coat (it took an hour or so, and patience- as he flung water and stubbornly tried to readjust in the small tub- lots of it), you’re given the chance to finally see the beauty of his breed.
Chalky white fur, soft as the cashmere sweater stowed in your closet on standby for the chilly autumn weeks ahead. His hair is long, perhaps overdue for a trim- not that you’re deluded enough to believe he’d allow a groomer anywhere near him- and easily covers most of the scarring underneath.
Convincing him it was safe to let you clip his nails was an even harder task than getting him in the bath- but he… cooperated. In a looser sense of the word.
None of your limbs are missing. That’s a small miracle in itself. You’re thankful for the little breakthroughs with your new pet, even if it feels like you’re walking uphill all the while.
He hops up on the sofa beside you. True to your word, you allow it, the springs dipping beneath you both as he settles.
If the couch fell through the floor and onto the one below in a mist of crumbled drywall, you’d have no right to be surprised. None at all.
Trying not to show a fraction of your joy as he sets his head on your lap lest that deter him, you bite back a grin and rest a hand on his back. You avoid needless contact with his head- you get the feeling that’s a iffier place for him. You’d respect it, of course. Your show of patience has been nothing less than outstanding in the past week. Now that you’re finally making headway with him (and yes— his letting you bathe and sit with him is headway), you’re encouraged.
Besides…
Unpredictable. The forbidding advice of the shelter employee rings in your head.
Ahem.
It’s late.
Tomorrow, you’ve another long day of work and second-guessing your surroundings and the people in them. Whether or not you’ll be attacked in your own home by your persistent ex-boyfriend who couldn’t stop meddling with your life even if it meant saving his own.
The doubt, momentarily, is pushed to the back burner.
You smooth your hands through his velvety fur. A strange layer of peace drapes itself over you, warming your chest like a fleece as his back rises and falls, your quiet breaths punctuating his own heaving ones.
“You’re a good boy, you know,” you murmur contentedly as you lay your head back and drift off. A crimson set of eyes regards you carefully, peering up through fine, snowy lashes.
From the barrel of his chest, he lets out a deep rumble like he understands. You know he doesn’t.
Half awake, you weave your fingers along him, “You are. You are a good boy,” as if it’s come as an epiphany to you- made realer as it’s spoken.
Before you let sleep take you entirely, you murmur with a ghost of a grin, teasing despite knowing it’s ridiculous because your words aren’t coherent to him- just a swooning, soft sound to bitten ears—
“Hey… I could tell you didn’t really like Cookie, or Sweetie, or Dragonfruit, but… what about…”
A moment passes. Barely, you register his snout lifting from your thigh.
“Sylus.”
Before dozing off, you’re fairly certain- for his sake- you’d left the lamp on that night.
…But when you wake the next morning to your alarm blaring in the room over, all that lights the living space is the sun streaming through the blinds.
✦
You blink and autumn is in full throttle.
You blink and you’re trading your thin sleep shorts out for pajama pants and slippers- layering your work blouses with wooly cardigans.
Days leap over one another like cards of a rolodex— yours, on your cubicle desk: filled with doodles of the unruly pooch waiting at home for you. Idling over him is all that you can do to ease your mind as anxiety gnaws through.
You worry for him when he’s home alone. Not because you heed the warnings you were once given- ‘he’ll tear a hole in your walls’- but because you care for him, and with that brings the inexplicable want to see him as soon as possible.
Of course, he can’t speak, but he shows in his own way that he misses you too when you’re gone.
Once your shift ends, you do as you did the day before. You quickly take the jacket off your wheely chair and gather your things, waving to the select few coworkers who don’t make you want to rip your hair from the root.
Perhaps if you’re quick enough, you’ll even make it off the bus, to your complex, before the sun sets. You appreciate fall for its colors. Not for the darkness it brings far too early to be comfortable with.
Every alley appears with teeth, in those eerily quiet moments when you make the short trek back home. Cars purr beside you on the congested roads, and despite cursing traffic on the ride to your stop, you’re grateful for it now.
At least more people are out; potential buffers to stave off your crazy ex from putting his hands on you…
Potential witnesses if he does.
Damnit. Damnit damnit damnit. Every evening you can’t help but wish you could just- take Sylus with you to work. But for so many reasons that’s just not possible.
Stuffing your hands in your pockets, you breathe out a fine mist and pick up the pace.
You can’t escape dusk from falling- but you can take advantage of the early moments of it right before night comes swinging.
You nervously glance up to the sky, a fiery swatch of orange sat under starry blue, and tell yourself it’s fine.
…It’s fine- and yet you swear on all things holy you can hear boots pacing behind yours—
A gasp. You turn around and get ready to rip your pepper pray from the scabbard that is your pocket- for naught. Emptiness greets you. Sneering and quiet. In the distance, deeper into the city, a car honks. Where you are now though, you’re more or less alone.
You wet your lip where it’s dented from biting. You turn around, and press back on.
It’s okay. You’re almost home. Just a bit further. Within ten minutes you’ll be crooning to your ‘puppy’ and itching behind his ear while he rigidly thumps his tail, closing his eyes indifferently as if he wasn’t hurrying to the door as soon as he heard the lock.
Yes, that’s right. In ten minutes- on the dot (you know because you’re toying with your watch to calm yourself)- you’ll be slipping off your jacket and refilling his water bowl, tossing him scraps as you prepare a nice steak dinner in celebration of your weekend commencing. The fancy wine you’ll pair with it is to help wash it all down and pretend you’re financially better off than you are. Not to help your nerves.
…Even Sylus, the creature who doesn’t understand you even if sometimes it seems he unexplainably does, would be hard-pressed to believe such a feeble lie.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Your heels. A dull, monotonous rhythm against pavement, one you relish now because it fills the crisp, silent air.
Then-
Tap tap tap.
Your heels- “Hey baby, wait up- where ya going?”- with the sound of another and the bone-chilling revelation that every suspicion you had was grounded—
You don’t even turn around. You don’t reason with, stick up the bird to, or even hastily shout a fuck off, creep, over your shoulder because you’re not sure you have the luxury to.
By the sounds of it, he’s already close.
“Oh no you don’t. Come on, baby, just let me fuckin’ talk to you!”
-Closer and gaining still.
Fear rattles through you. It goes from zero to one hundred in a breath- yet how to breathe becomes a distant memory as your lungs still. The pulse in your throat drums, and suddenly your cardigan isn’t enough to save you from the ice eating you from the inside out- a cold sweat already forming at your nape.
You’re in such a panic you even forget about the spray in your pocket- the assortment of makeshift blades (keys, pens that grow knives when you click them) tucked in your purse. You have a small arsenal in there. Yet your mind spins.
“Stop-! I haven’t even been able to visit you lately because of that fucking asshole- since when you’d get a new boyfriend, baby? Do you really not care about me anymore? I just wanna talk!”
No. No no no- and new boyfriend? What-? All thought is dashed from your brain, his hollers becoming static. No, just ignore him, it doesn’t matter what nonsense he spouts to try and get you back- you won’t so much as glance behind you. After all he’s done to hurt and twist and outright disgrace you and your home, you don’t think he deserves it.
You break into a sprint. The concrete path pushes beneath you. You feel like you’re running in a dream, you’re so terrified- but you do run. You run like hell. You run like a girl.
You fiddle for the key in your purse, shaking as the door opens and you slam it behind you. His hand almost gets stuck in it, the knob jiggling loudly just a millisecond after you lock it.
As the reality of what could’ve been settles, you’re horrified. Cold in the face.
Sylus is there, leaping over to reach you. You wonder if the fury you catch in his wide ruby eyes is your imagination or reality; if he has the inexplicable knowing- based on your frazzled state or the noise- that something is terribly wrong.
“Sylus-“
You breathe with relief, but you don’t linger. You skitter past to the kitchen for a weapon- a real, proper one. A snarl rips from his throat as you leave him behind you, shouts sounding in the hallway behind your door. He barks at it. Ferocious and lupine. Surely not the make of a dog, of a pet meant for four walls and a roof— no, it’s a separate beast entirely.
Hostile, unpredictable, growly- dangerous. Oh, you’ve no choice but to hope all the labels on his package are true. That he’ll rip your ex-boyfriend a new one if he finds a way in.
Hyperventilating, limbs like jelly, you stagger over. In the short span of time it takes you to turn out the kitchen and down the corridor, you contemplate either opening the door and saying go boy, go— or simply staying back to ‘defend.’
You turn the corner and blanche.
Someone’s in your house- not the creeping, painfully familiar face, however, no- and he’s naked.
And then, everything you’d been working so hard to build with your froward pet over the months, the foundation of trust and patience, the hard-earned truce made between you both… As red eyes flash at you in warning, a hand taking the shaking knife from your own before he opens the door— it all shifts.
The bottom falls through.
The man opens the door, and perhaps you should be thankful that he takes the squabble outside because you’re sure that the blood spraying from your ex-boyfriend’s nose as it breaks would be impossible to scrub from your walls.
✦
“Relax,” he grouses with a tsk, “I’m not gonna bite.”
With split knuckles, a long leg crossed over the other where he sits on your couch, canines just a little too sharp as they catch in the lamplight- that’s hard to believe.
The blade he’d taken from your hands lies on the cushion beside him, and while you don’t make a grab for it, you think he sees the way you eye it- and the knife block in the kitchen- as you clench your fist to keep yourself from fainting while you gawk.
“Y-You’re not my dog.”
One of his brows lifts with amusement- or challenge, perhaps- as you deny the truth laid out before you. It’s impossible. Of course it’s impossible. He-
That can’t be Sylus.
For a moment you believe he’ll agree. Nod his head and say, no, I’m not your dog- I’m a person; because that’s certainly how he looks. But he doesn’t.
“I simply changed forms,” he explains. “Not who I am to you.”
With nothing else to say- no real rebuttal- you can only flounder. “N-No. You’re not Sylus.”
That pulls a soft huff from him, “Oh, kitten,” he grins a tenuous grin, “I’m wounded. And here I thought your kindness had no takebacks. You gave me that name, didn’t you? Sylus.” He sighs, a heavy, affected sound- like this is no more than a theater play to him as he adjusts on your sofa.
“I guess I’ll just have to settle for something else, then… Is Dragonfruit still up for grabs?”
D-Dragonfruit? How does he…
The way he looks at you then, with a lift of his chin as he angles his brow in provocation, a smirk only touching half his mouth- makes you freeze. The little hairs on your nape rise.
…Yet he’s just as scarred as your pet, with the silver hair and the gemstone eyes— massive, over six foot tall and muscular- and the air about him is… familiar. Too much to be comfortable with.
“Y-You’re not-“
Before you can splutter out another denial, he sighs and drops the bravado. He spares the weapon beside him a dismissive glance, stretching one arm across the back of the couch.
“Look, if you don’t believe me, that’s your choice. I won’t try to convince you,” he states, “I’ll just let my actions speak for themselves in the course of the next few days.”
…What? The next few days? Does he plan to stay? What- no. No no no! This mysterious, albeit helpful stranger (helpful in the way that he shook your persistent ex from your doorstep- through violent means, of course) can’t seriously think you’ll just let him crash at your place after feeding you such a ridiculous lie. He’s not your dog. He’s- he’s not some werewolf that can shapeshift on a whim- those only exist in fairytales and teenage romance novels.
Not in your tiny apartment.
“N-No. You- you’re crazy. You have to leave. You have to! I’ll- I’ll call the cops!”
Not-Sylus seems unfazed. Perhaps even a little offended at your bluffing: the vehemence is there. But the certainty is not.
Sure, the department wasn’t having your stalker drama- but an intrusion you’re actually witnessing like this can’t be easily ignored. If your crappy ex ends up snitching (you doubt it, what with his involvement)- all the more evidence, right?
He all but rolls his eyes, saying like it’s obvious, perhaps even with a mite of amusement, “I’m on your side, kitten. Don’t get all…” he looks you up and down, and you hate the flutter of your heart that’s more than just fearful— it’s self-conscious. “Hissy now.”
You punch out a scoff of disbelief. “You’re some stranger in my house! Look- I appreciate what you did, okay? I really do,” you start. You have to pause in between to take a breath because God knows you mean the words you say- you’re just inwardly afraid that the fix was only quick, not permanent, and with the sudden disappearance of your dog? Good luck protecting yourself now. Fuck, you don’t even know where he went- maybe he booked it out through the door when you were too distracted by the chaos to notice.
But then… why the hell would he leave? He- He’s never done that until now!
You rub your face and stare at him. The fear lends itself to a distant echo the more you realize you’re no longer in immediate danger. The guy is an unwelcome (and flashy, literally) intruder, yes, one your pooch would waste no time in maiming, but he’s not an active threat... You just have to figure out how to get him to leave.
“But my dog is a dog. Not a human. Not… you.” That you even have to say it out loud is ridiculous.
Even if, the longer you stare, the more you begin to believe it.
The scarred skin, the unmistakable, red eyes, and the somewhat bitten ears- his body weathered from what you suspect to be years of tussling in underground fights (evidently: winning them, not without the cost though)…
And that arrogant little air he carries with him, the one that first endeared you so.
Sylus, it all says.
But no. No- this is insane. Months of being stalked and living like a bug under a microscope have made you worse for wear. Impaired your judgment.
He draws you back to the present with his rumbling voice. “Your dog is more than just some animal,” he huffs. “Don’t tell me after all you’ve experienced with the stalker that you’re… frightened of this side of me? Really? Of all things?” His chuckle is as rich as it is short as he shakes his head.
Frightened? No… that becomes a more distant word. You’re more so stunned than anything else right now as the pieces start to fall in alignment with each other.
“Well, how about this,” he offers at your silence, waving his hand. “Let the week pass. By the end of it, you can decide for yourself if I’m real or truly just a figment of your imagination, sweetheart… You…” he lowers his gaze, then. Uncertain, almost.
“You can even decide if you want me to stay.”
He rubs nothing between his fingers, glancing up again with a pointed brow. “Deal?”
And if you say no? If, on the off chance you’re wrong and you kick him right back to the curb- to a sorry life of abandonment and bloody illegal brawls and God knows what else?
Your mouth wavers. “I- I don’t believe it.”
You do believe it. But it’s crazy.
He almost snorts. “You’d better start. But with that pest taken care of now… I think you’ll catch on quite fast,” he grins. “I’m here for you, kitten. Isn’t that what you wanted me for? Protection? Don’t tell me once I serve my use you’ll throw me out?” He laughs. But then he sighs right after, pursing his lips and looking down to his lap where he makes no effort to adjust the thin blanket that covers his nakedness as it nearly slips.
Headstrong. Cocksure. Bored with his surroundings in a way only mature folk really tend to be. The sage advice of that employee flashes in your mind— ‘he’s on the older side, so naturally he’s a bit grumpy, snippy’; really, you shouldn’t gasp at his temperament but with your current situation it’s a little hard not to when he clips out-
“So? Do we have a deal or not?”
And, well, what’s the harm in giving him your couch for one night?
Or several.
✦
A wintry chill pricks up your neck. Along your arms. Down your limbs where they bundle beneath the covers- to the tips of your toes as you respond with a shiver.
It rattles you in tandem with pleasure.
Upon waking, a few things blitz through your mind too fast to catch. For one, you’ve woken before your alarm- meaning you’ll be miserable in the minutes or hours of consciousness before it actually does go off. Secondly, the bed feels heavier.
…As do your bones.
Third— Sylus is not on the couch like he’s been for the past few months. He’s with you, in the comfort of your own bed, and as the wooly blanket slips down your upper half- leaving you to the cold air- it reveals to you a head between your thighs.
Pried open. One held up for a soft kiss while the other is pinned down— both wet. Sticky with- with you.
You gasp. “Sylus-“
You’ve no time to even rub the sleep from your eyes, big weathered hands anchoring you in place, because he lifts his head from his plate for a millisecond when you try to stop him and does something he hasn’t for months.
He snarls.
“Quiet. I’m eating.”
Protective. Territorial. That isn’t your pussy he eats from, lapping fervently at it as if it wasn’t just a number of hours ago you were hand-feeding him steak cubes from the cutting tray— no, it’s his.
He blocks your hand from interfering when it slips beneath the cover. So when that doesn’t work, you attempt to clamp your legs shut (quavering, you realize, on either side of his lupine face). All your efforts- bogged by sleep and the simple fact that he was leagues stronger- are for naught.
‘Good try’, his eyes seem to tease, though, glittering devilishly at you as his tongue flicks your clit. And then, when you hesitantly lie back and rest a hand in his hair- ‘that’s it, kitten.’
“Good girl,” he practically purrs.
He’s got a big appetite. You’ve known that.
Not as much as you do right now.
“Sylus, wait wait wait,” you moan. Life has thrown so much your way, especially in the past year or so, but you never went belly-up for it. You fought and resisted and squared up.
But right now, half of you almost wants to take him lying down- let him take his fill of you and then pin you down to take some more. Let him have his way with you, whatever that may entail.
But you- You have work tomorrow, and- and responsibilities—
“Hush,” he goes, voice muffled, having some preternatural ability to tell just what you’re thinking. He drifts a hand up your belly to splay over the valley of your breast. Your heart thumps beneath his callous palm like a metronome. Like a ticking clock, counting down the seconds or hours before you need to get up and get ready. Start a day in which you leave home, leave Sylus, and spend the rest of it longing to get back.
“Just take the day off.”
Grudgingly, you lie your head back. It’s… not a great idea, but as your rationale clouds, it seems like your best one.
“O-Okay.”
As a hot, long tongue stripes up your pussy and then his other hand, the one he used to comfort you in his own weird way, slinks downward again- the ceiling becomes too boring to bear.
So you glance down.
He’s handsome as all get out. Really, a couple months ago when he first appeared to you as a human, that was all you could think as days passed and you became grossly aware that you were sharing a confined space with a man. That you had been all along— and your prancing around the apartment half-naked was just one of the countless spectacles he’d seen.
He never pounced, though. Never lunged. Never bit you like a dog or hurt you like a man, even when every bit of his crude exterior screamed hazardous. He was a good boy. And you don’t care what form he takes; he took you as you are, didn’t he? When you were scared of your own shadow and a little snippy because of it. He let you hold the leash to his heart and snarled at anything that came too close- protected you against your piece of crap ex without prompting. Turned your fear into a mellow thing.
Warmth prods at your heart. Loosens your legs up where they clench around his head.
That day at the pound turns in your memory like a spindle.
You could’ve lost him. He- He could’ve been gone forever hadn’t you showed.
…But you did show. For the shitty time you’d been having, Sylus was your one silver lining. You were there for each other as a shoulder to lean on and a hand to hold.
Your fingers tug gently on his scalp. Fruity shampoo breathes out from the blanket when you flip it over his head to allow him better access. Nerves eat you from the inside out. You’ve seen the looks, the hungering glances and felt the fingertips that linger in seemingly innocent touches:
Finally experiencing the culmination of his quiet longing is a whole different game, though.
Slurps ring out from your thighs. Your sighing, candied words- spoken in that ridiculous tone reserved only for him- make his ears perk atop his head.
“Good boy,” you breathe. “Y-You’re perfect.”
He rewards your obedience with a finger, thick and delightful. You gasp and arch your back into his hands- or, his one hand- a throaty moan rippling from his open mouth. The several little muscles in his face go lax when you coyly guide him deeper into your cunt and he melts.
“You taste delicious,” he whispers. “Sweet girl. I can-“ a deep, shivering inhale. Not from you- from him. “I can smell how much you want it…. You’re soaked.”
You mewl his name and almost reach full relaxation ‘til you glance back down and, with the covers off, spot where his other hand disappears. He’s naked- not in the boxer briefs and sweatpants you’d bid him goodnight in- and holds his fat, upright cock in his hand.
And his hand is big. Can dwarf every part of you with its hold.
His cock is somehow bigger.
Your heart leaps from your chest as he eyes you. He’s daunting. Every bit intimidating and then some- especially as you realize he won’t be just content with kitten licking your pussy, delicious as it is, and ending the intimate moment right afterward.
Dogs will always take the bowl if you slide them one: and then look to you later for seconds.
Point is- he’s insatiable.
You shiver as raunchy images flash in your brain— rough fingers pinning back your thighs as he rams inside you, setting a relentless pace as he bites and sucks and claims.
In your imagination, he doesn’t pull out when he comes.
…What really takes your breath is the engorged knot at the base of him, though, flushed an impatient red. Fattening by the second.
Cum- not pre- dribbles from the tip. For how long he’s been at this, you don’t know.
“Sylus-!” You mean to shriek it, but you can only manage a whispering scream. “Wait, wait, wait! what do you have in your hand-!“
A grin plays at his lips. Crooked, recalcitrant.
Challenging.
He’s hardly lucid, what with the delicious heat emanating from the slick lips he stuffs a second finger in, to acknowledge your question, so it’s surprising when he pulls back a centimeter to make an answer. Lust grips him tight— the need to fuck and take and mount— but that concerned, cute little bump in your brow is one he wants to smooth.
It’s the least he can do.
“Take a guess,” he sussurates, licking slowly up your inner thigh. Torturing you. “It’ll be in yours soon though, kitten, so get ready.”
Your eyes bulge from your skull.
His response: a low chuckle paired with a moan.
From that point on, even as he suckles expertly at your puffy clit, working you to a sniveling mess as you scream on his fingers, you’re focused entirely on what he’s doing below the blanket. He palms at himself- it’s all he can do to relieve the ache as he wrestles with his fraying self-control- massaging his balls and knot as they throb.
When he withdraws his digits from you, eyes drooping at the cream coating his knuckles before fluttering back at the taste of it— you lie back down and gulp.
Taking work off today is a good idea. You can already think of a few excuses. Not being able to walk properly is one of them. Being unable to get out of bed… Feeling so sore and feverish after he’s fucked you into pyrexia that you can’t even move an inch without being reminded of it.
He straightens. The cover slips off him entirely and he’s tall. Hulking. Painting you in his shadow- but the moonlight brings out the sheer hunger on his face, and you alight with warmth all over again.
You hope he’s primed you. You pray he’s done good to prepare you for what’s to come. Because oh, it’s coming. You know that.
“Now,” he heaves, dragging your legs either side of him as he kneels. You can tell he’s not well off, trying to muster a cocksure grin but failing as he perspires at the temple. “To the good part.”
You frown at that, almost- a pang of hurt weaving through the haze of desire and the smell of your musk on his fingers as he licks them clean again, ever thorough. He notes the flicker of your brow with a thoughtful pause and then a sigh, shaking his head as he grabs your jaw and angles his front down.
He chuckles, and you experience a singular flash of softness when he goes, “Oh, so sensitive… Don’t pout. I thoroughly enjoyed the opening too, kitten.”
You’re shaking. Insides molten with the pure want for him to just- to just do something already. There’s no opportunity to come down from your high because you feel his cock bob against your tummy as he sets himself up, and you burn anew.
Oh, you love him. You really do. He’s endearing in all the places he shouldn’t be. He’s charming and strong and willing to fight for you. So you don’t care if he’s a little old and slow on the uptake when it comes to new tricks- territorial and intimidating. He’s yours.
Eyes half open, you lift your hands to trail from his pecs to his firm, scarred belly. With a hiss, he trembles. Catches your wrists and tuts at you a second later, saying, “It’s better to keep those at your side. Once you get me going, I won’t be easy to stop.”
And you’d be half tempted to tease him some more, you know, but fuck if he isn’t massive. And fuck if you aren’t a little scared for it.
So you clutch the sheets as he drives himself inside with a grunt, and settle below him. You trust he’ll take care of you.
The entrance is, at first, surprisingly smooth, what with the natural lube you’ve provided for him. You let him lift your ass and bend you into a bow-shaped thing so he can hit deeper- and that’s when there’s some turbulence.
Your fingers curl into the cotton fabric. You brace and wait for the sting to subside. When you realize your eyes are clamped shut, though, you open them to see his expression and pall at the sight of him.
He’s gorgeous. Even when he looks like he’s ready to sneeze- brow scrunched and jaw slack as he dragoons himself inside, tormentingly slow- he’s nothing less than charming through your lens. But you’re thankful for the time he gives you to adjust because you need it.
Frankly, if he intends to put his knot inside— and he fucking won’t, there’s just no way— the walls of your pussy need the patience on his end.
For several seconds, Sylus does not breathe. You’re sizzling hot; when he eventually bottoms out, he can’t tell where he starts and you end- all he knows is that it’s gooey and warm and so fucking tight his balls throb. He deliquesces between your thighs. You welcome him, your body like a landing pad.
He supposes, right then, you’ve always been very hospitable.
Sylus curses. “Ngh, you’re tight... Loosen up,” he presses his forehead to yours and hisses out through his teeth. His eyes glitter like rhodolite in the dark. Reverent hands run down your side and clasp your hip. With your slick still coating his lips- tangy sweet, you find, as he presses them to yours- you realize he’s worshipful. The moonlight pouring in the blinds makes his silhouette glow a true blue.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, swiping over your bottom lip with his tongue. “Sweet, and soft. And a very good girl. I’ve got your back. You know that, don’t you?” Then, he draws his hips back and—
Your little bed judders. But the squeak that sounds out is yours as he ruts back inside and your labia brushes with his knot.
He won’t put it inside. He won’t. You’re sure of it. Mutts only do that when they’re mating. Mutts only do that. Sylus is- is so much more than that, and….
“Mmm,” an uncontrollable moan escapes you as he begins to move, like really move, and your eyes roll.
With some difficulty, he continues. “You’re naive. Plucking something like me from its cage. But I admire your bravery, kitten, so— f- uck— let me just show you, hm? How far my loyalty goes?”
Void of words, you nod.
The reindeer-patterned bedsheets aren’t enough. Your hands leave them in favor of Sylus, grasping around his back so tight your fingertips can make out the raised scars there. Planes of muscle flexing with divots with every thrust forward.
Offhandedly, he hits that sweet spot inside you. Your nails dig in by accident, and you say his name, stringing out the syllables in a delightful, dizzying mewl.
The floodgates- they burst open. Something in him gives.
He rams forward, abandoning his restraint altogether as his furry, salt-and-peppered tail whacks the mattress beneath you. That fat swell below his cock teases at your sweltering hole with every pump inside, and Sylus burrows his nose into your sweaty neck to whimper.
You’ve never heard such a noise escape him before. Huffs, grumbles, long, exaggerated sighs he makes whenever he finds a nice spot to lay down (usually on you), as if he pays the rent around here— but never that.
He whines, words strained, “Think you can take my knot? Hah… Nod your head for me, kitten- because I don’t think that I can stop it. I can’t wait any longer. I need you to…” he shudders, “take it.”
One moment you’re nervously glancing down to monitor him- and the next he’s nudging your head back with his nose before crashing his lips to yours. Your eyes widen when he flips you over, presses his chest to your back, and thrusts inside with vigor.
With the new angle, you stretch around him with a mewl, but every bone in your body locks when his hips slam flush to your ass and—
His knot pops inside with a gasp.
Throwing your hands to the strong ones he latches around your midriff, you wail. He clings to you like a limpet, his thighs trembling behind yours as he moans endlessly in your ear. Pointed teeth graze at the nape of your neck. He doesn’t bite- but amidst the warp of pain and a pleasure so intense it gives you vertigo, you distantly realize that he probably wants to.
He holds himself off. Breath hitching as his pelvis claps into you. Euphoria rolls across him, shocks him like a static bolt, every fiber of his being awash with it as his jaw falls open and he succumbs to you.
When he comes, it’s so hard his ears ring.
The walls of your pussy become less hospitable, then, clenching around him so tight as you both cum that for a moment, he can’t even say a word to ease you. He aches inside you- you can feel it. The girth of him twitching as your heat swallows him up with a spasm. His knot takes all thought from your brain. Stuffed inside your poor hole, tumid and veiny.
You feel him coalesce with you, too. Eagerly rutting his seed inside (ensuring it sticks, you realize when he drops a finger to your folds, checking for leakage), releasing rope after rope of hot cum as you go limp and take it.
You offer up a choked mewl when he kisses at your spine, brushing your hair aside just to access your neck where he licks and sucks. You trust Sylus not to get carried away with a bite if he did, to lose out to what he’s been taught.
Evidently, he doesn’t trust himself.
Your fingers dig into his thick, scarred forearm and he sighs behind you- a long, feeble sound. He’s barely able to keep himself draped over you- let alone support your own position beneath him, what with the soup you’ve made of his brain- but he manages.
Silence sprawls out as you attempt to steady your breaths. All that comes in between it is the occasional, wet squelch and the gusting inhales he takes at the column of your neck.
“It… hurts. So good…” he hisses after several beats. Only marginally brought back to reality, you flutter your eyes open and offer a yip back. “You’re doing so well, though… Just-“ He twitches inside you, then, throbbing like a second pulse point, his cock undulating in your walls, greedily taking up all the space.
“Fuck. Stay still, sweet girl,” he grunts, harebrained. His eyes crinkle and close. “I want it all inside. Don’t wanna see so much as a drop escape that perfect, tight pussy. Hah- you hear me?”
“Y-Yes,” you quiver back. Speaking is too difficult, you realize a second later, shoving your open mouth into the pillow as you pant for air.
Yet, you can’t help but ask with a slur, “Sylus- when- when will it be over?”
He moans, right in your ear. Goosebumps run up your naked body- all that clothes you.
“It’s too big,” you cry.
“No,” he quips. “It’s just right.”
As if on cue, your cunt gives another squeeze around him, milking him for all he’s worth. In response, he bows his forehead into the crook your shoulder and jaw make to bury a whine, and your mind spins when you register his balls, hanging fat against your ass, lurching. And oh, you’re spilling, you can feel it, beginning to ooze profusely from your puffy lips even as he keeps it plugged; really, even if Sylus wanted to separate from you (he doesn’t), he couldn’t.
There’s nothing in him that wants the distance. The idea of self-autonomy. The idea of independence. No- he’s all yours.
“We’ll wait it out,” he breathes. Coasting a hand along your belly in an effort to placate you. He knows it can’t be easy for you. But the world— that stupid, irksome ex-boyfriend of yours— needs to understand where your heart belongs. There’s no better way to show that than to demonstrate it first with the body.
And you—
(Bitten by his branding kiss, supple skin covered with the divots of his teeth, your belly full of his veritable seed-)
Well. Nobody should look at you, he decides in his spirit right then, and come to any other conclusion but the one that you’re his.
Unmistakably, irrevocably, his.
“It’ll subside soon enough,” he soothes with a peck to your throat, a surprisingly chaste move. He loops his arms around your waist again and carefully- mindful not to exacerbate the heady ache- maneuvers on his side, pulling your back to his front. He whispers at your ear, “So long as you don’t move or stir me up, we’ll be fine.”
Yet, a set of canines brush at your jugular, and again- there’s that inkling, this time in better clarity, that passes your conscience. You know he wants to bite. To mark. To claim. You know it and have the vague idea of all it entails, yet he… won’t.
With a frown, cursing as you turn ever so slightly and his fat knot shifts inside you, you hazily meet his eyes.
His are practically glowing, laying heavy on you. Charting across your face the moment they make contact, observing every brief flicker of your expression to try and assign a feeling— happiness, he hopes, contentedness— to it. His lashes totter and you burn with shame when a lewd suck rings between your legs, his cock wet all the way down to the slight plush of his abdomen.
You don’t mean to pout, “why won’t you-“
“Not yet, Kitten,” he scolds. Trying to swallow down a pit of self-consciousness in your throat, you murmur, “What, do you not want me?” Sylus huffs as if offended. His eyes drag from your lips to your searching eyes.
“Really, kitten? …What, should I give you an equally stupid answer?”
Oh, you’d tug his tail if you had the luxury of moving right now-
“Of course I want you. Can’t you tell?” He sighs, then, burrowing his nose into your neck almost to hide. His ears droop along his head, donning a relaxed look.
“So. Did you like it..?”
“Y-Yeah…” you murmur, carefully looping a hand back to stroke behind his fuzzy ears. “But, I just… I thought you’d really do it, I thought you’d really tie us together-“
He chuckles richly. “We’re already tied together, kitten,” peppering another kiss below your jaw, licking appreciatively at the sweat that clings to soft skin. “I’ve belonged to you for some time now, haven’t I?”
Your heart skips a beat when you realize he’s right.
“I- I guess so. Yeah.”
“So no more whining,” he lifts his chin to sample your lips, this time- his knot still throbbing white-hot and insistently inside you (albeit the ache is lessening)- eyes lidded as he conveys his affections.
“I’ll do it when we’re both ready. When…” He pauses to swallow.
In that short frame of time before he next speaks, you’re drawn to all his scarring. The faded ligature marks around his neck, the seemingly permanent gnashes along his body (which was a touch too lean before you familiarized him with good food). The nip taken from one of the ears sat atop his silvery, mussed locks. In that moment, you don’t see the misshapen, loveless thing he was beaten into— but rather the softness he worked to regain for you.
“When I know it’s manageable.”
If he feels unsure of himself- whether he can remain… civil, for lack of a better word, amidst the fervent haze that a mark would bring about— then you suppose you could wait for a bit longer.
“Okay,” you murmur with a faint, understanding smile, caressing one half of his face dotingly. You tilt your head slightly to plant a firm, benevolent kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“But you’ll always be a good boy to me, okay? I trust you. I told you before- you’re perfect-“ Rather roughly, he noses your head back into the pillow, readjusting his iron hold around you as he grumbles into your hair.
“…Hush. Now close your eyes and go back to bed. I’ll tell you when it’s ready to pull out.”
𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡
you should get a second evening for reading fan fiction. And you should get an extra day in the week to do arts and crafts.
𐔌 . ˚ IN YOUR FANTASY ┆LOVE & DEEPSPACE ֹ ₊ ꒱
the lads men discover your secret kink when they stumble upon all the x-rated videos you’ve been hoarding on twitter. busted... but why hide it when your boyfriend’s more than willing to take a seat in your fantasy? — wc. 6.1k
STARRING ♱ xavier ⌇zayne ⌇rafayel ⌇sylus ⌇caleb
WARNINGS ♱ X-RATED VISUALS ARE LINKED. must be logged in to twitter/x to view. fem!reader, ungodly amount of pet names, heavy praise — (sylus) free use, bondage, cum eating/swapping, switch!sy, oral (f. receiving) — (zayne) spanking, meanie!zayne, heavy praise, use of good girl, lowk cervix fking — (rafayel) dubcon-ish (?), somnophilia, degradation (use of slut), mean dom!raf, some yandere themes — (caleb) facesitting/fucking, some use of gravity evol, brief mention of insecurities — (xavier) sub!xavier, begging, edging (m. receiving) — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+
KIT’S NOTE ♱ hehe new year, new medicli layout >:3 i hope you all enjoy my first multi hc of the year! if u see any mistakes, no u didn’t! reblogs and comments are so greatly appreciated, i’d love to hear y’all’s thoughts on this :)<3
ᯓ 秦彻 ⟢ SYLUS ˖᯽ ݁˖ — big bf lets you have your way with him #freeuse
sylus shouldn’t pry—this much he knows. there are boundaries that should never be crossed and this? this is one of them.
your phone is open to a twitter profile. some blank account with an obscure user and the locked symbol next to your name. it’s a private twitter account following 20 people with 5 followers. but it’s the most recent tweet that catches his attention—a man naked and bound to a chair with a blindfold covering his eyes and a woman using him how she pleases.
he picks up your phone with a dry throat and his cock hardening under his slacks. the retweet reads, ugh wish he’d let me use him like this </3
you walk out of his bathroom to see his back facing you and you perk up immediately. “sy, you’re back!” you say, cheerily, but when he turns around with his jaw clenched and your phone that quietly plays the sound of one of the many videos you were watching on twitter moments prior, your smile drops.
“i didn’t realize you were into amateur adult films, sweetie.” he drawls nonchalantly, like his cock isn’t aching for your touch. but you can sense an edge that isn’t typically there.
you stammer on an excuse, feeling your face burn in mortification at having been caught retweeting porn on your alt account. “i—it’s… well, i-it’s not what it looks like.”
“yeah? because it looks like you want to use me… just like this.” he stalks towards you and waves the phone in your face, a small smile pulling at his lips. “is that true? you want to tie me to a chair, blindfold me and have your way with me?”
you pull your lip between your teeth, gnawing at the flesh anxiously. you avert your eyes, staring at your sock clad feet before you feel his fingers tip your chin up and force you to look him in the eye.
“c’mon, sweetheart. you’ll tell me, won’t you?” he murmurs, thumb pulling your bottom lip from your teeth.
“yes,” you respond, throat dry and voice wavering in lack of confidence. “i want to have my way with you.”
he gives you a wolfish grin and all he says is, “okay then.”
—
you never thought you’d see sylus like this. in a chair with rope wrapped around his torso and one of his silk ties covering his eyes. there’s a permanent smirk plastered on his face and it makes you buzz with excitement.
“don’t make me wait for so long, kitten.” he drawls, his cock bobbing up and down in dire need of attention.
you grab his neck, tipping his face up and pressing your lips against his for a sloppy kiss. you push your tongue into his mouth, savoring the deep groan that rumbles in his throat. the kiss doesn’t last long—you pull away just as he starts to get needy, watching how he chases your lips with a growl.
your hand trails down his chest, squeezing at his peck before turning around, back facing him, and grabbing his cock. a small gasp of surprise fills the room right before it’s replaced with the sound of your paired moans as you sink onto his cock.
“shit,” he curses, the word coming out breathless. his hands itch to grab you and they could if he really wanted to. he could break free from the lousy restraints, but he knows how much you want this and he wouldn’t dare rob you of this experience.
and you take him like you were made from it, bouncing on his cock, your ass clapping with every thrust. you whine for him, testing his patience. “does it feel good, sy?”
another deep growl fills your ears and shoots straight to your core. “you know it does, sweetheart. what about you, hmm? does, hah fuck, does using my cock like this satisfy you?”
you choke out a sob, sitting on him completely and grinding your hips against him with vigor. “mmhm, you’re such a good boy, baby,” you moan out, feeling his cock throb at the praise. “b-but you know what would make me feel even better?” you ask, voice cracking.
he tries to thrust into you, but you don’t give him a chance. he’s stuck in this chair with you on top of him so all he can do is pant out a strained, “what?”
“if you—mmm, if you came inside of me,” you whimper. “fuck, sy, please? please fill me up with your cum. want you to shoot it so deep inside of me, please please please?”
your pleas are so desperate, almost as if you aren’t already taking everything you want. as if you aren’t already making his cock twitch and his stomach tighten. as if you aren’t already milking him dry while he lets out a drawn out groan.
a happy moan rips from your throat when you feel his cum spray inside you, filling you so deep just how you wanted. you let him empty himself, waiting till every drop of cum is spilled into you before pulling off his cock, grabbing a fistfull of his hair and bringing his face to your messy, filled cunt.
his surprised moan is muffled by your pussy. you figured he’d rip through the rope and push you away, but he happily laps and sucks at your hole, licking up every bit of your mixed arousal that leaks out of you.
you whine, heat flooding your body as you grind your ass against his face. “y-yeah, eat your cum out of me, just like that, sy,”
“dirty girl,” he murmurs against your cunt before devouring you whole, the sounds of smacking and slurping and groaning resuming.
your knees nearly give out, the only thing holding you up is the death grip you have on his silver locks. you jolt and tremble before him and he doesn’t need to see to know you’re close.
all it takes is a raspy, “cum on my face, sweet girl,” for you to completely unravel, legs shaking uncontrollably as you paint his face in syrupy arousal. you’re reduced to whines and whimpers of his name and sylus just wishes he could see you.
and his wish is granted mere seconds later when you’re weakly tugging the blindfold off of him, taking his gleaming face in your hand and pressing your lips to his to taste the two of you on him.
he groans, passing the release into your mouth while pulling on the restraints in a need to grab you.
“you did so well for me, sy.”
“mmm, thank you, sweetie. and,” his voice drops to a whisper. “next time you want to recreate something… just tell me.”
ᯓ 黎深 ⟢ ZAYNE ˖᯽ ݁˖ — meanie!bf makes you ask for permission to cum #spanking
zayne never uses social media. especially not twitter. but you convinced him to download it so you could send him funny tweets and cute cat videos. he shook his head and downloaded the app just to get you to shut up, but he never actually opened it.
one rare and quiet day, with nothing on his schedule and you stuck at work, curiosity finally got the better of him. he made an account on a whim, and that’s when he saw it: suggested accounts. yours, right at the top, labeled as someone he “may know.” a small, fond smile curved his lips as he tapped on your profile, warmth blooming in his chest at the sight of your cute icon staring back at him.
but that smile fell just as quick as it came when he scrolled a bit too far and found a quote retweet captioned, “does anyone wish their bf would do this to them too??? :((( being spanked then doted on… sigh.”
he watched the video with a dry throat and widened eyes. the first thought that came to mind was that you posted this on your public profile—but then he noticed you only had 15 followers. still, he’ll have to remind you of your digital footprint.
once the initial shock wore off… he watched the video again. is this what you wanted? to be ruthlessly fucked from the back and spanked… by him?
zayne closes the app, clears his throat and throws his head back against the couch he’s sitting on. he pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a shaky exhale.
if that’s what you want… then that’s what you’ll get.
—
he waits patiently for you to trudge past the door, trying to keep himself busy with god knows what till he hears it. the sound of your keychains rattling and the click of the door as you unlock it and walk in.
“hi, zaynie,” you breathe, skipping towards him and pressing a wet kiss to his cheek. one whiff of you and all he can think about is doing all the naughty things you’ve been secretly wanting. his cock aches. his blood thrums. he needs it now.
“are you okay?” you pull back, concerned by his silence and even more deterred when you see his hardened face.
when he speaks, it’s low and stern. a voice you’ve only heard a handful of times. “bedroom. now, please.”
you let out a confused chuckle. “what for?”
when he raises an eyebrow at you, you cower, nodding your head and scurrying to the bedroom like he asked.
it’s nothing like what you expected. you didn’t expect zayne to walk in and strip you bare without a word, didn’t expect him to bend you over the bed and press himself into your tight, waiting warmth. and you definitely didn’t expect his hand to come down hard on your ass—the sharp, thunderous crack filling the room, followed instantly by your startled squeak.
“this is what you wanted, is it not?” he pants, fucking into you with vigor melting at the sound of your sweet, surprised moans. “this is what you were talking about on your twitter, right?”
your voice comes watery, confused. “wh-what?” you ask, hands fisting at the sheets, your body jolting with every sharp, rough thrust.
his hand comes down, your other cheek meeting the same fate and it has another desperate moan crawling out of you. “you wanted to, what was it? get spanked and doted on, huh?”
and then it hits you suddenly—vividly. you remember the video. it was a faceless man taking a faceless girl from behind, ruthless, almost cruel in the way he fucked her. you remember the sharp smack of his hand against her skin, how badly you’d wished it were you and zayne instead. but what turned you on the most—what lodged itself deep inside your core—was the contrast of it all. the way the stranger’s rough, unyielding actions clashed with the softness of his words. the concept of being fucked like a slut while being praised like a good girl. it made you spin.
it only made you think of zayne. zayne and his large, calloused hands. zayne and his sweet voice. zayne and his cock that stretched and fucked you so good that it makes you cry.
and you’d be lying if you said the thought of him realizing this… realizing it’s what you’d wanted all along… didn’t make heat pool low in your stomach all over again.
you clench tightly around him, turning your heated face into the pillow that smelled just like him. this only makes him laugh, humorlessly.
“yeah, you’re remembering now, aren’t you, my darling girl?” his throaty voice only turns you on further. you arch your back and wiggle your ass as an invitation. an invitation for him to give you more. to go hard. “that’s it. good girl.”
you shudder at the praise. “f-fuck,” the curse is whimpered against the silk fabric of his pillow. “fuck, zayne, it’s s-so—god! so deep. feels so good!” you feel him everywhere, but especially in your tightening stomach. you’re already at the precipice of an orgasm and it only makes zayne want to fuck you right to the finish line.
zayne hums, spanking you again just to hear a giggly moan and it makes his heart want to beat out of his chest. “you’re so precious,” he whispers before his hand laces in your hair and pulls your face away from the pillow. “did you want me to find that tweet, sweetheart? so i could spank you and pull at your hair? so i could fuck you stupid on my cock?”
you don’t bother hiding it. you wanted this more than anything. you craved this more than anything. “yes, yes, yes! please!”
“gooood girl,” he murmurs softly. it’s a perfect contradiction to the way his cock drives into you, the tip just barely brushing your cervix. it’s too much. you’re wound tight as hell, a dam on the brink of bursting, and zayne feels it instantly.
“you wanna cum?”
you can barely form the words, desperation breaking your voice as you beg, “can i…? please?”
“yes, baby. cum for me,” he grunts, fist tightening in your hair, pulling you into a deeper arch. “come on. cum all over me.”
you shatter almost instantly. your body trembles as you come apart on his cock, a needy, broken moan slipping free while the tight knot in your stomach unravels and you soak him completely.
he doesn’t stop—he only fucks you through it, steady and relentless, before pressing a gentle kiss to your spine.
“you did so well,” you feel his lips curve into a smile as he murmurs against your slick, overheated skin, “he but we’re not done yet.”
ᯓ 夏以昼 ⟢ CALEB ˖᯽ ݁˖ — bf lets you sit on his pretty face #facesitting
it was no secret that caleb kept tabs on you. he was very open about it—he has all your post notifications on, he knows where you are at all times, and he always knows what you’re up to. it didn’t bother you in the slightest, he’s always been protective of you—watching over you like it was his life’s purpose.
but there’s one secret that you keep from caleb. and it’s nothing major, truly! it’s just… an alt twitter account you use to retweet your soft porn. while there’s no reason to keep this from your boyfriend, you don’t have the heart to show it to him. it’s the home of all your fantasies, more than anything, it’s embarrassing.
even so, the last thing you want is for caleb to know. you’ve done everything in your power to keep this secret. you used an obscure email to create the account, a password with a series of random numbers and letters that he’d never be able to guess and an alias. it was practically impossible for him to trace it back to you.
one day, you were scrolling on said account, thighs pressed together as you came across a video of a girl sitting on a guy's face, tugging at his hair while she glided across his mouth and nose. all you could think about is caleb—how good it would feel to fuck his face like you were in heat.
it was something you thought about often. you’ve had caleb eat you out before, yes, but you’ve never asked to try this in fear that you’d either A. suffocate him or B. he’d be turned off.
so you do what you always do, quote retweeting it with a caption that read: “wanna sit on my bf’s pretty face just like this :,(”
you shut out the app and flop back onto your bed, trying—failing—to chase the thoughts of him away. especially the image of him stretched out against these very pillows and you hovering over him while your arousal drenches his face. you lose yourself in the fantasy, hands sliding down your body in need.
but then your phone starts to blow up—message after message lighting the screen, all from your boyfriend:
caleb ♥︎: baby, are you serious?
caleb ♥︎: is that really what you want?
caleb ♥︎: you wanna sit on my face?
caleb ♥︎: forget it, I’ll be there in an hour. we’ll talk about this when I see you.
your breath hitches and brows knit in confusion—then it clicks. your tweet. maybe you should’ve been more careful before hitting send. maybe the app glitched. either way, when you open the app again, dread crashes over you as you confirm that you’ve posted it from the wrong account—the account where caleb has your notifications on. meaning he saw it immediately.
you delete it in a panic, humiliated, praying none of your other mutuals caught it in time. there’s nothing you can say or do to stop caleb from coming over. so you stand, pace, draw in a shaky breath and wait.
—
caleb lets himself in, shuts the door, and locks it behind him. the talk he mentioned in his text never comes. no greeting. no anger. instead, he strips down to his boxers and climbs into your bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
you’re frozen where you stand, lip caught between your teeth, thighs pressed tightly together. when he settles against the pillows, he lifts his gaze to you so calm that it almost scares. he looks at you expectantly.
“well?” he starts. “what are you waiting for? i’m here. you wanted to sit on your boyfriend’s pretty face, did you not?”
you exhale a sharp, nervous laugh, “c-caleb, we don’t have to…” you let shyness take over. “i’ll—i’ll suffocate you. it probably won’t feel good for you either…”
he scoffs incredulously. “come sit on my face before i make you. you do remember my evol, don’t you?”
you barely have time to process it before you feel weightless, a surprised yelp slipping out as he drags you toward him with nothing more than a flick of his hand.
you give in instantly, nodding as you stumble, “okay okay!”
he lets go and watches with hungry, unblinking eyes as you push your shorts and panties down, letting them pool at your feet. you climb onto the bed and crawl toward him slowly until you’re hovering just above his throat, suspended in the tension and your own personal fear.
“caleb, are you sure i won’t be too heavy?” you whisper.
“i’m sure, baby.” he says reassuringly, his hands grabbing your hips and lifting you till your cunt is just inches away from his face. “come on, sit. lemme taste you.”
you let out a shaky breath and start to lower yourself before you can talk yourself out of it, but his arms hook beneath your thighs and force you all the way down, drawing a satisfied moan from him and a startled gasp from you. your hands fly to his hair, fingers threading through the silky strands as you cling to him, grounding yourself before your strength gives out entirely.
you bite your lip, desperate to keep your moans quiet, but the drag of his nose against your clit paired with the warm suction of his mouth has your resolve shattering. it feels even better than you ever imagined. and when his hands come up to palm at your breasts? his fingers tweaking your nipples? you’re a goner.
“fuck,” you whimper, fingers tugging at his roots hard enough to draw a pained groan from him, though it barely registers. all you can focus on is the way he devours you like he’s starving, the vibration of his moans coursing through your body and lighting your nerves on fire, the relentless grind against your swollen, sensitive clit.
“caleb,” you cry, breathlessly, “ah! feels so good.”
“keep fuckin’ my face, pretty girl,” he moans, the words muffling into your cunt. “wanna taste you cummin’ all over me. you can do it.”
he pulls you onto him harder. like he wants to run out of oxygen.
and you obey—even if you wanted to stop, you couldn’t. not when you’re this close—not when caleb wants this just as bad as you do. you hump his face desperately, like a woman depraved, chasing your orgasm. you let your moans out freely, high pitched and needy, letting them join the sounds of slurping and smacking.
your body trembles violently, fingers fisting in caleb’s hair as you shatter, a mix of arousal and slick cum painting his face while you squeal his name like a broken record. “caleb, caleb, caleb—” his name is all that exists—all you can cling to at the moment.
he groans into you, relentless, licking and sucking every last trace, his hips lifting off the bed with desperate urgency. his cock throbs in his boxers, twitching with need for a taste of your cunt.
a sob tears from your chest when he doesn’t slow. “w-wait!” you gasp, legs shaking, body on the verge of giving out. “i’m s-sensitive, ca-caleb!”
“no, baby, please,” he whimpers, raw and earnest. “please let me keep going. you don’t know how bad i’ve wanted this.”
“w-what?” you breathe, dazed.
“for so long, pips,” he admits softly. “just sit there… let me do all the work. please?”
ᯓ 祁煜 ⟢ RAFAYEL ˖᯽ ݁˖ — crazy bf fucks you while you pretend to be asleep #somno
despite his bubbly, sassy exterior, rafayel carried his demons quietly. the kind that kept him watching you—both in real life and through the glow of a screen. the thought of losing you makes something dark twist in his chest. you’re his cutie, his heart, his muse, his entire world wrapped into one person.
he knows it’s wrong to have all your passwords. knows it crosses a line. so he tells himself he’s careful—only checks when he has to, when the ache gets too loud to ignore.
it’s been a while since he last logged into your account, but it’s also been days since he’s seen you. that has to count for something, right? just a quick look. just to scroll through what you’ve seen, what you’ve liked. just enough to feel close to you again.
a smile touches his lips when he sees all the silly tweets you’ve liked.
but then he sees it. a tweet that looks so out of place in the midst of cute cat videos and senseless jokes. a tweet that reads “gf who pretends to be asleep x bf who was gonna fuck her either way,” along with a video of just that. the smile falls immediately, his lips pressing into a thin line while his brows furrow.
his darkened gaze catches on the yellow bookmark, curiosity winning out before he can stop himself. the moment he opens your bookmarks aka the little trove of soft porn, his cock hardens. it’s all amateur and intimate, but worse, there’s a pattern. a theme. every two minute video was a girl getting fucked while she slept. fucked. bred. all while she laid pliant, eyes closed.
rafayel’s eyes drag over the captions again and again, each one making his thoughts spin faster. he loses track of time, an entire hour slipping by as he clicks through every video, cock aching and heart racing, torn between guilt and the thrill curling tight in his chest.
he pictured you like that—lying awake at night, thoughts circling him…his cock… until you finally drifted asleep. he imagined the wetness that pooled in your panties when you drifted off, the way desire followed you even into your dreams. it made something deep in him ache.
how long had you wanted this? with the sheer number of tweets tucked away in your bookmarks, he can’t help but think this fantasy has lived with you for a long time now, growing quietly… patiently.
but why not make your fantasy a reality?
—
rafayel asked you to spend the night, and of course you said yes please. you’d been missing your boyfriend like crazy, and with work constantly getting in the way, time together had become frustratingly scarce.
when you arrived, he’d planned something sweet—movies, cuddling, takeout you both loved. an innocent night in. except you wanted more. every subtle advance you made was met with a gentle deflection. he ignored them all, letting the tension build until you were needy with it. you were wound tight, and he still refused to touch you the way you ached for.
by the end of the night, you felt coiled and restless, yet too perverted to voice what you wanted aloud, especially after being brushed off. so you climbed into his bed with a sulky “goodnight,” a pout tugging at your lips, and tried to will yourself to sleep.
it didn’t come easily. all you could think about was him. your eyes squeezed shut, brows knitting together as the ache lingered, basically impossible to ignore. you were wet beyond belief. and only after you felt slumber slowly pulling at you, you felt your boyfriend press against you.
you felt his hard cock through his pants as he slowly, subtly rocked himself against you with barely steady breaths. your heart raced, holding in the little gasp that’s threatening to spill out of you.
“i saw all the videos you’ve been watching on twitter, princess,” he whispers, rutting against you a little harder, the words hitting just as deep as the motion. “all those videos of girls getting fucked while they sleep… is that what you want?”
both your heart and your thoughts stutter at once. for a split second you think you’re dreaming—but you can feel him, and you can differentiate fantasy and reality. the truth finally settles in as his hand slides beneath your sleep shorts, drifting lower, touching you in a way that leaves no doubt at all. this is real.
he hums when his fingers are immediately met with your slick arousal. “the idea of getting fucked while you’re unconciouis gets you this wet?”
you swallow the whimper trying to break free and let your deepest fantasy unfold. you force yourself to relax, to go pliant in the way you’ve always imagined this—but the moment rafayel circles your clit, your body betrays you, tensing on instinct.
“this slutty pussy wants me to fuck her, doesn’t she, baby? your body’s practically begging for me…” he groans into your ear, grinding deeper into you. “it would be so bad for me to fuck you while you sleep, though. i’d be such a bad boyfriend…”
you want to scream when he slows down. when he starts to retract his hand like it’s some bad idea.
“i shouldn’t touch you while you’re trying to sleep.” he murmurs, a hint of amusement threading through his words.
his hand nearly slips away from your shorts when a frayed plea falls from your lips. “please,” you whimper—and that’s really all the confirmation rafayel needs. he flips you onto your stomach and presses over you like a man starved.
your shorts are barely tugged down and his sweats are pushed just low enough for him to free himself. his hot, thick cock slaps against your bare skin and the contact makes you squeak. he pushes into you, filling you in one deep motion. gasps and moans spill from both of you in tandem, but he doesn’t give either of you time to settle. his hands grip your ass, fingers digging in as your flesh spills through the gaps all while he drives into you relentlessly.
“i knew you were pretending to sleep,” he grunts and it’s barely loud enough to be heard over the sounds of his skin slapping against yours.
you’re breathless when you manage to answer. “h-how?” the question breaks on a whine as his cock drives deeper with every hard thrust.
“i could hear how fast your heart was beating,” he chuckles darkly, never slowing, his pace mean. ruthless. “the way your breathing changed the second you felt me behind you.” his grip tightens as he leans in. “you were just waiting for me to take your clothes off and fuck you, weren’t you?”
you whimper, utterly exposed. “yes…”
“naughty, naughty girl.” he laughs. “should’ve told me you wanted to get fucked while you slept.”
you moan, clamping tightly around him and taking the painful stretch in stride. your back arches for more. like your body needs his cock or you’ll die. the knot in your stomach has been winding tighter all night, waiting for this exact moment, and you’re already embarrassingly close.
“no need to hold back,” he whispers. “soak my fucking cock like the slut you are.”
his sharp words tear a mewl from you, your walls clenching around his cock so tight it steals the breath from his lungs. you break as he drives into you without mercy. you fall apart around him with a beg, “please, please, please—” the word dissolving into a wrecked sob that fills the room.
“good girl,” he breathes. “now go back to sleep and let me have my fun, yeah?”
ᯓ 沈星回 ⟢ XAVIER ˖᯽ ݁˖ — dom!bf lets you edge him and begs you to cum #edging
tara is your best friend in the entire world. the kind of best friend who knows every corner of your life, including the private parts you don’t share with anyone else. especially when it comes to you and xavier.
at first, her curiosity overwhelmed you. her questions were invasive, relentless, sometimes overly embarrassing. but over time, you got used to it. more than that—you started to look forward to it. your weekly dates where you can rant about work at the association and the gory details of your relationship with xavier.
telling tara everything became its own kind of thrill. the late night giggles when she’d come over, the hushed voices so he couldn’t hear anything while he lived in the apartment above you, the way she’d squeal or gasp at every insane detail. it felt good to have someone who wanted to hear it all.
you’d even told her about wanting to try something new with him—something you were pretty sure he’d never agree to. you wanted xavier to be the one begging you for once. he was always so dominant in bed that the idea of flipping the script… of him giving in and taking everything you had to offer, felt almost absurd… which was exactly why you couldn’t stop thinking about it.
you remember when you saw the video of your ideal fantasy on twitter. a video of a guy being dominated by a girl. she made him beg for permission while she rode him and all you could think about was him. how cute he’d be with his blushy cheeks and the yearning look in his eyes. how pretty he’d sound whimpering out pleas and begs to cum inside of you. it shook you to your core. you saved the video to your bookmarks immediately and came back to it from time to time just to fantasize.
the night after you told tara about said fantasy, you decided to send her a visual, just so she knew exactly what you wanted. it’s not like you wanted to tie him up, you just wanted to watch him break underneath you.
@/starringmc: this is exactly what i want to do to xavier!!!
you hadn’t heard anything from tara for a while. you half expected her to open your dm immediately. she’s basically chronically online whenever she’s not on a mission or training, but there was nothing.
a knock at your door pulls you from your scrolling, brows knitting as you get up to answer it. when you swing the door open, your breath catches. xavier stands there, cheeks flushed, posture oddly sheepish.
“xavier? come in.” you step aside automatically, shutting the door behind him before turning back, confusion etched across your face. “what are you doing here? did we have plans?” worry slips into your voice.
he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he lifts his phone and turns the screen toward you—the twitter dm meant for tara, unmistakable.
your throat runs dry. heat rushes through you, mortification blooming in your chest, your face, the tips of your ears.
“i-i can…” you start, words tangling as his gaze pins you in place. “i can explain?”
he cocks his head to the side and asks. “so you don’t want to do this to me?”
“no! i mean—y-yes, but i… i just didn’t mean… i didn’t mean to send that to you.” you splutter. “this is not how i envisioned telling you that i wanted to try something like this. i’m sorry.”
“let’s do it.” he says, tossing his phone on your couch. “let’s recreate it—i want to.”
—
xavier sensed you were nervous. it took you a minute to fully get into it—the headspace, the dominance, but you eventually got there and he believes it’s the sexiest you’ve ever been.
you sat on his cock, slowly grinding against him like you were trying to tease him. your hands gripped at his pecs, palming and squeezing them in a way that made him breathless.
it was a struggle… to let his guard down, to let you dominate him. his hands were on your hips and he urged you to move faster. he wanted you to bounce on his cock till he came, but you said no.
“beg for it.” you whisper. “i won’t move the way you want me to unless you beg.”
he whimpers, the beg slipping past his lips all mumbly and cute—just the way you imagined they would. “please. please, go faster. i want you to go faster.”
you hum, delighted, your walls hugging him nice and tight as his words shoot straight to your core. you kindly oblige, lifting your hips and dropping them to which xavier lets out a blissed out moan. his brows knit in the utmost pleasure and his eyes flutter close.
his hands slide up to your waist, gripping you tight and holding you in place while his cock rams in and out of you. you let out little squeaks with every thrust and it only makes his cock throb intensely, loud whimpers following your sounds in suit.
he tries to hold back. to not get so close, but he can’t help it. you look so pretty riding him with your tits bouncing in his face and your pussy tightening around him like a vice. it makes him twitch frantically.
and you can feel it. the way he jerks and shakes—you know he’s close. you find it oddly endearing…how he’s been reduced to this, but you bite back the smile and school your features into something firm instead. “don’t cum,” you warn quietly. “you can’t cum… not yet.”
his hands still you, keeping you grounded and speared on his length as he begs for permission. “fuck, please—please let me cum.” he pleads, voice broken.
“no, not yet.” and the sound it pulls from him makes your chest ache—the choked, desperate sob torn from his throat at the denial, raw enough to make your heart constrict. “keep fucking me, xavie.”
he shakes his head incessantly, “i c-can’t, baby—fuck, i’ll–i’ll cum!”
“you can hold it.” you say, breathlessly, resuming your wicked motions. “be good ‘n fuck me faster.”
he clenches his teeth, pounding into you just the way you want. his hips snap against you with vigor while his cock helplessly throbs. he wants nothing more than to press deep inside and spill his load into you.
“i wanna cum, please, please, please. baby, please—i’ll do anything.”
you can’t resist him… his pretty face, his sweet voice. you offer a saccharine smile, lean in so your lips ghost over his and whisper. “cum inside of me, xavie.”
a loud, relieved groan slips out of him, his hands grip on you bruising as he pounds into you before he stills. his tip kisses your cervix before he’s pouring his hot, long awaited release into your cunt.
he crashes his mouth against yours, allowing you to swallow his moans as his arms wrap tight around you. he pulls you flush to his chest before he rolls you beneath him, hard cock still pressed inside of you. you squeal into the kiss, breathless and startled as the world tilts.
when he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless, foreheads pressed against one another. you catch the darkness in his eyes, the heat flushing his cheeks, the way restraint is barely holding.
“can i make you beg now?” he whispers, voice low. then, softer… much more vulnerable, “please?”
© all works belong to MEDICLI 2026. do not copy or repost.
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