something you had custom made accidently gets sent to rafayel's place, much to both of your surprise (but definitely not dismay).
genre/tags: sfw, gn reader (raf also uses 'they'). fluff, comfort, some self-doubt and insecurity but it's brief and resolved quickly, raf is definitely breaking every traffic law to get to you. 1.4k words. ao3.
( a/n: my first time writing raf aside from the poly hcs, so i'm sorry that this may be ooc! i hope that i can get better at writin him with time 🙇♂️ anyways smth quick since my xavi fic is still cookin, so take this for now. also noticing that i like makin you and the lis have temporary self doubt then being reassured. blugh. kk bye )
A groan rumbles in your throat as your eyes creak open. You hadn't meant to doze off. You've just been even more tired than usual, with a sudden influx of missions and written reports to balance between.
Part of you briefly feels bitter at the reminder of the last few missions you've had this week. They've taken away more time from you than you would've liked. It's been putting a limit on your time with Rafayel, much to both of your dismay. Though maybe a little more for him, if the pretty words he's been using to try to entice you to stay in his arms are any indication, to which he's had varying success (and only adds to his despair whenever you push him aside). Despite how much you want to relent and give in, you have to stand your ground. Sometimes, at least.
A displeased grunt leaves you. You should've gone to see him today. You were so tired, though, and far too spent to gather the energy to head all the way over to his place, wanting to seek refuge in the comfort of welcoming sheets as soon as you were dismissed. Now you wish that you could've taken a nap with him, though. Ugh.
As you silently mourn the chance loss, you instinctively reach for your phone.
Your eyes widen to an almost comical degree when you turn it over.
Twenty-three missed calls.
You don't even open the collection of texts piling on top of one another, your eyes barely latching onto the last few of the bunch as you scroll down. You brief a few of them, from please pick up soon and im omw over rn dont you dare leave your place (dont question how ik you're home rn kk bye).
The sudden panic building in your stomach sparks. You hardly spare the time to process them as you scramble to hit call on one of the missed attempts, hastily springing back to your tired feet to start preparing for the worst.
The first ring doesn't even finish its tune before he picks up.
"Rafayel," you hissed. You struggle for a moment, cursing under your breath as one of your well-used guns tumbles from your grasp through your distress. "What's wrong? Please tell me you're okay—"
"You got me a ring?"
"…Huh?"
Your mind completely halts. Nothing processes.
"In the mail," he breathes, ignorant of your dumbfoundment. You hear the distant sound of a swerving car in the background. "I swear that I actually didn't mean to open it. Well, alright, that's a lie, since I did mean to because you've asked me to open your packages for you the last few times you sent them here, so I decided—"
Wait. Wait. No. No, that can't be right. A sudden, cold feeling builds in the pit of your stomach as you gradually stop listening, because what?
Yes, you had a ring custom-made, molded to fit the build of his finger perfectly, with small but invaluable words engraved along its interior where they would press their reverent promise against his skin. Yes, you've been waiting since the day you were notified that its finalized form was on its way, impatiently fidgeting in what felt like every damn second, your nerves alight.
What it was absolutely not meant to do is be sent to him directly, because you were going to wait for when the moment aligned for it (in how long, you really didn't know: days? months? years? whenever the tide was right and your anxiety would dwindle enough to allow it, so probably forever), so you don't know why it would have gone directly to him when—
When you almost always ship your purchases to his place. Which is what you've been doing ever since he offered his house as a shelter for your things after you resided in how crammed your own place has become. So you likely didn't even think about the address you input, with impulse, and your head full of equal parts unrest and spellbound thoughts of what the future holds for you two, causing an error in your usual sharpness that would have otherwise made you double and triple check.
For a moment, your arms drop to your sides as you still.
Ah.
Well then. It's not like there's any use in denying it now, is there? Never mind how your heart is beating rapidly against the enclosure of your ribcage so vigorously, despite how irrational its aggression is. Your heart pounds tensely to the beat of familiar doubt, as if it doesn't know the answer to the question that's stuck itself against the roof of your mouth, waiting with a facade of patience to mask the restlessness that's been hiding beneath each layer of your skin since you had the damn thing made.
No, never mind all of that, because now it's also just setting in that he's accelerating on the road to get to you like a madman.
"For the love of everything," you grit through your lingering panic, pressing the phone back against your ear. "Focus on the road, Raf!"
"Focus, they say," he mutters incredulously, like you were the insane one here. "Focus. Like every crevice of my soul isn't beckoning me towards the call of your own to get to you faster than these stupid streets allow. Focus!"
He scoffs, but then there's a tilt in his voice. Something unbearably delicate leaks through his mock dramatics, soft, firm, yet unsteady, somehow all at once. "I'm focused on what actually matters, cutie, and that's getting to you, now, so that you can answer the question and tell me exactly what this means."
For a moment, you don't say anything. Yet, in your silence, something in you loosens in the wake of his own anxious hope even as he attempts to veil it with his pushiness.
"You know what it means," you eventually land on, because nothing else feels right to say. Not until he's in front of you.
"Yeah?" he asks. The lilt in his tone is still there, yet it sounds maintained. Like he's trying to ground himself. "I'm not so sure. I think I need my bodyguard to help me decipher it. I think I need to know if we agree on my thesis here."
He's teasing you, but you know it runs deeper than that. You can hear it. It doesn't matter how he tries to conceal it or if he tries to spin it back to you. Beneath the playfulness, you don't miss the emotion outlining the edges of his voice, and quietly realize that he must be feeling that same temporal, misguided dread. As if you would ever even think to give him this kind of false hope. As if your question and his answer, the one you know is waiting for you, would be anything other than what you're thinking right now.
There's a resolved shift in your heart. It barely slows, still thump thump thump-ing in its awareness, yet the mood of it swings as it's grounded in the certainty of what it already knew in its depths.
It just needed a quick reminder of the devotion that's long been embedded in it.
In your heart's confidence in the answer, your voice settles enough to lend to something more teasing, yet the tenderness of your affection seeps through.
"You're in luck," you start. "Because I think I can help you prove it. So, do me a favor and don't crash before I get the chance to ask you something really important when you get here, alright?"
There's a sharp intake of breath on the other end. A moment passes, then another, before you hear the shaky sigh that follows, sounding close to relief. In the backdrop of your mind, you take note of it and resolve to make sure that there'll be no more room for doubt of your loyalty when he gets here.
Something flutters warmly in your chest. You'll have all the time in the world to show even more of your love for him, and he for you.
"Got it, cutie," he finally wavers, nearly breathless. Somehow, you get the sense that he's grinning like an absolute love-stricken fool.
If your lips can't help but twitch to do the same, then, well. That's entirely for him to see when he gets here, and for him alone.
i was hopin that i'd have another xavier work done soon but as i look over it i'm realizin that i lowkey hate how i wrote the second half of it 🗿 i think part of it is me bein overly paranoid about word choice (which is. normal for me) and makin sure the parallels to the first part are there. but also idk i feel like i've done so much better in the past. all this to say i am so sorry if it takes me a bit to get smth else out </3
i can't find it atm but i once saw someone say that they see sylus as being the spitting image of his mother and ever since then i haven't been able to keep it out of my mind since
hello, sorry that it takes me 1 trillion years to put anything out </3 i'm a very very slow writer in general and it does not help that i've been gettin hit from all angles by some bull and some shit these last few weeks. i have at least one wip that's close to bein done with tho so trust i'll get that out eventually 🙏
"You can call me kitten all you want," you continue, a huff of a carefree laugh escaping you. "But which of us has to snuggle against me every time he flops onto the bed?"
genre/tags: sfw, gn reader. comfort, mild hurt/comfort, angst intertwined (discussion of pre-relationship dynamic + vague myth ref?), established relationship, cuddling sleeping sylus, minimal dialogue. ~1.3k words. ao3.
( a/n: happy aprilus. have even more writing style experimentation. also me when i can't write intimacy normally and have to make it extra + add angst against my will. this was just supposed to be about scratching his scalp. forgive me i'm not normal about him. anyways. #kindredspirits. )
Gentle tips coast along the surface between porcelain tassels, eclipsing them in their aimless search. A slow, not quite methodical process, yet leisurely measured, with a descent that begins from the near highest edge and down to the thinned base, their absent haste somehow stalling even more the closer it reaches the bottom, before just as lethargically rising along the path it came from to return to the peak, and begin the ritual again.
Then, there's the weight. Heavy and warm, and almost bewildering in its juxtaposition to the white tresses that somehow occupy the same figure. Yet, another set of fingers, of quiet reverence condensed in its purest form, glides with familiarity against the toned skin that's been softened by its vessels' resting state.
They brush against valleys of muscle without pressure. There's no suggestion of urgency in their slow repetition, the same as their kin against the scalp. They take their time, lingering now and then as they caress the expanse of a defined, disciplined back, once engraved with the ghost of stress beneath the skin, now yielding to a newfound calm.
There's no rush in this intimate ceremony. It's slow, undirected, but no less devout than a more overt display.
You're more than content with this placid tranquility, as you're sure he is too, as he slips further into the depths of his sleep.
Sylus hasn't had the chance to rest. You know how exhausted he's been, even with his nonchalant attempts at dispelling your concerns. You've long since mapped the movement of each of his moods, down to when his limbs seem to drag against the effort of upkeeping his languid bones. It may be unnoticeable to anyone else, so minuscule that one could miss it, but not to you. Not when you know the shape of his gradual fatigue, worsened by the prolonged time you've grudgingly spent apart.
You just knew. You always do. You don't question how anymore.
Instead of extravagance, there was guidance. With you as the lead, walking down the path to your shared and well-lived bedroom that's been in his base longer than you've remembered him, hand intertwined with his. Then, when the door shut behind you, you changed lazily in the thoughtless routine of it, and he soon followed suit, though only after you felt his eyes linger for a moment on the length of your spine.
If you weren't sure of it before, you would've known the extent of his tiredness then, when he only offered a minute smirk in response. Not that you didn't still feel the brief heat of it, of course. It took more effort than you're willing to admit to ignore it.
Slipping beneath the covers afterwards, it didn't take much for him to follow suit. The invitation was one he would never refuse. The comfort of you beneath him, his head resting against your chest, was never something he needed convincing of.
You couldn't find it in yourself to make a half-baked tease about his mass against you. It was always more so for the sake of messing with him, anyway, or for show. The pressure of his body on your own was one you've come to look forward to, maybe even healing a part of something in you that you didn't realize needed it until the first time he had the nerve to fling himself on top of you.
After a few soft promises whispered against the heat of your skin, it took nothing at all for his eyes to soon draw to a close.
It hasn't been long since you've been lying like this, but it's been long enough for any tension in him to give way to warmth instead.
You're more than happy to be the reason for that.
You murmur, low enough not to stir him, "You know…"
You trail off for a moment, taken with a sudden thought to urge yourself closer. You press your cheek against the peak of his head, your eyes fluttering close in serene content. Without the weight of concern here, unable to reach your unraveled heart in the peace carefully built between you, you can match the laxness of his strong form, just as he can find room in himself to give way into a once unknown tenderness.
A quiet breath in. Then out, unshakable in your security.
"You can call me kitten all you want," you continue, a huff of a carefree laugh escaping you. "But which of us has to snuggle against me every time he flops onto the bed?"
Your lips pull into a small smile, even as a part of your chest pinches as your mind works against you to remind you of what this took.
There was a time when you used to force yourself to refrain from hurling misguided insults to his face for the sake of a poorly contained civility in the name of business. That your repeated reunions with him, despite your insistence to yourself that the last time was truly the last, were against your will. Constantly reminded yourself that to cooperate with him was a necessary sin, just as much as you reminded yourself that you had to stop feeling the desperate longing in your heart every time you forced yourself away from his hold, again, again, and again.
There are some things you won't excuse. Though now, as you gently nudge his head to look at the softened features of his face, your heart pings.
This is a body that has had the talons of grief sunken so deeply into its unripe flesh that it has forever shaped how he walks.
Yet, he's here, resting in the arms of you—the one who once swore graphic vengeance instead of justice against his soul for an atrocity that wasn't even his to bear the burden of, but instead allowed the weight of his soul to rest beside your own before you could even recognize the shift in your already crumbling resolve.
Another puff of laughter shakes your chest. It's not funny, but there's a degree of absurdity in where you are now that you can't help but shake your head.
You're here, after you welcomed him to lay his strength against the whole of you, to allow it to give way into tenderness, while comparing him to a kitten. This man, feared beyond comprehension, with a soft spot for strays.
It's something you know full and well would spark a light-hearted debate, a linguistic game of cat-and-mouse (he'd scoff, but get a kick out of it if he heard that) that would do nothing more than result in a headache, you're sure. Not that part of you wouldn't enjoy it, honestly.
You brush a stray hair that had been flung in front of his closed eyes, tucking it behind his ear. This man, composed of power that couldn't conceal the exhaustion that once stuck its roots behind his eyes, has somehow shaped his love into something so unashamedly pure that you once would have never thought could be constructed by him, for anyone, and least of all for you.
You never could have considered that you'd hold that same purity—an unyielding adoration. That you could come to call it love, and no longer be afraid of that.
You've come to realize that he was right. You're not so different. And, instead of fearing that, it makes your soul sing.
With a shift, you lay both hands on the back of his head, somehow easing him even closer against your chest. You're practically smothering him, really, yet you know that that's exactly how he would want it to be; him, submerged in you, as the day passes forward without pestering demands that attempt to draw him or you away from the other. Just you, together, and the quiet that now gives way to peace rather than seething tension between you.
He's never felt so safe. You know this because you feel the same.
"Just as much as I'm yours," you whisper, clear and loving. "You're mine."
Though he may not have heard it, somehow, you feel that your words reach him.
With that certainty resting in your healed heart, your eyes finally close to follow him in sleep.
"You can call me kitten all you want," you continue, a huff of a carefree laugh escaping you. "But which of us has to snuggle against me every time he flops onto the bed?"
genre/tags: sfw, gn reader. comfort, mild hurt/comfort, angst intertwined (discussion of pre-relationship dynamic + vague myth ref?), established relationship, cuddling sleeping sylus, minimal dialogue. ~1.3k words. ao3.
( a/n: happy aprilus. have even more writing style experimentation. also me when i can't write intimacy normally and have to make it extra + add angst against my will. this was just supposed to be about scratching his scalp. forgive me i'm not normal about him. anyways. #kindredspirits. )
Gentle tips coast along the surface between porcelain tassels, eclipsing them in their aimless search. A slow, not quite methodical process, yet leisurely measured, with a descent that begins from the near highest edge and down to the thinned base, their absent haste somehow stalling even more the closer it reaches the bottom, before just as lethargically rising along the path it came from to return to the peak, and begin the ritual again.
Then, there's the weight. Heavy and warm, and almost bewildering in its juxtaposition to the white tresses that somehow occupy the same figure. Yet, another set of fingers, of quiet reverence condensed in its purest form, glides with familiarity against the toned skin that's been softened by its vessels' resting state.
They brush against valleys of muscle without pressure. There's no suggestion of urgency in their slow repetition, the same as their kin against the scalp. They take their time, lingering now and then as they caress the expanse of a defined, disciplined back, once engraved with the ghost of stress beneath the skin, now yielding to a newfound calm.
There's no rush in this intimate ceremony. It's slow, undirected, but no less devout than a more overt display.
You're more than content with this placid tranquility, as you're sure he is too, as he slips further into the depths of his sleep.
Sylus hasn't had the chance to rest. You know how exhausted he's been, even with his nonchalant attempts at dispelling your concerns. You've long since mapped the movement of each of his moods, down to when his limbs seem to drag against the effort of upkeeping his languid bones. It may be unnoticeable to anyone else, so minuscule that one could miss it, but not to you. Not when you know the shape of his gradual fatigue, worsened by the prolonged time you've grudgingly spent apart.
You just knew. You always do. You don't question how anymore.
Instead of extravagance, there was guidance. With you as the lead, walking down the path to your shared and well-lived bedroom that's been in his base longer than you've remembered him, hand intertwined with his. Then, when the door shut behind you, you changed lazily in the thoughtless routine of it, and he soon followed suit, though only after you felt his eyes linger for a moment on the length of your spine.
If you weren't sure of it before, you would've known the extent of his tiredness then, when he only offered a minute smirk in response. Not that you didn't still feel the brief heat of it, of course. It took more effort than you're willing to admit to ignore it.
Slipping beneath the covers afterwards, it didn't take much for him to follow suit. The invitation was one he would never refuse. The comfort of you beneath him, his head resting against your chest, was never something he needed convincing of.
You couldn't find it in yourself to make a half-baked tease about his mass against you. It was always more so for the sake of messing with him, anyway, or for show. The pressure of his body on your own was one you've come to look forward to, maybe even healing a part of something in you that you didn't realize needed it until the first time he had the nerve to fling himself on top of you.
After a few soft promises whispered against the heat of your skin, it took nothing at all for his eyes to soon draw to a close.
It hasn't been long since you've been lying like this, but it's been long enough for any tension in him to give way to warmth instead.
You're more than happy to be the reason for that.
You murmur, low enough not to stir him, "You know…"
You trail off for a moment, taken with a sudden thought to urge yourself closer. You press your cheek against the peak of his head, your eyes fluttering close in serene content. Without the weight of concern here, unable to reach your unraveled heart in the peace carefully built between you, you can match the laxness of his strong form, just as he can find room in himself to give way into a once unknown tenderness.
A quiet breath in. Then out, unshakable in your security.
"You can call me kitten all you want," you continue, a huff of a carefree laugh escaping you. "But which of us has to snuggle against me every time he flops onto the bed?"
Your lips pull into a small smile, even as a part of your chest pinches as your mind works against you to remind you of what this took.
There was a time when you used to force yourself to refrain from hurling misguided insults to his face for the sake of a poorly contained civility in the name of business. That your repeated reunions with him, despite your insistence to yourself that the last time was truly the last, were against your will. Constantly reminded yourself that to cooperate with him was a necessary sin, just as much as you reminded yourself that you had to stop feeling the desperate longing in your heart every time you forced yourself away from his hold, again, again, and again.
There are some things you won't excuse. Though now, as you gently nudge his head to look at the softened features of his face, your heart pings.
This is a body that has had the talons of grief sunken so deeply into its unripe flesh that it has forever shaped how he walks.
Yet, he's here, resting in the arms of you—the one who once swore graphic vengeance instead of justice against his soul for an atrocity that wasn't even his to bear the burden of, but instead allowed the weight of his soul to rest beside your own before you could even recognize the shift in your already crumbling resolve.
Another puff of laughter shakes your chest. It's not funny, but there's a degree of absurdity in where you are now that you can't help but shake your head.
You're here, after you welcomed him to lay his strength against the whole of you, to allow it to give way into tenderness, while comparing him to a kitten. This man, feared beyond comprehension, with a soft spot for strays.
It's something you know full and well would spark a light-hearted debate, a linguistic game of cat-and-mouse (he'd scoff, but get a kick out of it if he heard that) that would do nothing more than result in a headache, you're sure. Not that part of you wouldn't enjoy it, honestly.
You brush a stray hair that had been flung in front of his closed eyes, tucking it behind his ear. This man, composed of power that couldn't conceal the exhaustion that once stuck its roots behind his eyes, has somehow shaped his love into something so unashamedly pure that you once would have never thought could be constructed by him, for anyone, and least of all for you.
You never could have considered that you'd hold that same purity—an unyielding adoration. That you could come to call it love, and no longer be afraid of that.
You've come to realize that he was right. You're not so different. And, instead of fearing that, it makes your soul sing.
With a shift, you lay both hands on the back of his head, somehow easing him even closer against your chest. You're practically smothering him, really, yet you know that that's exactly how he would want it to be; him, submerged in you, as the day passes forward without pestering demands that attempt to draw him or you away from the other. Just you, together, and the quiet that now gives way to peace rather than seething tension between you.
He's never felt so safe. You know this because you feel the same.
"Just as much as I'm yours," you whisper, clear and loving. "You're mine."
Though he may not have heard it, somehow, you feel that your words reach him.
With that certainty resting in your healed heart, your eyes finally close to follow him in sleep.
dailybridgerton
yousharknotpass
titsay
ellievsbear
