As a famous and well-sought after artist, Rafayel had the luxury of taking as many or as little commissions that he wanted. Well, at least within the constraints of his manager Thomas, who was more than eager to broaden Rafayel's network and prestige.
Rafayel, himself, didn't seem to care about accepting all of these commissions just to please the masses or garner the attention of artist snobs. If he felt the inspiration for it, he'd do it right away. If not, Thomas is bickering at him for days about an upcoming deadline that was more or less forgotten.
His current commission was unfortunately the latter.
It was some billionaire this time, an older woman who took great pride in creating a lucrative enterprise all on her own. She had spoken with Thomas about hiring Rafayel for a few wall-sized pieces to be put in her new luxury resort chain down by some expensive islands, the kind that television advertisements would romanticize.
She didn't give Rafayel any specific concepts or sketches, simply that this was a luxury resort to invoke romance for couples and beach living. Seemed easy enough, if only Rafayel could find the motivation to do them.
Romance and love wasn't exactly something Rafayel was overflowing with.
He had this everlasting bond tethered to MC, a woman who happened to be the little girl he had met when he was a young Lemurian. It seemed like he was waiting lifetimes to see her again, but despite that, the bond was merely a faint afterthought in this current life.
MC was in love with this doctor from Akso Hospital, a childhood friend apparently, according to her after he practically pestered her to spill the beans on her private life.
It left a bitter feeling in his heart, knowing he wasn't the only one who shared these moments of youth with her. Especially when she never returned back to the beach they met, a promise that was never fulfilled ever again.
She had forgotten him it seemed, and only ever remembered bits and pieces when they met as adults. Though their meeting wasn't exactly a happy reunion, she was simply a woman getting leads for her job.
A hunter meeting an artist. Once acquaintances, and now maybe somewhat friends. Begrudgingly, he supposed. He's probably messaged her more times than she did, her answers often short and brief.
Rafayel told himself it was fine, that not being the one in her heart as long as she was happy and thriving was enough for him. It didn't heal the growing loneliness within himself however.
He thought he hid it well, always masking such pain with playful sarcasm and well-placed smiles. No one in the media could tell the difference, he was just a famous artist with the exuberance of a man that was extremely talented and desired.
Though, the ones close in his life, like his aunt Thalia and Thomas, knew that when he was not in front of cameras or a canvas, he was a much different person than what is perceived.
There were many days where he would lay motionless in his bed with shut doors, his dissociative eyes lingering past the vast ocean from his windows as morning and night passed like an excruciating blur.
He was just escaping out of such a rut, at the insistence of Thomas who came by that morning after not hearing him for the past week.
It wasn't a big deal to him. So what if he didn't move or eat much for those few days? He'll get back to normal soon enough.
It's why he decided to don on some casual beach clothes and take his DSLR camera with him after all of Thomas's nagging and begrudging reluctance to eat breakfast.
He eventually reasoned with Thomas enough that if he took some pictures out by the beaches of Whitesand Bay today, he should at least be able to have enough inspiration to start the commissioned paintings.
Which wasn't a total lie, it's just part of it was so he could get some fresh air and more time to himself. Luckily, Thomas nodded with a tired sigh, parting with him at his house to who knows where in order to do all the busy work that comes with maintaining an artist.
Rafayel spent what seemed like hours walking across the coastline, trekking past the threshold of his home to the more public areas of the beach. With time, he started to see more faces around.
Couples, families, tourists... All of them living in their own little bubbles while he walked past them by his lonesome.
He did as he said he would, taking pictures of the oceanic landscape and inhabitants enjoying it.
Smiles and lighthearted laughter accompanied the rhythmic crashing of waves, the subtle sizzle and pop of damp sand being touched with seafoam. The golden sun was set high, a few clouds swirling in the blue skies. Winds smelled of salt and memories, his mind whisking him to a nostalgic, yet melancholy time.
Everything around him felt like a painting. Tangible and beautiful, but completely out of his grasp to step into. He felt as though he had no part of it, no ties like everyone else did.
He had no lover's hand to hold while walking, no child of his own following him around with sea shells to show him, not even a friend to converse with under a large, colorful parasol.
He was... alone. Painfully so.
With a long, somber exhale, Rafayel adjusts his camera's strap around his neck before bringing it up to take more photos. At this point it was becoming tedious work rather than bringing him anything joyful.
Another view of the ocean. Click.
Sprawling sands with people doing various activities. Click.
A woman crouched down with her phone pointed towards the sand...
Before his index finger could press the capture button, he paused and continued to stare through the viewfinder.
She seemed like an ordinary woman, wearing her light blue jean shorts, a loose summer camisole, and a cream colored crocheted sweater over top it all.
Her hair wisped around her face from the ocean breeze, her sandal covered feet shifting against the sand as she moved her phone horizontally and vertically a bunch of times.
He wouldn't think much of it, if not for her expression.
Her eyes were bright, blinking with crinkled eyes and a wide smile that made the apples of her cheeks that much more rounder. An ordinary face, or so he wanted to believe.
Rafayel couldn't help but be curious to what was so interesting on the ground, his camera zooming and pointing downward. With a focused squint of his eye through the viewfinder, his eyebrow slowly raised in surprised realization.
Crabs. Speckled and spotted ones.
She was enamored by the little scuttle of them heading sideways away from her. Her fingers could be seen frantically capturing the movement, following as they scurried further and further towards the shore.
Even from this distance, he could see the inaudible chuckle she lets out to herself as she was procuring her album with a scroll and tap of her index finger. He didn't know why, but he almost wished he could see what was so funny. As though he wanted to join in on her fun.
Rafayel blinks back into focus when he realizes she's moved from his camera view, his head raising up to notice she was heading off further down the beach. Without much of a plan, his feet started taking him forward, following her every little action.
Every so often she pauses when she finds a colorful shell, stuffing it into her pocket before surveying the sands again. He kept himself a short distance away, stopping and trailing behind when necessary.
He tried to appear nonchalant, pointing his camera elsewhere with a small melodic hum while he looked at her from the corner of his eye.
There was nothing fascinating about what she was doing. People shell collect and take pictures of the beach all the time. It was nothing special. So then why was he picking up on all her subtle mannerisms?
Her hand repeatedly brushed her hair away from her face when the winds would pick up, which only made her sweater sleeves drop back and forth down from her elbows to her knuckles.
Clumps of sand were definitely getting into her sandals and in between her toes, making her waddle similarly to a duck. That managed to get a undignified snort out of him that he was hardly able to restrain with a back of his hand.
It was only when she stopped for a final time, crouching down in front of a group of hermit crabs that his body practically froze on the spot.
What now? Wait until she's finished taking pictures again?
Surely to anyone taking notice of this would say he looks a bit creepy, standing off to the side just staring at her.
But what would he say? He wasn't a stranger to talking with, well, strangers.
He didn't understand where this hesitation he was feeling right now was coming from.
It was almost as if he was afraid to disturb her peace with his presence. Would she even want him there or be bothered by some random man coming up to her?
His fingers tapped along the edges of his camera, lips pursing in thought.
He was tempted to leave now as the awkwardness seeped into his very body, but when he sees her eyes sparkle over the crabs and a soft giggle leave her lips, something told him that the embarrassment of not knowing what would happen was worse than leaving and never seeing her again.
With a small huff of breath through his nose, he finds the courage to get his own sandals moving across the warm sand.
"Taking pictures of crabs?" He asks once he was a few feet from her.
His voice makes her head whip up, the upturn of her round eyes causing a momentary lapse in his attempted suave demeanor.
Cute.
Why was the first thing that came to mind was that she looked cute?
And why was he feeling more fidgety and clammier than before?
"Ah, sorry, am I in your way?" She frantically voices out, quickly getting up into a standing position with her phone held tightly in one hand.
His eyes darted down to the hermit crabs scurrying off at the sudden commotion before slowly raising them back up to her, offering a small smile.
"Oh, no, it's fine. You're not." He notes, bringing a hand to nervously run through his hair, "Sooo, I was just curious... What's the pictures for?"
"Hm? Oh, uh, just for myself."
"Ah, right. I guess a lot of people do, huh. Do you... post them?"
"Um, well... sometimes, on my Moments account." She mumbles, her gaze flitting to her phone.
Was her cheeks getting flushed the longer they talked? It was hard not to notice in the bright sunlight.
Rafayel had to hold back an intrigued smirk, choosing instead to tilt his head in teasing inquisitiveness.
"Ooh, I see. A famous influencer, huh?"
She lets out a sudden snort, or really more like a chortle, at the tease. Their eyes both widened at the same time as soon as the sound left her throat, but his was more out of surprise compared to her more flustered mortification.
"S-Sorry, I didn't mean to laugh like that."
His smile rose significantly, shaking his head.
"It's okay. Glad you liked my humor. I'm Rafayel, by the way."
"...Nonmc." She murmurs, giving a subtle smile back in greeting, "Nice to meet you."
His shoulder straightened at the pleasant introductions, somewhat pleased to have accomplished such a thing. Well, at least first impressions were going good so far.
"You know, phone cameras are good, but they always miss the finer details." He explains, tapping a hand against the side of the DLSR camera hanging around his neck, "Wanna try mine?"
Her eyebrows rose, lips parting into adorable confusion.
"Huh? Oh, I... I don't know. I feel like I'll break it or something."
"Don't worry, just follow my lead. Here, you can put the strap around your neck."
Nonmc sputters quietly, wanting to protest but failing to do so as he enthusiastically tugged the camera strap off his shoulders and gently put it around hers instead.
She could only blink rapidly as he helped lift her hair up that was getting caught under the strap, his fingers brushing against the edges of her crocheted sweater.
"Heavy?" He asks with a gentle cadence.
"...A little."
"You'll get the hand of it, I'm sure. Here, put your hands on each side of the camera like how I did."
She follows his gestures with tentative movements, raising her eyebrows for approval. He nods in agreement, moving to her side and pointing at sections of the camera with his index finger.
"Just like that! Now, you can look through here. The zoom scroll is up there and you click this button to capture."
She hums softly, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
Rafayel was quite near to her shoulder, the speckles of pink and blue in his eyes becoming a bit mesmerizing. She swallowed thickly, calming her nervous beating heart and focusing on his instructions.
After a few adjustments and a steady squint of her eye through the viewfinder, there is an audible click that sounds off as she takes a picture. She pulls back slightly, scrunching her nose at the small screen where her created image popped up from.
A simple landscape shot of the shoreline, the edges shaky and slightly tilted.
"...I think it came out blurry." She mentions with a disappointed pout.
He glanced away from the camera's screen, taking in her features while she was busy scrolling the zoom pad to examine her mistakes. The pucker of her plush lips, the slope of her round nose, the eyelashes upon her eyes that looked full of bubbly life.
"I messed it up, Rafayel." She added, turning to him with furrowed eyebrows.
"That's okay. It was the first try."
Nonmc still hums sadly, one of her hands reaching for the camera strap as though she was ready to hand it back after her failed attempt. He immediately hovers up a hand to stop her, shaking his head quickly.
"Don't stop now. You just started!"
"But I already tested it out..."
"Mm-mm, you only took one photo. Try taking some more. Come onnn, don't tell me you're actually busy right now."
"Well, I..." She glances around the beach, the picturesque atmosphere too tempting to explore with the camera, "I guess I wasn't."
"Then I'll follow your lead! The SD card has a lot of memory, so do it to your heart's content!"
"Are you sure..?"
"Positive! I won't take my camera back until I'm satisfied."
She puffs up her cheeks in thought, the adorable expression stirring up his heart for reasons he couldn't explain. Only once she nodded back did he smile widely in accomplishment.
Just as Rafayel said he would, he followed her lead around even when he knew the beaches and coasts of Whitesand Bay like the back of his hand.
He's been here countless of times, it didn't matter if it was early morning or the dwindling hours of night. This, however, was the first time he walked here with the purpose of seeing through the eyes of someone else.
Where his walks were usually for quiet, solemn contemplation, hers was brimming with curiosity. She had been shy at the start, nervously clicking the capture button with less-than confident intention.
After a half hour of crouching and pointing the camera as far or as close as she wanted to, his words full of encouragement sprinkled in here and there for each picture taken, she started to have this pep in her step that signified just how much she had been warming up to doing this activity.
It was odd. Usually he was more cautious in offering his things to others or at worse, potentially feeling the incidental touch of another. With her, she was respectful, murmuring little apologies and giving reassuring smiles to show she meant no harm if her shoulder brushed his or something similar.
Her hands were gentle around his camera too, holding it with such care as to not let it dangle precariously around her neck or allow sand to enter the small crevices.
Nonmc was receptive to advice he had on any pictures she took, sometimes even giggling at his teasing remarks rather than taking them as serious jabs. At some point, he was simply fishing for more conversation, listening to her hum or mumble an answer in response to his mindless babbling.
He learned of little tidbits. Work, family, hobbies... even nonsensical facts like what color her shell would be if she was a hermit crab herself.
She took it all in stride, answering with as much enthusiasm she could muster around flushed, embarrassed cheeks. Even when he alluded to his fame as an artist, which she seemed at least a bit aware of, she still didn't pry on anything that anyone else would have taken the chance to.
People usually cared to know about how much money he had or what other famous people he knew, but she never asked. Instead, she began with questioning what were his favorite types of paints and brushes to use.
It seemed like all she wanted to know was what made him become an artist in the first place. She was interested in the inner workings of his mind, or at least what he'd allow her to see. He never expected that each time he'd offer up a new fact to learn about him, that her eyes would sparkle in awe.
It was different. To be seen as Rafayel, rather than Rafayel, the artist.
Soon enough, the sun that was high within the sky had dipped close to the ocean's horizon, leaving the beach in a dark orange glow. He takes that chance to eventually seat himself on the cooling sand, gesturing for her to take the spot next to him.
"Come on, let's sit here and review what you've taken so far."
Nonmc hums in agreement, lowering herself down so she could sit and tug the camera strap off from around her neck. Her thumb would then start to press down on the arrow button for the camera's dial every so often, pursing her lips at each image popping up on the screen.
"I think I took too many photos."
"It's fineee. We can choose and delete any you don't like. Sound good?"
"I guess so..."
And so that's what led them to just procuring her photography session for the next half hour, the gentle waves crashing against the shoreline and the occasional conversation of people passing by giving that comfortable, almost cozy feeling to the atmosphere.
"Sooo... what brought you to Whitesand Bay in the first place anyways?" He asks as she was silently looking over the photos, his hands fidgeting with a colorful rock that was nearby.
"Hm? Oh, it's my day off today so I decided to come to the beach. I figured I'd go to one of the best ones."
"You do that often? Going to beaches?"
"Ugh, I wish, but sadly no. Actually, it's probably been a few years since I really visited a beach before."
"Oh? City life problems?"
"Yeah." She answers with a soft huff of laughter, "Something like that."
Nonmc lets out a long sigh, lowering the camera to rest over her lap so she could gaze out at the waters.
"I remember I used to come to the beach all the time when I was younger. My friends and I used to play mermaids."
Rafayel snorts, the mention of that little game feeling a bit ironic when she was literally sitting next to what would be a merman.
"Mermaids..?" He repeated with a playful raise of his eyebrows.
"Hah, yeah, we'd bring our own twine and jewelry kits to make stuff from the ocean. Shells, rocks... you name it. We'd spent all day crowning ourselves with our jewelry and pretending to be different mermaid princesses presenting our gifts."
Somehow learning that she was playing pretend-Lemurian did amuse him. He even wondered what she'd look like as one.
What kind of shimmering scales would she have? Purple? Aqua? Maybe blue like his?
He thought it would have been nice if she was actually Lemurian, knowing he could have grown up with someone like her. He kind of liked the idea, to be honest.
Nonmc clears her throat right after, her eyes going downcast with a dejected smile.
"I must seem pretty weird to you, huh." She mentions in a dull tone, making him furrow his eyebrows slightly in confusion.
"Why do you say that?"
"I... I'm very quiet and... I usually don't talk to people for very long. It's why I stumble on my words and go into these long tangents that no one really cares about. I'm just... I'm not like you."
"What? 'Not like you'? Please, I'm not perfect either."
"That's not true."
"Hah, come onnnn, you're flattering me."
"I mean it."
"Yeah, yeahhh."
"I'm..! I'm telling the truth!" She suddenly exclaims in annoyance, staring at him with wide eyes before darting them away bashfully from her outburst, "I... I mean, I think you are... in my opinion."
Rafayel blinks over at her profile in bewilderment, before suddenly bursting into a bright chuckle. Her face burns from his laughter, her lips settling into a deep frown.
"No, no, don't be upset, I'm not laughing at you." He reassures her, waving his hands up to dismiss the notion, "Honestly, I think you're way off the mark for yourself."
"...Huh?"
"Well, you wanna talk about being perfect? You're actually quite confident yourself."
"Me? No way."
"Why not? Look at you, you're talking to me right now. Telling me about your interests, your whole life. Who can confidently talk about that?"
"That's because I'm getting comfortable. Besides... we'll probably never see each other again anyways, so it's just easier this way."
His eyebrows knit tightly together at that, his head moving in closer with an accusatory gaze.
"What do you mean we won't see each other again? Aren't we friends?"
"H-Huh? Are we..?" She sputters, blinking rapidly at his sudden near proximity.
"Seriously? We took pictures all afternoon and are chit-chatting together. Or is it because we didn't play mermaids? Well, excuuuse me, I didn't know I was supposed to bring twine and jewelry kits to the beach today in order to make a new friend."
His miffed demeanor, that pout and fiery stare... She couldn't help but laugh, covering her mouth as more of it threatened to spill.
"Oh, now you're laughing at me? How dare you!" He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Geez... You know, you're... kind of dorky."
"Me, dorky?!" Rafayel practically cries out, making her shush him as people walking by turned their heads at the commotion, "I am not dorky!"
"Oh my god, Rafayel, It's not an insult. I meant dorky in a... cute kind of way."
He harrumphs, but at least quiets down at hearing her admit he was cute and perfect. How could he not preen at that?
"Well... since you meant well, I'll let it slide. But we are friends now, right?"
Nonmc sighs in halfhearted resignation, nodding along.
"Yes, yes, we're friends, if that's what you want."
"I do want that. And you should know, that friends... are supposed to gift each other things. It's like rule number one." He explains matter-of-factly.
"Huh? But... I don't have anything to give you right now."
Rafayel gives her an unimpressed look before taking ahold of his camera from her lap and placing it down onto his own. She thought she had done something else to somehow irk him, but instead, he starts to take off a bracelet that was around one of his wrists, dropping it into her palm as a replacement.
"Fine, I'll start then. Here. You owe me a gift for next time."
She slowly gazed down at her palm, lips parting in shock at the shiny golden chain decorated with various glittering, iridescent pearls of creamy whites and baby blues.
"Are these..."
"Yup. Actual pearls."
Nonmc couldn't believe her eyes at the intricate bracelet. These many pearls on a singular piece of jewelry would cost a fortune, and yet he had at least a dozen or more attached to it.
Not to mention the chain itself would fetch a hefty price.
The disparity between being a famed, wealthy artist and a regular person was quite clear.
"How did... This many..?" She managed to ask, eyes now as wide as saucers.
"That's a secret. Buuut just know I made it all by myself."
"The whole thing?"
"Mhm. The whole thing. You're not the only one who knows how to use jewelry kits."
"Wow..."
He looked over at her smugly, his hands leaning back behind him so he could leisurely square up his shoulders confidently.
"You can keep it."
Her head lifts up in one quick second at his statement, her expression now in complete disbelief.
"W-What? No, I couldn't take this."
"It's a gift. I want you to have it."
"You... Ugh, you won't let me say no, will you?"
"Nope." He answers readily, making her groan and hang her head down in defeat.
While he enjoyed teasing her, there was more to him giving that bracelet up.
Those pearls, they were the very ones he has cried before. Some old, some recent.
In the past, his tears were like endless mockery of his sorrow and pain. A reminder of all the things he lost and could never have.
He used to hide them away, kick them under some furniture or pack it away into some box so that it would stay buried between numerous things in one his many closets. After a while, he realized that doing so was no better than letting the pain fester like an open wound.
So, instead, he started using them.
Decoration filler for vases, something to line his windowsills, and now usually... jewelry. Necklaces, earrings, bracelets. At this point he was creating a small shop with them.
Rafayel wasn't offering it up for sale or anything, he was just simply creating a small collection that would fill a jewelry drawer to look at later. At least until he runs out of room for them.
Wearing one on his person was a way for him to somehow reclaim his grief, to have an anchor and a reminder that these were merely old memories.
It's why he can readily give it away to her. He wanted to see what she would do with his grief and whether that was something he could share with anyone.
He watches as she wrestles with this sudden offering, giving him a scrunch of her nose in answer.
"All right, fine, I'll take the gift. Even if it's too pretty to give away."
Rafayel huffs a laugh through his nose, a bit of relief untangling the metaphorical thorns surrounding his heart. He wouldn't have known how to react if she had refused the gesture and treated the whole thing like nothing special.
Luckily, she seemed to prove him wrong at every turn.
When he sees her gaze at the bracelet thoughtfully, that's when he tightens his hands against the coarse sand, feeling a sense of encouragement to up the ante.
"...What if I told you those were tears from a Lemurian?" He asks next, trying to mask the hesitating tremble in his tone.
"Lemurian..?" She repeats, tilting her head inquisitively as she glanced over at him, "You mean... an actual mermaid?"
"Oh, you know of them?"
"Kind of. Mostly as occasional blog posts about mythical creatures and stuff. Are you saying they're... real?"
"They could be. What do you think?"
"Hmm... Well, for the sake of going along with what you're saying, sure, I'll say I believe that they could be real."
"Then what if I told you that this specific Lemurian wept for days, enough to make that string of pearls? Can you believe something so beautiful could be created from such melancholy and despair?"
There was a shift in the playful mood, something dark lurking in his beautiful eyes. All he could think about in that moment was how would she react to hearing something so absurd.
Nonmc pursed her lips in turn, raising her eyebrows in mild confusion, perhaps subtle apprehension at the sudden lack of light in his expression.
"...You're joking, right?"
At her cautious question, he gave a smile quite like the ones he had been giving already, trying to ease what had been brewing underneath.
"Duh, of course I am. You're so gullible."
She hums in response, a little laugh through her nose drifting out afterwards. Her eyes followed how his turned to the sea after that, his gaze while crinkled from his genuine smile still lacked that luster from before.
It was easy to tell there was more to Rafayel than what was being shown.
Nonmc didn't know what lurked within his heart or mind, but even still, she felt compelled to listen. To be kind to this handsome stranger she only just met, it felt like the right thing to do.
"If they were really Lemurian tears, then..." She starts, "I'd treasure them with my whole heart."
He blinks back into focus, glancing back to see her open the bracelet clasp and slowly but surely wrap it around one of her wrists.
"...What? You... would?"
"Mhm. I would. After all, tears caused by such pain deserve to be treated with all the care in the world. If anything, I would hope that I could transfer some of my happiness to whoever made these pearls."
"Well... Maybe I was lying. Maybe there's no Lemurian actually."
"Even still... The thought that perhaps there's some truth to that little tale does pull at my heart strings. It makes me wonder about all the pearls created in the world."
Rafayel tries to let out a laugh to brush her off, yet the sound is frayed at the edges. He was barely holding his emotions together.
"T-There's no need to get sentimental. Not all pearls are made that way."
"Then I'm protecting them anyways since you gave them to me." She states resolutely, giving a stubborn pout as she clutched the bracelet around her wrist, "I'll keep it nice and clean in a pretty jewelry box. Maybe I'll place it near my bedside and wish it good night in hopes the Lemurian feels my gratitude."
Nonmc continues her dramatics by pressing the bracelet to her sun-flushed cheek, closing her eyes as though her thoughts could somehow reach the weeping Lemurian. Of course, she would never know that it was actually working, especially when that very one was watching her do her little ritual of compassion.
He had to turn away from her when she did, his hand resting over his mouth to hide the grin that's formed. He could feel his face warm, much more than from the beating sun earlier.
It was a different kind of warmth. The kind that seeped into the cold depths of a heart that was more akin to a deep ocean cavern.
How was her words able to reach there? How is it that he felt touched by her inconsequential actions?
"Natural flirt..." He mumbles into his palm, barely a whisper heard.
"Hm? What did you say?"
"Oh, nothing." He sighs out, looking back at her nonchalantly, "Just thinking about how much of a sap you are."
With the sun setting past the horizon, they took that as their cue to head out from the beach where the breeze was becoming a colder chill.
Rafayel kept to her side while they headed back towards the parking lots, most cars from throughout the day having left at this point. Eventually her keys jingled out from her pocket, her head turning to give an appreciative smile as they finally stood by her car.
"Thank you for spending time with me, Rafayel. I had a lot of fun today."
"Yeah... Me too."
They both stood there awkwardly, unsure how to end it. Nonmc, being the shy person she was, didn't know what was protocol, while he on the other hand was just reluctant to part with her at all.
He decides then to clear his throat, his hand coming up behind his flushed neck.
"So, um, I have to start on my next commissions once I get home. Do you... want to come over to watch me paint? It's not that far. I could even make dinner and stuff."
Her eyebrows rose in surprise, the invitation not lost on her. She wasn't one to get such things often, but even that had her questioning what that would entail. Was it a courteous suggestion or... something more?
"O-Oh, uh, sorry, I would love to, but... I have work tomorrow morning. It's all the way back in Linkon, so..."
"Ah... I see. Well, it's no big deal. It's whatever." He shrugs it off, trying to not show how dejected he was actually feeling inside.
Nonmc bit into her bottom lip nervously, glancing up at him in contemplation. She could easily end the night this way, more or less rejecting the possible advances from him, but...
"Is... the offer only for today?" She asks next, making him lift his eyes up with brightening hope, "I could maybe... visit this weekend. U-Unless you're busy, of course..."
He shakes his head before she could even change her mind, holding back the giddiness from getting to see her again.
"No, no, that's perfect. Yeah, I can wait till the weekend."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"O-Okay! Weekend it is then!" She concludes, giggling softly to ease her own excited nerves.
Rafayel lets out his own cheery laugh, promptly taking his phone out from his pants pocket and handing it to her with the 'new contact' screen open.
"Here. Put your number here." He directs enthusiastically, his words almost jumbled together into one with how quickly he said them.
She nods in agreement, tapping away her information.
"If you text me the address to your house, I'll go as soon as I can." She explains, but he shakes his head once more.
"Don't worry, I'll come pick you up instead."
"Huh? Really?"
"Sure. You're my guest, it's only right that I treat you."
Nonmc snorts, giving his phone back with a playful pout.
"Looks like I'll end up owing you a gift and an invite someplace too now."
His smile turns into a toothy grin at her response, his head tilting to the side in that charming way of his.
"I guess I should keep being nice to you so you'll owe me forever."
"Haha, very funny." She halfheartedly rolls her eyes as she goes to open her car door, heading inside.
Rafayel stays planted there to the side of her car while she starts it up, giving her a wave back when she does the same through her window before watching her drive off down the street.
Once her car was no longer in sight, he stretches his arms up with a satisfied sigh, his cheeks a little sore now from all the smiling he was doing all day.
He quite liked the feeling, actually. It was... rewarding.
It seemed like this time, he won't wait for love to come find him. He'll go running towards it.
I've never played LADS but I've been reading too many non-mc fanfics and the angst is soul crushingly good...
So imagine getting isekai'ed into LADS and you have no fuckin clue what the fuck is going on or what's supposed to happen.
Lucky you— the non-mc who only read a couple LADS fanfics— many would kill for this opportunity.
Despite it all, you know a few things about the cast and apparently it all has something to do with the MC and the boys whom you don't know very well.
Save for the few angsty fics that detailed how caleb and zayne were the childhood friends, the brown hair was a colonel and really likes apples, and the black hair was a doctor because of this protoheart— like tony stark perhaps? Did you even recall right??? —the MC has. Sylus is the mafia bad boy type, and apparently a dragon from another lifetime searching for... His sorceress?? And then, xavier was apart of the Hunter association, a colleague of MC who was a... King? A knight? You're not too sure. Finally, rafayel the lemurian-mermaid guy who's an artist and...
Yeah you don't remember jack shit.
Other than the cast, basically EVER is bad. Wanderers or whatever they are is also bad. And there's unicorns in the hunters association.
Great. Just great.
As if your luck couldn't get any better... the MC is quite adamant on stringing a civilian like you along her story like some lovesick fool— why does she keep insisting to be by your side?!?
Can't she see that crazy 6ft man colonel glaring daggers at you for stealing his 'pipsqueak' during their hangout?!
Or that crow bird named mephisto spying on you as MC drags you to whatever stall she wants to treat you to?!??
You don't understand—
You never interacted with any of the guys. Never tried to cross path with them nor MC!
So why does she look at you as if you hung the moon?
Why does she pine for you when the two of you barely know each other?
Why does she love you far more than the various men she has wrapped along her finger?!?! (?
It's crazy to think a woman with a roster of men at her beck and call would choose you out of ALL the options.
You're surprised and confused, partly flattered and partly terrified.
You're partly flattered because you're grateful someone loves you to the point of strange, unexpected devotion. But the MC keeps babbling something about you giving her life...? Whatever the case, her long bouts of spiels and obsessive demeanor unnerves you.
You're partly terrified because it means you fall on her roster's radar, making those men aware of your existence that you fought so hard to stay disguised, invisible, forgettable.
But with the MC's constant affection towards you, inherently you knew you were doomed from the very start she laid eyes on you.
You hope they support gay rights because fuck— you don't wanna be killed from unrequited love, jealousy, or any of the guys at all!!
You were just a random, a nobody!! So why the FUCKK are they also trying so hard to get your attention too?!?!?
You already have your hands full with your possessive, obsessed, and self-proclaimed 'girlfriend'. She insisted on the title, not because you reciprocated her feelings, but because you're scared of what she'll do if you say no.
Adding on five other guys who ALSO scare you should've been... I don't know, impossible??
All this stress is giving you palpitations. You need a beer, a cigarette, maybe some fucking wine, because you don't remember LADS as this horrific show of pining and harem—
just where is the angst, no comfort, "always second never first," "he'll always choose her not you," unreciprocated love, one-sided love ending when you need it?!?!???
----------------
So an anon recommended me a series called Fallen is Falling by @writingaffairs and it captures my idea (scarily so!) especially this line,
But the MC keeps babbling something about you giving her life...? Whatever the case, her long bouts of spiels and obsessive demeanor unnerves you.
I purposefully made this vague as to imply that MC is self-aware that you, the player, created her. Which brings emphasis on "giving her life" line
I don't know a thing or two about LADS and I never thought a similar idea actually had a fanfic in the first place! It's crazy to think about as someone who barely knows shit about LADS 😭
But I'm so happy that someone made a fanfic! And I recommend the series to everyone, the writing makes me so invested and it's such a good read
baker!non-mc reader finds her way into zayne’s heart
zayne, who has a sweet tooth, wandering into a new bakery near campus just to try something different.
you, who had only started working there a week ago, nearly dropping the tray in your hands the first time you saw him – simply too handsome to look at for long without getting flustered.
zayne, who keeps coming back, always ordering the same thing and sitting in the corner with his notes spread out in front of him.
you, who take it as a personal challenge to make him try something new, slipping a croissant with lavender and cinnamon filling onto his tray.
„please try it and tell me how you like it,” you insist. „and be honest.”
zayne, who is honest. brutally so. „it’s not like… anything i’ve ever tried before.”
you, whose smile drops immediately. „you hate it.”
zayne, who stays as calm as ever, meeting your eyes without flinching. „i don’t hate it. it’s just … an acquired taste.”
you, who from that moment on make it your personal mission to only serve him things he enjoys, turning him into your little lab rat, whether he likes it or not. the day you perfect your macarons for him and see him fully smile and even order more, is the best day of your life.
zayne, who is there through everything as you are for him: the sleepless nights during his studies, the day he becomes a doctor, the moment you finally step up to run the bakery, after he convinces you that you’re more than capable to do so in the first place.
you, who starts texting him at three in the morning while preparing dough for the day, and zayne, who is always awake anyway because his schedule is just as weird as yours.
zayne, who after years of yearning and pining starts seeing you outside of the bakery. leaning closer, so close your breath catches in your throat, he sniffs the air around you.
„you smell heavenly“, he whispers, while goosebumps rise on your skin. „like everything I love.“
you smile before you rise on your tiptoes, wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him.
colonel caleb x mechanic!nonMC!reader, who's the only person he ever lets touch his bionic arm
Colonel Xia--who used to be known as Caleb to his loved ones--doesn't seek out help. It comes with the job, when the said job includes his own subordinates betraying him more often than it should happen. Everything he can do (which is a lot), he'll do himself unless there's an absolute emergency. Especially, when it comes to his injuries.
He's grown accustomed to fixing up his own wounds. He wraps the bandages around his arm or leg and then pulls it tight with his bionic arm. He has to use his teeth to keep it in place as he binds it in place, grimacing when it squeezes his skin just a little too hard. He sucks in a breath through his teeth before he disinfectants the wounds. He uses his evol to bring the medical cart closer when he accidentally kicks it away from jolting in pain. He glowers at anyone who dares to enter the room when he's tending to himself--warningly. Defiantly. His men know not to bother him anymore when he's injured, even if they're simply worried for their colonel.
The only caveat comes when his bionic arm malfunctions. It's supposed to have an emergency repair system--and it does--but he somehow breaks it again. The nature of his work, he supposes. He curses the arm, often, because it serves as a reminder for the event that changed the course of his life. It haunts him like a curse--too essential for him to tear away. And to make things worse, it breaks often. Can this thing cause him anything but trouble?
He wouldn't be so perplexed if it wasn't for the fact that his arm is made of technology beyond his own skills, though he's adamant to believe otherwise.
The wires twitch persistently as he picks at it for hours, bags sagging at his eyes because he's supposed to be catching up on the sleep he never gets. He's lost track of what he's attempted and what he plans on trying next. Eventually, he hisses in frustration and stalks to the lab, deciding he needs a new set of tools.
The only other person who'd be here this late is you.
You blink at him, eyes wide as you process who he is. He's seen you once or twice around the base. Usually with all the other lab employees, and usually with your head shyly peering at the shoes of people walking by. So he's not very surprised when you shriek and nearly drop the project you've been working on for months.
He barely catches it with his evol in time.
It must be the fact that you look like a scared cat as you sit him down at the desk. It must be that your hands seem too afraid to get close to him with your tools. It must be that in the hour that he spends sitting just a foot away from you, you only meet his eyes once. But for some odd reason, he lets you repair his arm in a comfortable silence.
And it must be the proud smile adorning your lips once his arm starts working again, that he seems to notice you a bit more after that.
He's more than aware that you're at least a tad afraid of him. Most people at the base are, and he doesn't blame any of them given that all he does is glare or command. It hasn't bothered him in the past. But he finds that he doesn't love when you spot him in the halls, and it sends you immediately scurrying the other direction.
Caleb returns again a month later for another repair. And then another. Until it becomes a routine for him to show up at the dead of night, when it seems like you're the only ones still awake in Skyhaven. The soft whirring and clicking from the work you're doing on his arm is all that echoes in the empty lab, so that all he can focus on is the way your hair grazes over the surface of his synthetic skin to look closer.
He curses his inability to feel through the arm. He curses the damn thing over and over again.
The third repair, you beam at him brightly when he tells you his thanks in a soft murmur. It still appears stiff, but it's the kind of smile that he doesn't see often in his work.
By the fifth, you smile at him as he enters the lab.
By the sixth, you stop avoiding him in the halls.
By the eighth, he starts to take the route to his office that passes by your lab, even if it takes longer.
As you work, he watches you hold his bionic arm in your hands, examining the wires like they're the most interesting thing in the world. He can see your fingertips gently touching his skin, and he thinks he can almost feel them. You fuss, insisting he needs to start using the more certified mechanics, but he's barely listening.
When you notice that he's not speaking and simply staring at you with a gentle gaze, you freeze. His eyes lock with yours. They're a nice shade, he thinks, especially up close. You're so close that he can see his own reflection in your irises. Your hand falls from his arm slowly, and he intertwines his with yours when it gets close.
Caleb flexes his fingers between yours. "Why would I go to someone else when you can fix me up this well?"
He half expects you to pull away. He wouldn't blame you either. But after a beat of silence that feels like an eternity to him, you just smile. Something he's come to grow too fond of.
And when you squeeze his hand back, he wonders if the arm isn't so bad. An ugly reminder, sure. He still despises that he can't even feel you squeeze back. But he thinks that if you work on it long enough--if you fix him enough--he'll grow somewhat grateful for it. Perhaps it'll become a part of him. Never quite a part of his flesh, but his being.
Maybe one day, it won't simply belong to Colonel Xia, but be a part of Caleb.
same universe as this one, where caleb thought he loves brats until he met you.
caleb x non mc reader, where you turned his world upside down. he has never met someone else like you before—so selfless, so kind, so sweet, and yet so reserved at the same time. sure, when faced with bratty attitudes, it challenges him, but with you? he melts instead.
he never feels like he has to put up walls or keep secrets. he's always so tense and taut, especially with his work at the fleet, but when he's with you, it's like he can leave all his worries and stresses behind. his shoulders droop, his eyebrows unfurrow, his heartrate slows down, and he doesn't have to put too much effort in maintaining his emotions for the chip in his brain—you make him feel calm, and the only time he has to worry about his emotions feeling overwhelming is when he gets cuteness aggression, but you know what? that's not a bad thing. it just means that your mere presence alone is healing.
caleb is so used to giving and giving, but then you came into his life, equally a giver like him, showing him a new side to love that he has never been privy to. the first time it happened, it shocked him so much that he was speechless. it was when you secretly visited his office at the fleet, carrying flowers and a lunchbox you obviously lovingly made with your own hands since the food still felt warm. he was so touched that you spent the entire time on his lap, feeding each other bites, while he tried to hide his sniffles (but of course, you noticed. you only wordlessly made space for his emotions and just peppered his face with kisses. that shocked him too—that you know him enough that you didn't need words.)
how you describe your relationship with caleb is that it's tenderly reciprocal. he gives, you give, he takes, you take, you're equals. and your effect on him doesn't go unnoticed. the people around him has seen how lighter his steps has gotten, and how when he's hanging out with mc or gideon and his other friends, they'll witness how his smile is more genuine, and how it turns dopey when he looks at his phone and messages a certain someone.
you make each other's lives better, and someday, he wants to make it permanent with a ring. ♡
I FEEL SICK PLS LET ME SPOIL CALEB WITH LOVE ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ no more treating caleb like he's a loser, he deserves just as much care and affection
caleb x non mc reader where he's so used to brats because of mc, but then there's you, kind and soft, never asking for anything but willing to always give. he starts to naturally gravitate towards you, like how a sunflower faces the sun. you're so sweet that he wonders if he's developing a sweet tooth like zayne's because he starts craving something sweet every single day or if he's developing some sort of heart disorder because his heart keeps aching around you, but he doesn't seem to mind the odd ache, seems to naturally welcome it even.
and then there's the cuteness aggression. for the first time, caleb can't stay composed, not around you. he just wants to pinch your cheeks, or squeeze you tight, or groan and moan about how adorable you are and it's criminal. plus, every time he's dramatic about it, you giggle, and he practically goes heart eyes and tickles you just to hear it more.
tldr: caleb thought he's a brat lover until he met you :p
𝜗𝜚 most normal patients don’t get turned on from their hot doctor’s latex gloves, right?
cw: medplay (sorta)
more like this
“So, you say you’ve been having some troubles with your back, correct?” Your doctor, Kento Nanami (according to his pristine name tag and the sign slotted onto the door), swivels around in his chair to face you instead of your medical profile. You nod and sigh.
“Yeah, it’s mainly the lower half,” you say, wincing a little when you straighten up. “It hurts when I try and lie down or sit up too quickly.”
Nanami nods carefully. “Does this sort of ache-“
“It’s more like a paralysis.” You interrupt him, before blushing in embarrassment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cut you off.” He smiles kindly and you take it as a sign to continue. “It’s just- it feels like all the muscles kind of… seize up, I guess?”
“Do you get that feeling anywhere else?” He question, the clacking of his keyboard background noise to his comfortingly low voice. “Hips, neck, shoulders?”
“My hips, and my shoulders. Oh, sometimes my neck if I move it too quickly. So I guess all of the above?” You say sheepishly, avoiding his eyes for prolonged periods of time.
Nanami asks you the rest of your symptoms, concern floating a little across his face. It isn’t fake or false or even distinctly professional, he genuinely looks like he wants to help- it makes you feel slightly warm under his gaze, as he stares at you so intently like you’re the only thing worth listening to.
And since when were doctors so... attractive? Blonde hair sits perfectly above his glasses, eyes boring into yours, large hands typing something down into your file. Nanami sits in his chair with his legs spread a little, the whiteness of his coat a cool contrast to the blue of his scrubs, and you mentally slap yourself for craning your neck to get a better look at his forearms.
“Okay.” Nanami hums eventually, brows slightly furrowed as he leans forward to listen to you. “Well, if you’re comfortable, I’d like to conduct an examination of your spine and general bare torso, just to see how your body reacts to certain pressures. Is that alright?”
You snap back to reality and immediately nod. “Yes, I’d be fine with that. Do you need me to take my bra off?”
“Just unclasp it then hold it at the front, please.” He says coolly, “I’ll go and prepare- that is, wash and sanitise my hands, etcetera- if you could just stand facing that wall,” he notes coolly, gesturing vaguely at the poster board, “that would be just perfect.”
The door clicks as he leaves, and you suddenly feel rather nervous. The soft fabric of your sweater slips off and you neatly pile it onto your chair, before reaching behind you to unclasp your bra; with a quiet click! it slips down until you’re holding the cups in place just a little awkwardly. You try to ignore the way you're wondering if your doctor knows how to take off a bra, and busy yourself with the notices in front of your face.
The poster board in front of you has everything you’d expect to find in a doctor’s office. Information and helplines for quitting smoking, a few cartoon drawings of fruit informing you to eat healthy, all smushed in between the various other flyers. Just as you’re getting around to scrutinise the text on a poster about heart rate, there’s a knock.
“Can I come in?”
You startle just a little, readjust your hold on your bra while facing the wall, and nod before remembering he can’t see you. “Yes!” The noise of his shoes softly clicking onto the floor makes you shiver in anticipation, his speech drifting from somewhere unidentifiable. Like this, all your senses are heightened, and its making you nervous.
“So,” Nanami says from behind you, “for hygiene reasons, I’m going to be wearing a pair of gloves. Are you allergic to latex, at all?”
“No.” You shake your head again, ears perking up at the faint rustling of crisp plastic behind you when he opens the packet of gloves.
Silence passes for a few moments, broken occasionally by the snapping of latex against Nanami’s large hands as he works the gloves on and smooths them down. At least, you assume that’s what he’s doing, because you can’t see him.
The plastic makes a soft, almost creamy noise when he pulls them taut to his wrists, sliding them down across each individual finger. Something in you hums a little, an unbidden spark of warmth low in your belly you register with something akin to horror. Surely you’re not… into this, right?
“Can I touch you?” He says gently, “I’ll need to move your hair.”
“Yes, that’s fine.” You say, voice as calm as possible when his gloves fingers brush your hair from your nape and across your shoulders.
“I’ll just be touching your spine and general torso area. Let me know if you need anything.” Nanami hums, before pressing his fingers to your skin.
You almost twitch. The latex skims across your flesh, crinkling as Nanami thumbs at your vertebrae. It feels too intimate, even with the barrier.
“Does that hurt?” He breathes, fingers splayed across your shoulder blade. “You’re tense here.”
“No, I- it’s not. Sorry, I’m just not used to the… pressure, I guess.”
You can hear Nanami’s smile in his voice, “that’s perfectly fine, most patients react the same way." Yeah, I bet, you think, warmth pooling uncomfortably well in your abdomen. "I’ll move back to your spine now.”
As he does so, pressing firmly down on your skin, the feeling of the gloves is satisfying in a way that makes heat gather in your cheeks and, unfortunately, between your thighs. You feel so exposed, panties no doubt clinging to you below the jeans you tugged on for this appointment.
It’s all so medical, so clinical as he touches you. Fingerpads pressing methodically against your spine, occasionally reaching up to thumb over your nape; but when he gets to your lower back, your breath picks up.
You pray he doesn’t notice the flush. His hands roll over the dimple in your back where your spine curves down to the very tail end, but thankfully he doesn’t dip further than your waistband. "Does this hurt? Any pain?" Nanami says, thumb pressing down onto your skin. You almost squeal when he splays his palm out across your lower back, mind conjuring up images of him using the same positioning to arch your back further beneath him.
It should be disconnect you feel from this, not an urge to slither your hand between your legs and touch yourself as softly as he’s holding your back. You find yourself imagining how his hands would feel holding onto your hips as he ruts into you from behind, how they’d feel wrapped around your bare thighs.
Strangely, in these scenarios, the gloves remain on.
“You didn’t point me to any pain at most of my touch.” Nanami says, suddenly snapping you out of it, painfully reminding you that the exam was entirely medical. “Which leads me to believe you simply need to decompress- I’ll write you down a few recommendations.”
As he speaks, you hear the way he peels off the gloves and drops them into the medical waste bin. Your chest pangs at the loss. “I’ll allow you to get dressed quickly, and I’ll be back.”
As you pull your sweater back over your head and fumble with the clasp of your bra, your hands quiver. “Fuck.” You mutter to yourself; seriously, what was that? Since when were you into doctors- and the gloves they’re wearing?
Maybe it’s just him, you try and convince yourself- wouldn’t most people get turned on by a hot guy touching their bare skin? But then again, the gloves felt so good. The way they skimmed across your spine, the way you imagined his gloved hand dipping below your waistband. You’re soaked; and, quite frankly, it’s embarrassing.
When Nanami enters again, you’re already perched politely on the chair from before as he smiles and settles in front of his computer. “Now, then.” He says kindly. He’s smiling at you totally professionally, the way he probably does for every single other patient, and yet your thighs clamp together.
“I did say I’d offer you a few solutions. I don’t believe you need specially prescribed medication, so just stick to painkillers for now. As for homemade remedies…” he adds, sliding a piece of paper across the desk.
His handwriting is neat and loopy, the letters conjoined but still legible. “Oh, thank you!” You say, already skimming the list. “I’ll do these. Thank you so much, doctor Nanami!”
“You can call me Kento.” He smiles, standing from his desk to approach the sink in the corner and apply hand sanitiser. “Now, call in for another appointment if it starts to hurt again.”
You nod, thank him again, and hurry out of the door. At the top of Nanami’s neat list is written “take relaxing, hot baths.” And who are you to refuse the doctor’s orders?
That evening, after a glass of wine and a casual binge of your new series, you drag yourself off to the bath you’ve been gently running. It’s bubbly enough now to the point you can’t see the water, and they hug against your regularly aching back.
As your hands lie on your stomach beneath the surface, they start to drift between your thighs and your breath hitches a little. Usually, your mind drifts to various situations with various faceless people until your orgasm crests. But this time, you have a very specific scenario in mind.
“Very good.” Nanami breathes into your ear, slowly sliding out of you as you smear slick along his cock. “Doing so well, hm?”
“Oh, Kento.” You moan out in the fantasy- and in real life, a little muffled and breathy. “So good.”
His hands are firmly planted on your waist as he gently rocks into you with all the care he showed during your appointment. He’s still wearing his gloves, crinkling across your messiness and gently tugging your mouth open for your doctor to gently slide his tongue inside.
The latex bunches over your skin, shiny with your sweat when he readjusts himself to knock into your g spot even harder to hear you keen. In the bath, water sloshes at the sides of the bathtub as your fingers flick across your clit and you gasp.
But in your fantasy, it’s Nanami’s fingers. More specifically, his gloved thumb comes down to circle your budding clit and the ridges on the latex make you whimper; the material shimmers with your overwhelming amounts of wetness, and Nanami groans to himself.
“Look at this.” Fantasy Nanami says lowly, a lilt of laughter to his voice. “So messy, hm? Ruining my gloves like that. And here I thought you were my favourite patient.”
You sulk as best you can with your lips constantly being forced open around moans. In the bathtub, bubbles collect atop the thin lacquer of sweat on your skin.
“Oh fuck, please-“ you breathe to yourself, fingers working your cunt as you imagine they’re gloved in latex and belong to your blonde doctor. “Please please please-“
When you cum, your body seizes up and you gasp silently, before everything goes limp and you’re floating dreamily in the bath’s foamy embrace. But that familiar ache in your back has returned again- maybe you need to book another appointment.
All you had done was use the bathroom, yet the moment you returned to the table your partner was seated at you are greeted with the sight of him sniffling and crying, a waiter patting his shoulder and comforting him as you walk over. You manage to catch a few of the sniffled remarks your partner is letting out, 'they left me...' and 'I don't know what I did.'
Shaking your head as you reach the table, pulling your chair out startles the waiter and gets your partners attention.
His ears perk up and you can see the curl of his tail behind him, your unimpressed stare does nothing to him as he immediately switches from sniffling and crying to chirping out your name, the poor waiter looks beyond confused. You pull out your wallet and give the server an extra twenty for dealing with your partner's antics, thanking them and asking for the bill, as the waiter leaves you look back at your partner now happily sipping the last of his drink.
You should have known he'd do something like this, the claw marks on your toilet door a testament to his attachment issues. Then again, you have long since come to accept that your partner is truly empty headed, and desperately in love with you.
And you love that about him, now if only he would let one more braincell rattle around in that head of his.
Once the bill is paid and you're leaving the restaurant, your partner is weaving your fingers together, clinging to your side with a big smile on his face. The flick of the orange ears on his head is the only thing that tells you he's actually paying attention to the world around him, and not just endlessly purring at you about the meal he had just eaten with you.
You knew what you were getting into when you started dating a cat hybrid, but if only you really knew what it meant to date and orange one at that...
This behaviour is based on my fat old orange cat, he wails when he can't see me, like I have abandoned him on the roadside and immediately purrs the moment he sees my face again.
the morning light slips through the blinds, catching the slight dust motes floating in the air, and the first thing you feel is warmth. not just the heat of the blankets, but the heavy, solid weight of valko draped over you like a very large, very clingy blanket.
except he isn’t a blanket. he’s a 6’2” tech chairman with dark circles under his golden eyes and a terrible habit of refusing to sleep. but right now, the evidence of that habit is staring you right in the face.
his head is pillowed on your chest, his dark maroon hair absolutely impossibly messy and his ears twitchy.
you can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of your throat. they’re so fluffy. they look so soft, resting against his head, slightly drooped in his state of half-consciousness. he grumbles something unintelligible, nuzzling his face deeper into the fabric of your shirt.
“mm… wake me up with that sound again,” he mumbles, his voice a deep, gravelly whisper that greets you every morning if you have a chance to see him wake up.
you bring your hands up, tracing the shell of his left ear gently with your fingertip. he shivers, a full-body reaction, and his arms tighten around your waist. “no, no, don’t do that,” he groans, but he’s leaning into your touch like a big puppy starved for affection.
“you’re so cute when you’re sleepy,” you tease, sliding your fingers up to scratch the spot just behind the base of his ear.
his eyes snap open, that sharp, predatory gold staring right at you. “cute?” he echoes, offended and amused all at once. “i am anything but cute.”
“and you’re pouting,” you point out, poking his cheek. “and your ear is still twitching.”
his ears do twitch, betraying him. he glares at you, but there’s no heat in it. instead, he pushes himself up, caging you in with his arms, his face inches from yours. he’s so tall, so broad, that the sheer size of him blocks out the ceiling. it’s a little overwhelming, in the best way.
“you’re asking for it,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. you don’t know what you’re asking for exactly, but it doesn’t seem so bad, especially not after he attacks.
his lips land on your forehead first— a soft, featherlight press that lingers. then he dips down, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose, then your left cheek, then your right cheek. each one is quick, playful, leaving trails of warmth.
“valko—” you laugh, squirming beneath him.
he doesn’t stop. he trails a line of wet, sloppy kisses down your jaw, making a loud, ridiculous mwah sound against your chin. “you taste like victory to me,” he announces, kissing the corner of your mouth. “… sweet too.”
“shut up,” you protest weakly, giggling.
“it’s just you, i think,” he says, his smile turning soft. he finally captures your lips, a quick, sweet show of affection, tasting of morning breath and warmth. he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes lidded and soft. he nuzzles his nose against yours, his ears perked up and alert now, fully awake.
you reach up, burying your fingers in his hair, and his eyes flutter closed. he practically melts into your touch, letting out a low, happy hum.
“okay,” he whispers against your lips, kissing you again, slower this time, savoring it. he peppers a final kiss to your forehead and rests his chin on your sternum, his big body covering yours entirely, his ears flopping forward adorably. “you win. i’m cute.”
“thank you for admitting it,” you say, scratching behind his ear again.
he nips playfully at your shoulder, a low growl vibrating in his chest that’s more pleasure than threat. “don’t push it, pretty. or i’ll have to spend the rest of the day proving how un-cute i can be.”
his ears twitch again. you don’t say anything, but you don’t need to. he knows you caught him.
he lets out a dramatic sigh, dropping his head onto your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to the exposed skin of your neck. “fine. but we’re staying here all day. deal with it.”
you wrap your arms around his broad back, squeezing him tight. “deal, puppy.”
alex’s notes: couldn’t help it after seeing all the cute stuff w him
For the Valko requests, I would love to see some cute family fluff between MC, Valko, his cousins, grandma, and his sister (I think he had a sister in his lore, correct me if I am wrong), because I want to see how MC would get along with Valko's family. 🐺
𝐀 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄
synopsis: when valko brings you home for the first time, he warns you about everything: his grandmother’s food, his sister’s stare, his cousin’s stories, the family jokes that always cut too close. he forgets to warn you that love in his house is not gentle or quiet, but loud, practical, mercilessly observant, and served warm at the kitchen table.
cw/tw: valko x reader. very soft domestic fluff. light family teasing.
read here: ao3 ⋅ tumblr
Valko lost his nerve three steps from the door.
It was a small death, but you saw it happen; the brave lift of his chin, the twitch in his jaw, the small, tragic collapse of his entire face when a crash came from inside the house.
His hand tightened around yours.
“Dobro,” he said.
Another crash.
From inside, and older woman called, “If that's my good plate, I will put someone in the ground before supper.”
Valko closed his eyes. You turned toward him.
He opened one eyes. “She loves plates.”
“More than people?”
“Depends on the people.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and relief moved through him all at once, softening his shoulders, loosening the frightened line of his mouth. He'd been nervous all morning. Badly nervous. Valko, who could grin with blood on his teeth and make danger look like a door he'd simply forgotten to knock on, had spent the whole walk here giving you warnings no sane person could have prepared for.
Do not let Mika read your palm. He makes things up and then believes them.
Do not compliment Baba's curtains unless you want curtains.
Do not say you're full.
And, most importantly, if anyone mentions the soup incident, Valko had said, grave as a condemned man, they're lying.
You had asked what the soup incident was.
He had started to walk faster.
Now he stood before the old wooden door with your fingers caught in his, trying to look calm and producing, somehow, the exact expression of a wolf about to be bathed.
“Valko,” you said softly.
“Yes?”
“You're shaking.”
“I'm not shaking.”
“You are.”
“I’m containing myself.”
“From what?”
“Hereditary embarrassment.”
The door flew open.
A girl about his age stood on the other side, dark-eyed and grinning, with flour on her cheek and murder in her posture. She took one look at Valko’s hand around yours, then lifted her gaze to his face with the slow delight of someone finding a knife exactly where she had hoped one would be.
A slow smile cut across her face.
“Oh,” she smirked. “So this is why you changed your shirt twice.”
Valko made a sound. Small, wounded, entirely unlike a wolf.
“I changed once.”
“You changed twice. The first shirt was the blue one. The second was the one that made you look like you were going to court. This...This is the third.”
His ears went red.
The woman held out her hand to you. “Milena. His sister.”
“Unfortunately,” Valko added.
“Fortunately. Without me, you'd still think soap is optional in winter.”
“It isn't optional.”
“Because of me.”
You took Milena's hand. Her grip was warm, firm, and full of judgement she hadn't yet decided to use.
Behind her, the house breathed out heat. Bread, onions, some in old wood, something sweet cooling on a counter. There were voices everywhere, layered and crossing. One person laughing while another complained, a child humming under a table, chairs scraping, a kettle whistling like a bird losing patience.
Milena stepped aside. “Come in before Baba starts saying we were raised by wolves.”
Valko muttered, “We were.”
She looked at him. “And still, some of us learned manners.”
You crossed the threshold. The house was smaller than the noise made it seem, or maybe the noise had simply learned to fill every corner. Framed photographs climbed the walls in crooked rows. Herbs hung drying above the kitchen window. Nothing matched, and yet everything looked touched, mended, argued over... kept.
Valko leaned close as he helped you out of your coat.
“Last chance,” he whispered. “We can run.”
You looked past him to where an old woman stood near the stove, hands folded over her apron, watching you with bright, wolfish eyes.
“Too late,” you whispered back. “I think she heard you.”
“I hear everything,” the old woman said.
Valko went still.
Milena smiled into her shoulder.
The old woman crossed the kitchen with the slow authority of someone who had ruled this house before any of them had teeth. She was small, broad in the shoulders, silver-haired, with flour on her wrist and no softness wasted in her face. The softness, you realised, was elsewhere. In the bread covered by a towel, in the chair pulled out before you reached it, in the way Valko lowered his head without being asked when she came close.
“Baba,” he said, and for the first time that day, his voice lost its jokes.
She, of course, ignored him.
Instead, she took your face between both hands.
Her palms smelled of rosemary, yeast, and soap. Her thumbs rested beneath your cheekbones, and for one strange second the whole house seemed to lean closer. The cousins, the kettle, the old boards, even Valko, holding his breath beside you.
“So,” Baba Vesna said. “You are the reason he forgets to eat.”
“I eat,” Valko protested.
Teta Marika appeared by the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “You came here last week, opened the pantry, stared at a sack of potatoes for six minutes, then said, ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’”
“That was taken out of context.”
“What was the context?” you asked, because love had made you brave and terrible.
Valko looked betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
A boy leaning backwards on his chair nearly lost balance from laughing, another cousin caught the chair by its back without looking up from peeling an apple.
Baba Vesna patted your cheek once and released you. “Sit, dušo. Eat something before my family embarrass me properly.”
Valko gave a strangled laugh. “Before?”
No one listened to him.
You were placed at the long wooden table as if the decision had been made before you arrived. A bowl appeared, then bread, then butter, then a small plate of pickled vegetables. Teta Marika, Valko's aunt, kissed the air beside your cheeks and took the small gift you had brought. Mika announced that he already knew your favourite colour from Valko’s face. Luka told him that was the stupidest sentence ever spoken in the kitchen, which Mika accepted as praise. The little one beneath the table emerged, solemn and bread-dusted, and introduced himself as Niko.
“Are you going to marry him?” Niko asked.
Valko walked directly into the side of a chair.
The whole kitchen paused. You pressed your lips together.
Milena leaned against the doorway, radiant with cruelty. “Careful, Niko. Val only has two knees.”
“Niko,” Teta Marika turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “We ask guests if they want juice first.”
Niko nodded, absorbing this etiquette with grave importance. “Do you want juice before you marry him?”
Valko covered his face with both hands. You bit down on your smile so hard it almost hurt. This wasn't what you had expected.
Some foolish, frightened part of you had imagined a den in the old sense. Teeth, watchful eyes, a family arranged around blood and law, waiting to decide whether your bones could be allowed near theirs. Valko had never spoken of them casually. Whenever he said home, something tender and embarrassed moved through him, as though the word itself had fingers and knew exactly where to touch.
Now you sat beneath a crooked lamp while his grandmother tore bread with her hands and put the first piece on your plate.
“Eat,” Baba Vesna said.
You obeyed.
The bread was warm enough to steam between your fingers. The crust cracked softly, butter melted into it in golden lines. Across the table, Valko watched you take the first bite as if your mouth held judgment from heaven.
You chewed. Swallowed.
“It’s delicious.”
Baba Vesna clicked her tongue. “Of course it is wonderful. I made it.”
Mika leaned towards you. “He talked about you after the market yesterday.”
Valko’s hand hit the table. “No.”
“Yes, you did” Luka said sticking his tongue out.
“No.”
“You said, and I quote, 'she chooses fruit with such care'.”
The table went quiet for half a breath, your hand stilled around the bread. Valko looked at Luka as if betrayal had entered the room wearing his cousin’s face.
“That was private.”
“You said it in the kitchen.”
“That makes it private.”
Milena sat across from you and rested her chin in her hand. “He also said you have kind hands.”
Valko’s mouth opened, nothing came out. Your heart did something foolish inside your chest.
The teasing had worked him bright and flustered, but beneath it, something softer trembled. He was embarrassed, yes. Horribly, so. Beautifully, so. Yet the thing underneath was more dangerous than shame. This was exposure. A curtain pulled open in a room he had spent so long keeping dim.
He had spoken of you here.
At this table. In this warm, loud house. To these people who teased him because they knew what he looked like with no armour on. He had brought you home long before he ever brought your body through the door.
Baba Vesna filled your bowl with soup.
“He was always like this,” she said.
“Baba, please.”
“He was a strange child,” she said.
Valko groaned. “Please.”
“A sweet child,” Teta Marika corrected.
“A dramatic child,” Luka said.
“A biting child,” Milena added.
Valko pointed at her. “You bit first.”
“You looked biteable.”
“You see what I mean?” Valko turned to you with helpless outrage. “This is what I survived.”
There was love in it, the kind that had been cooked too long and reduced into something strong enough to stain. They spoke to him as if they had known every version of him and chosen, again and again, to keep putting food in front of whichever one came home.
You looked at him while he argued with Mika about whether a stolen spoon counted as a childhood trauma.
He caught you looking. For a moment, the noise thinned.
There he was.
Valko with his hair refusing every law of decency. Valko trying so hard to survive his own family and failing beautifully. His eyes met yours with a nervous brightness that made you want to reach across the table and be cruel to every fear that had ever found him.
Then Niko pointed his spoon at you.
“Are you keeping him?”
The kitchen stopped.
Valko made a tiny sound into his bowl.
Milena closed her eyes as if praying for patience and finding none. “Niko.”
“What? Mika said maybe she is keeping him.”
His gaze dropped to the table, to the bread by his hand, to the small old cuts in the wood. The blush still clung to him, but it had changed into something quieter now. Hope, perhaps. Or terror wearing hope’s coat.
You could have laughed. Everyone would have let you. It would have been easy to throw the question back into the room like a toy and watch them tear it apart.
Instead, beneath the table, you found Valko’s hand.
His fingers closed around yours at once.
“I’d like to,” you said.
The house held itself still for half a breath.
Then Baba Vesna nodded, once, as if some old contract had been signed in soup and honey.
“Good,” she said. “He is difficult, but warm.”
Valko bowed his head.
His shoulders shook.
At first you thought he was upset. Then you realised he was laughing, quietly, helplessly, with one hand over his mouth and the other holding yours under the table like he meant to keep it there until winter.
Mika groaned. “Ah, look at him. Finished. Completely finished.”
Milena reached for the pickles. “Good. He needed finishing.”
Teta Marika smiled into her tea. “Eat more, zlato. You will need strength.”
“For Valko?” you asked.
“For all of us.”
Dinner became less a meal than a storm with chairs.
Bowls moved, hands reached, stories climbed over one another and died unfinished because someone remembered a better accusation. Luka asked you practical questions in a calm voice: where you liked to walk, whether Valko had shown you the old river path, whether he still pretended not to like sweet things. Mika tried to read your palm and declared that you were fated to own a troublesome dog.
“That's just Valko,” Milena said.
“I am not a dog.”
“True,” Luka said. “Dogs listen.”
Valko began quietly placing the best pieces of food on your plate.
A soft carrot, the inside of the bread, a dumpling he pretended to move away from himself and somehow abandoned beside your spoon. He was not subtle. He had never been subtle. He was a wolf trying to hide a whole deer behind a napkin.
You noticed on the fourth offering.
His family noticed on the first.
Baba Vesna said nothing until Valko tried to give you the last honey cake. Then she leaned back in her chair and looked at him over her tea.
“Ah,” she said.
Valko froze.
It was one syllable. It landed like a bell.
“What?” he said.
“No, no.” She waved him off. “Continue. Starve for romance. Very noble.”
Mika threw his head back.
You picked up the honey cake before Valko could die at the table and broke it in two, placing half on his plate. “There,” you said. “No starving.”
He looked at the cake.
Then he looked at you.
His expression opened in a way that made the room, somehow, feel too small for your heart. It opened with that unguarded, bewildered softness he sometimes gave you when kindness arrived before he had prepared himself to receive it.
Milena saw it.
Her teasing quieted.
For a moment, she only watched him with something old and protective in her face.
Then she stood. “Come help me with plates.”
Valko blinked. “Me?”
“Her.” Milena pointed at you.
Valko frowned. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“That's not a reason.”
“It has worked on you for years.”
You rose before he could protest again. Milena took two plates from the table and handed you none of them, which told you at once that this had nothing to do with helping.
She led you down a narrow hallway lined with photographs.
Behind you, Valko’s voice rose. “Do not interrogate her.”
The hallway smelled faintly of beeswax and dried herbs. The noise of the kitchen softened behind you, still there, still golden, but now wrapped in walls. Milena stopped by a window overlooking the yard and leaned her hip against the sill.
For the first time all evening, she let the smile leave her face.
“He likes you,” she said.
You smiled gently. “I got that impression.”
“No.” Her eyes flicked towards the kitchen. “He likes people easily. He likes old men who tell bad stories, stray cats that scratch him, children who throw rocks at windows because they want attention. Valko is built stupid that way.”
A laugh escaped you.
Milena folded her arms.
“He brings things home,” she continued. “Broken things, angry things. Things he thinks no one else will be gentle with.” Her gaze moved towards the kitchen, where Valko’s voice lifted in protest. “He does not bring people home.”
Your throat tightened.
From the kitchen, Valko shouted, “It wasn't soup. It was stew.”
Mika shouted back, “Stew cannot make a grown man cry.”
“I was overwhelmed by flavour.”
Milena closed her eyes for one second. “Bože, give me strength.”
You laughed softly.
She looked at you again, sharper now.
“He was nervous all week,” she said. “Changed his shirt three times. Asked me if the house smelled too much like onions. Asked Luka if his laugh was strange. Asked Baba if she could please not tell the story about the goat.”
“The goat?”
“Later.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Maybe never.”
You glanced back towards the kitchen.
He had asked if his laugh was strange.
Something in you ached with such tenderness that it almost felt like anger.
You looked down.
“He didn’t need to worry,”
“He is clumsy with precious things,” she said. “Because he thinks his hands are only good for breaking them, even when he is careful. Especially then.”
“So be kind,” she said. “Or be cruel quickly. He will survive either, but I prefer to know which one I’m dealing with.”
There it was.
The knife under the table. The love with its teeth intact. You didn't resent her for it, you thought, strangely, that you liked her more for it.
“I’m not here to hurt him,”
“Most people aren’t, at first.”
“Milena.”
Milena’s gaze narrowed.
“I don’t know what I’m doing with him,” you admitted.
“With any of this,” you continued. “He makes everything feel…” You searched for the word and hated every pretty one that came. Fated. Wild. Tender. All too polished for the mess he made of your heart. “He makes everything feel like I’ve been walking past a door my whole life, and he is the idiot who opened it with his shoulder.”
Milena stared at you.
Then she laughed once, sharp and startled.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re gone too.”
You looked down, caught.
She seemed satisfied. “Good.”
“Is that approval?”
“That is me deciding not to be difficult.”
“You were being difficult?”
“Dušo,” she said, and now her smile had teeth in it, “I was being polite.”
When you returned to the kitchen, Valko was waiting near the doorway as if he had tried to remain seated and failed.
His eyes moved from you to Milena. “What did you say to her?”
Milena walked past him. “That you were adopted.”
“I’m not.”
“Emotionally, you're a wet dog we found in the rain.”
He watched her go, wounded on principle, then turned to you with genuine concern. “What did she actually say?”
You reached up and brushed flour from his sleeve. “That you’re warm.”
“That was Baba.”
“Family consensus.”
His mouth twitched. “You are enjoying this.”
“I am.”
“You were supposed to be intimidated.”
“By Mika?”
“By the bloodline. The history. The general atmosphere of teeth.”
“Mika told me my palm says I’ll own a dog.”
Valko sighed.
You reached up and plucked the dish towel from his shoulder. “You have flour on your sleeve.”
He looked down, surprised, as if his own body had been making decisions without him. Then he looked back at you, and the kitchen noise faded once more, though this time it was only the two of you making the world small.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
The question was casual enough for anyone else to miss the tremor underneath. You heard it. The naked, waiting part. You thought of his hand shaking outside the door. Baba Vesna taking your face between her palms, of bread steaming in your fingers, of honey cake divided in two, of Milena saying he doesn't bring people home.
“I’m all right,” you said. “Are you?”
Valko smiled too quickly. “I’m alive.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
His smile softened.
For once, he did not joke immediately. It cost him something. You could see it in the way his fingers flexed at his side, reaching for mischief and finding courage instead.
“I wanted them to like you,” he said. “I wanted you to like them.”
“I do”
“I wanted…” He stopped, then laughed under his breath. “I don’t know. Something stupid.”
He looked towards the kitchen, where his family had resumed their noise without mercy. Mika was accusing Luka of stealing the larger piece of cake. Baba Vesna had taken down a tin from the highest shelf, probably containing either biscuits or secrets.
“Valko, stop hiding her. I have photographs.”
Horror returned to his face with magnificent speed.
“No.”
“Yes,”
“No photographs.”
“Naked baby photos,” Mika added.
Valko went pale. “You do not have those.”
Teta Marika’s voice drifted after him, serene and deadly. “We have everything.”
He grabbed your hand. “We’re leaving.”
You let him pull you three steps before Baba Vesna appeared in the doorway holding a small album to her chest.
“Sit,” she said.
Valko sat.
It was remarkable how quickly a wolf could become a grandson.
For the next hour, they showed you the evidence of his life.
Valko missing two front teeth and glaring at the camera as though betrayed by dentistry. Valko asleep under the table with one hand buried in a dog’s fur. Valko at thirteen, all elbows and outrage, holding a fish half his size while crying because he had to put it back.
There was Valko covered in mud, Valko wearing a paper crown, Valko with Milena’s arm hooked around his neck while he pretended to hate her and leaned into her anyway. Valko standing beside Baba Vesna in the garden, holding a basket of tomatoes like he had been entrusted with the fate of nations.
Each photograph was another small door.
You had known him in pieces: the grin, the hunger, the awkward tenderness, the jokes he threw like branches over deep water. Here was the rest of him. Here was the child who had survived becoming himself because these hands had fed him, scolded him, dragged him upright, and remembered his softness when he tried to outgrow it.
At some point, while everyone argued over whether the goat incident happened before or after the soup incident, Valko bent close to you.
“You don’t have to keep looking,” he murmured.
You turned a page.
A tiny Valko stared up from the album, holding a wooden spoon like a sword.
“Yes,” you said. “I do.”
He stared at you.
Then, very briefly, he rested his forehead against your shoulder.
It lasted only a second. A shy, exhausted surrender. No one commented on it, though you knew every person in the room saw. That seemed to be another house rule. They would mock the wound, yes, but they protected the pulse.
Later, when the cups were cleared and the album returned to its shelf of holy embarrassments, you stepped outside for air.
The yard was cold, dark and soft around the edges. Herbs grew beneath the window, yhe old trees leaned towards the house as if listening. Behind you, the kitchen glowed gold, laughter pressing against the glass.
Valko followed after a moment, closing the door carefully behind him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You looked at him. “For what?”'
“The interrogation. The photographs. Mika. The marriage question. The soup litigation.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Milena.”
“I like Milena.”
“That means she behaved.”
“She said she was being polite.”
He winced. “Then she liked you.”
You leaned back against the porch railing, and he stood in front of you with his hands in his pockets, rocking once on his heels like he wanted to come closer and had forgotten the law of his own body.
Through the window, you could see Baba Vesna pretending to wipe the table while watching you both with shameless interest. You lifted a hand and waved.
She waved back.
Valko turned, saw her, and groaned. “For the love of...Baba.”
“She loves you.”
“That's her usual excuse for crimes.”
“It’s a good one.”
He looked back at you, and the teasing left him slowly, piece by piece. Out here, with the house at his back, he seemed caught between the wild thing and the loved thing. The wolf and the boy in the paper crown. The man who had brought you to the threshold with shaking hands and still tried to joke like fear could be made harmless if he gave it a funny name.
“Did you mean it?” he asked.
“Which part?”
“When Niko asked if you were keeping me.”
The question came lightly, too lightly. A feather laid over a blade.
You reached for him.
This time, Valko did not hesitate. He came into your space at once, as if pulled by a string tied somewhere behind his ribs. His hands settled at your waist, careful at first, then warmer when you didn't move away.
“I meant it,”
His eyes searched yours.
“For tonight?”
“For longer than that.”
He didn't kiss you immediately. Somehow, that made it worse. He stood there and let the answer enter him, slowly, like someone opening the door to a room he had been told was empty and finding it lit.
Inside, Mika yelled, “Are they kissing?”
Valko dropped his forehead to your shoulder.
“Leave them. He is finally being normal.”
You laughed.
He looked at you then, and the last of his embarrassment broke open into something bright, something almost boyish
“Welcome home,” he said, very softly.
You touched his cheek.
Behind him, the old house breathed and creaked and held its golden noise. Inside, his family waited with tea, teeth, stories, and a place at the table already made yours.
emo! choso loves using his tongue on you, mostly because of his piercing that leaves you shaking and wanting for more the second the cold metal meets your needy cunt.
emo! choso lets he’s you into the break room once his lunch break starts so he can have his way with you, pushing your tiny skirt up to your waist as he pounds into you at an angle that manages to hit your g-spot immediately.
emo! choso is protective over you, shooting boys a nasty glare if he even as much sees them looking at you in a hungry manner. and you eat it up every time because you love the way his large hands wrap around you in possession.
emo! choso lets you dye his hair once in a while, letting you experiment with different colored dye all while you cock-warm him, of course.
emo! choso has a piercing on his tip and you’re crazy about it. you love licking it when you give him head and he loves it as much as you do, throwing his head back in pleasure as he feels you gagging on him when you feel the cold ball hitting the back of your throat.
emo! choso puts on his favorite music as he thrusts into you at the beat of the song. at the end, he gets bored and begins pumping in and out of you as fast as he can.
emo! choso watches you gather your combined releases, placing them on his tattoos, almost as if you were coloring him in with your cum. he forces you to lick him up afterwards.
emo! choso loves sharing you with his coworker, suguru. the two dark hair colored boys using up your needy holes at the same time. suguru leaves for a bit, returning back to the store with a dildo.
“can’t let your pretty asshole empty, now can we?”
janainaart
baratheonpilled
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