“H-hey...don’t be so rough with her…” Your hand reaches out reflexively, ready to take the guitar back if necessary.
“Chill out,” your friend sticks a foot out to keep you from closing in. “You’re always so wound up all the time over this guitar.”
You frown, trying to mind the overreacting your friend group is always accusing you of. ‘Just a guitar,’ they always say as they joke and jest at your expense for being so overprotective of an inanimate object. “You’d understand if you had anyone--anything that meant a lot to you.”
“Where’d you say you got it from again?” They strum a few chords and fiddle with the tuners again, “Family heirloom?”
“No--” you swallow against your dry throat, trying to string together a cohesive, and convincing, statement. “It was given to me by someone…”
“Oh,” the smile on their face grows, “consolation to being dumped, huh?” They erupt into laughter at your expression; deeming their theory correct and moving on before even giving you the chance to defend yourself.
After a few more minutes of your friend manhandling your guitar, you finally wrestle it away to properly tune it; unable to stand hearing the out of tune notes any longer.
“What made you take up guitar anyway?” they ask, “You never played back then.”
“Just...picked it up.” The sounds the guitar makes when you strum it are marvelous; almost as if the instrument is singing. Of course, your friend notices the change immediately, and you have to explain that they were so out of tune, it was impossible to get a good sound.
Yet, when you pass the guitar back, the sound is dull and muted. You offer to teach them some other time--it is getting late after all. It takes some doing, but you successfully dodge their prying questions and finally get them out the door. You wave goodbye, close the door, and don’t even flinch when a pair of arms snake around your torso.
Warm breath ghosts over the back of your neck, “It’s not like you to let someone put their hands all over me. It felt kind of...naughty.”
“I wanted to test something,” you turn, returning the gesture of slipping your arms around her as well.
“Oh?” She brandishes the curve of her fangs with her smile, “And what would that be?”
“Proof,” you lean in, lips pressing against her shoulder and slowly making a steady path up her neck.
“Of?” Her head tilts back the higher up her neck your kisses crawl until your lips are brushing.
“You only sing for me.”
Nevan chuckles from the back of her throat, making the sound intensely more sultry than it had any business being. “Well it does take a certain level of skilled fingers to play my favorite tune.” Her hands smooth up your arms and neck before she presses you against the closed door, “I hope you’re in the mood to play some more, sugar.”
--- lol so i don’t expect this to get any attention what-so-ever but uh....Nevan, amirite??😳
