Craving Five Guys

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Your hands strain against the rope around your wrists. You're not really sure how you got here but your two boyfriends seem to have an agenda that you've been left in the dark about.

They've been taking their turns with their fingers and mouths and now the vibrator was out to add along to your torture. "Come whenever you want." Zayne had said. Except they denied you at every chance they got.

They'd given you permission to come yet they never actually let you come - the highest form of cruelty in your eyes.

"Please," You sob. "Just wanna come."

You've been begging them for so long yet they continue to ignore you. Pulling away from you the second you feel like you're finally going to tip over the edge.

Like right now, Zayne's knuckle-deep inside your cunt, fingers honed in on your g-spot while his thumb rubs at your clit. Your walls clench tightly around him and you're close, so so close - until he pulls his fingers free.

"Her walls squeeze in a certain way when she's about to come." Zayne says to Caleb. "I will always be able to tell, you won't win."

"W-win?" You stammer out.

"And like I said," Caleb says, completely ignoring you and replacing Zayne's position between your spread legs. "I don't need to feel her to know."

He reaches for the wand vibrator again and you whimper.

The worst part is, you're allowing this. You know you can use your safeword at any time and the pain will stop. But, truthfully, you want your head to be rid of thoughts. You wanted this, that's why you'd been so irritatingly bratty all week.

Caleb presses a button and the wand buzzes to life. He places it against your pussy and your back arches. Your poor clit is so sensitive, it feels raw with how much they've played with it, and every touch has you simultaneously wanting to pull away yet push closer.

You try to close your thighs but Caleb just pushes them back open again. He's watching you with such an intensity, like he's analysing every part of your body, every sound and every movement you make.

Your breathing quickens and you can feel it rising again. The knot in your belly grows and grows and you're right there, it's going to happen, you're finally going to get your release.

Caleb abruptly pulls the wand off your clit.

"See," He says, switching the wand back off. "That noise right there. She whines and does these short little breaths. That's how I know."

You cry out in frustration, a tear running down your cheek. The sheets below you are soaked in your sweat and you're not sure how much more you can take.

"I know, baby." Caleb soothes you. "But Zayne thinks he knows you better than me, and I just can't have that, you know?"

Somewhere in your fucked out brain it clicks: They're competing. They're fucking competing.

"Watch," Caleb says, attention now turned back to Zayne. "I'll do it again, but this time listen closely."

He clicks the wand back on, even higher than before, and presses it back onto your clit.

Immediately you're back on the cusp of coming once more.

"Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!" You beg him, words slurring together.

Zayne strokes your thigh, grounding you. Your whole body is shaking. You push your pussy harder onto the head of the wand because you don't care about whatever the fuck is going on between your two boyfriends. You just want to come.

"Wait for it." Caleb says, tilting his head as he listens carefully.

You couldn't even hold back your tells if you tried. Your breath comes out in pants and you whine every second the vibrator pushes you closer to orgasm.

And then he pulls away again.

"No!" You cry.

You glare up at the two of them and see Caleb smiling smugly over at Zayne who just rolls his eyes.

"I'm not saying you can't tell." Zayne says as he casually pushes his middle and ring fingers back inside you. "My point is that the body can never lie."

His fingers curl and stroke your g-spot, the other hand coming to press on your abdomen. And then his arm starts to move, jostling you on the bed as he literally fucks you with his fingers.

"Oh my - fuck - please let me come." You beg again. "Needa come all over your fingers, oh god, please."

"For example," He continues as though you hadn't said a word. "She can hide or muffle her noises as much as she likes but her body will always give in to me."

It's like he's giving a damn lecture at the university and it's utterly infuriating because you just. Want. To. Come.

"I could be deafened and blindfolded," He looks at Caleb as his fingers relentlessly work inside you. "But I would still be able to tell from the way her walls clench around my fingers and from how much her g-spot swells." He doesn't stop and your pussy is making the most obscene sounds. "And then when you add in things like heartrate and, as you've already pointed out, breathing patterns, it's not too difficult of a thing to determine."

You're holding your breath, your head is light, but you're determined to get yourself there. That familiar sensation builds for the umpteenth time and all you need is a couple more seconds and you'll-

You scream through clenched teeth.

"There," Zayne says defiantly after quickly slipping his fingers free from your sopping cunt. "If I had kept going a second longer I believe she would've orgasmed, isn't that right?"

Zayne looks down at you and you pout at him angrily. You're seriously starting to consider giving one of them a swift kick to the groin. Zayne clears his throat.

"Perhaps we should agree that we both know her body well enough to always predict when she is going to climax." Zayne suggests. "I fear for our safety if we do not let her come for much longer."

His eyes crinkle in a smile and you're grateful, because lord knows that Caleb would go on all day just to prove his point.

"Fiiiiine." Caleb sighs. "I was bored of edging her anyways."

He looks down at you in thought.

"How about we see who can make this pretty pussy squirt all over the sheets the most?" He says with a cruel smirk as he turns the wand back on, clicking it all the way to the highest setting.

--

"squirting and female ejaculation are two different phenomenon." his voice is buttery soft as his fingers glide over your slit, gathering your slick to spread it over your glistening lips.

"ngh—released from the skene's glands and urethr—ah! respectively." you manage, lifting your head to see the way his slender fingers disappear into your syrupy hole.

"Its commendable how well informed you are. however, I'd rather you lost your mind on my fingers right now, darling." with that, his digits hook up, rubbing the swollen spot inside you.

his thumb finds your clit, making your walls quiver and melt around him. Your brain is melting into a mush. He hasn't moved his fingers. He's just caressing your sweet spot intently.

a strange weight accumulates in your stomach each time he does it, making you squirm under him.

"zayne—i feel something here..." your palm comes to your lower tummy.

"good. we're making progress." he mumbles, leaning down to replace his thumb with his lips. he nips and sucks your clit, mouth opening to lick broad stripe over your pebbled nub.

his fingers stop moving. His wrist does instead. Fingers he keeps hooked tight, massaging your sweet spot with pin-point precision.

"focus on the anterior wall is key." he tells you, taking your clit back in his mouth for a deep suckle, making your thighs tremble with need. his fingers trickle up your skin, to your navel, planting kisses alongside his touches.

"a little pressure here..." The heel of his palm presses down on your lower stomach. gently at first, slowly growing. You nearly choke on a moan. "Do you feel it?"

Feel what? The way you want to pee? cum? Or both?

"oh-oh god!" your fingers find purchase in his hair as he scissors you open. you're sucking him in, spasming around him wildly.

His fingers jab your g spot. He can feel them against his palm. that alone has him pathetically leaking pre in his pants as he ruts himself against the mattress.

"this makes your g spot more accessible. Paired with the pressure on your anterior wall..." He emphasizes it with his arm moving up and down, prodding that spongy spot, making your pussy gurgle and squelch lewdly. the intensity grows. his entire arm works now, making you quake violently with every movement.

"oh shitshit-zaynee—" the heat in your stomach is growing, coiling—a little more and you'll snap so hard. the thought alone has you letting out a perverted laugh.

"zayne... I think I'm about to—" you're so perfectly fucked out right now.

"I can feel it." He murmurs, leaning down to kiss your thigh. "Relax your pelvic muscles."

"y-youre gonna get sprayed in your face—"

"perhaps I want that." he admits, mesmerized. "after all, the female ejaculate contains high amounts of glucose." whaat a fuckin perv

but that's all it takes to maul your restraint. you gush around him with a silent cry, spraying so hard that your back arches off the mattress. his fingers keep going. rightly so because something else approaches. that familiar coil in your stomach.

mother of all things good. are you cumming? you see white before you can ruminate on it further. he groans in delight, mouth latching on to your creaming pussy. it makes you squeal in overstimulation.

when he finally lifts his face, licking your cream off his fingers—you see it—face dripping wet and dazed.

zayne never refuses to assist your research after that.

part 2 of the FOR SCIENCE series

Even when you stumbled while starting over, your instructor always quipped, “Elegantly, ____. The beauty of you lies in your elegance - and only in your elegance.”

When you talk to ballet magazines and inquisitive students who marveled at your technique, you always laughed softly and said that elegance is your key. It’s what's on the forefront of your mind when you rehearse pieces and perform in front of sold out crowds - it’s the quiet perfection you’ve put pressure on yourself to achieve.

What you never mention, though, is the excruciating pain that you have to hide every time you perform.

The sleeplessness after a full day of rehearsals with a show at night. Rolling out your muscles to try and alleviate even a smidge of your aches. Wrapping your toes before putting on your pointe shoes so that you have a fighting chance of ignoring the pain.

The breathlessness of a fall, trying to protect your body.

There’s a sharp gasp from the corps de ballet around you when you slip from the grasp of your pas de deux partner, and you can’t even scream as you try to land on something that won’t ruin your life, won’t end your career, something, anything-

All you can register in your mind is a sickening crack when you land on your right ankle the wrong way, your arms slamming against the stage as you try and protect your head. There’s still recoil though, and you feel the shockwaves down your spine as you gasp out heavily.

“____!” Your choreographer is on stage and hovering above you before you can even register what’s happening, your vision bleary as he grabs your face gently so you can look at him. “Can you hear me?”

“I-” you try to begin, only for a pained moan to claw its way out of your chest when you feel a heated numbness blazing your entire body from your ankle. “I can’t feel anything-”

“Call the hospital and clear out the stage!” His panicked voice blurs in and out as you sob, your brain barely able to catch up from the haze you’re in. You don’t know many things but you do know one thing:

You might not ever recover from this.

“But ____ is the crowning jewel of the company!”

“Her ankle is broken, Director Cho.”

“She’s in rehabilitation!”

“A prima ballerina in rehabilitation is no ballerina at all. She will be relegated to instructing the corps. Put her on indefinite hiatus.”

All you can do is sob at Director Ansel Lee’s cold words, even when Director Eric Cho tries his hardest to defend you.

Your career is over.

It’s been a year since you’ve been forced into the position you’re in now.

You’ve gotten used to teaching the students of the company and the intense rehabilitation for your body. Although it’s long been healed, you never fully let your weight rest heavily on your right ankle - resulting in stilted, awkward steps where you once flowed.

You’ve retreated even further into yourself, no longer the type to give soft smiles or strike up conversations like you once were open to do. It’s as if your soul left you the day you fell and only the shadow of you remains.

In your loneliest moments, you sometimes go to a private practice room reserved for only the principals late at night. You put on a song and try to let the music flow through you, but it’s never as good as it used to be.

You wonder if you’ll ever reach that pinnacle of success again.

Something feels different when you walk into the practice room today, though. The corps de ballet you’re working with are all abuzz, hushed whispers and soft giggles as they whisper of a new arrival. Even with the soft clearing of your throat the whispers never abate, and it takes the pianist starting the beginning notes of warm up for them to begin settling down.

Still, your curiosity is piqued and you address them as they go through their pliés on the barre. “What’s happening today?”

The company looks at you and you sigh softly, trying your best to muster on as big of a smile as you can manage. “I won’t bite, I’m curious as well.”

One of the girls lifts her head to look at you, her shy demeanor making you soften just a little further. “A new principal is coming today, Ms. ____.”

“Is that so?” You hum quietly as you motion for the pianist to start with the warm up to start, guiding your students through the combination you had in mind. Your head wanders, though, and before you can stop yourself you find yourself asking, “Who’s the new principal?”

It’s as if all of the tension in the room disappears as the corps bursts into a frenzy of chatter and information - gushing over this mysterious new principal that may as well have been the second coming of a god if you didn’t put your all in dissecting the information they were spouting.

“Pricipal Qi is as fluid as water…”

“He’s such a dream boat!”

“...a Chansia City Company transfer!”

“...studied abroad for two years in the most intense ballet school-”

Despite yourself, you find yourself laughing at the overload of information present. Your students taper off at this, slightly disconcerted because it’s been a while since you’ve let yourself even smile in the presence of other people - only settling for soft hums and a quick lift of the corners of your mouth.

“He sounds like quite the danseur!” The corps relax further at your bright tone, and you feel yourself beginning to soften at the idea of a new principal with the company. You may not be an active principal right now, but surely you'll get the chance to work with him in the future!

Hopefully.

You nod to the pianist in the corner and they begin the scales that are a cue for combinations. The corps is quick to settle themselves on the barre, doing their precursor pliés before you begin to introduce more complex steps to loosen their muscles and get into the mindset of rehearsal.

You’re taking a deep swig of water while the corps members change into their pointe shoes when the door to the main studio opens. You lift your head, half-expecting to see one of the head choreographers at the threshold to announce the show - but the sight that greets you makes you freeze ever so slightly.

A head of tousled purple hair peeks around the doorframe, mischievous eyes lighting up when he sees the crowd that looks back at him in shock. He moves around the door and you feel yourself shift slightly when you see the way his body moves with a natural ease - lithe and reminiscent of the way the calm surface of a lake may ripple every now and again, but the rippling of his muscular arms and legs beneath his clothes hint at his sheer prowess and strength. Even the way he walks is balletic in nature: shoulders back, chin high, hands resting on his back as his eyes flick from face to face before settling on you.

Though his smile is pleasant, you can’t find any sort of emotion in the depths of his pearlescent scrutiny - light blue sapphire and soft pink quartz shining in the light as he holds your gaze. Your skin heats as his eyes scan your figure lazily before he shrugs his shoulders slightly, turning back to the main room and addressing the corps de ballet.

And you don’t know why, but his dismissal of you has anger simmering in your veins.

“Hi everybody, my name is Rafayel Qi,” he announces jovially, to the applause of your students and your prickling displeasure.

“I’mn excited to be here as your new principal and head choreographer for the summer production of…” His voice tapers off and everyone holds their breath, wondering what the show will be-

“-Swan Lake.”

Your heart sinks in your chest at the same time everyone around you cheers.

Because Swan Lake has been your dream since you were barely a student with the Linkon City Ballet Company.

You’ve fantasized performing the dual roles of Odette and Odile for as long as you can remember, begging the pianist after rehearsals to play the solos when you were a young student. Earlier in your career when it had been announced that you would be performing as one of the four young dancers in the cygnet dance your heart had burst in your chest - one step closer to portraying the lead you’ve always coveted.

But with being on hiatus with no end in sight…

Your disappointment lays heavy on your tongue as Rafayel continues to turn his body to examine the crowd. You feel your muscles tense when his gaze catches yours once more, and you scowl heavily as he quirks an eyebrow at your clear annoyance.

“Yes, ____?”

His voice is a drawl, your name drenched in a familiarity that has you prickling because you definitely do not know this prick. Still, you feel yourself rising on your toes as you cross your arms across your chest.

“How will auditions work?”

It’s a valid question in your eyes, but you feel your annoyance grow in your chest when he laughs softly.

“Your audition starts now! From now until the beginning of next week, I will be monitoring rehearsals and casting based on your work ethic and technicality. The only exception will be me, as the company and I agreed that I would perform as Siegfried due to this being my inaugural performance with the Linkon City Ballet Company.”

You swear you can hear the dreamy sigh that ripples across the room at his words.

You’re not phased though, simply glaring up at his (annoyingly tall and perfect) build. “You’re not going to interfere while I work with the corps, correct?”

“Shouldn’t you be rehearsing for a role instead of playing choreographer, principal ballerina?”

He says it with a casual indifference, as if he’s just discussing the weather with you. You don’t know if he’s fucking stupid or if he can’t sense the way the entire corps de ballet seizes up at his words, but you do see his eyes widen at the way your entire expression frosts over into a hideous sneer. “That’s not necessary,” you bite as you push yourself away from the mirror you were leaning on, grabbing your long-sleeved wrap and tying it around you as you hastily grab at your bag. You allow your body to slightly push him out of the way as you march for the door, your expression cold as you regard the heads that bow low in the face of your wrath.

“Rehearse the steps and impress Principal Qi. I’m leaving.”

And before you can hear so much as a goodbye or a whispered agreement, you’re out of the door in a furious rush.

You move so fast that the salty tears you don’t even realize are streaking down your face are dried within a second.

Something feels different in your bones when you retreat to the principal’s practice room after meeting him.

Your annoyance still lingers in your veins - desperation to prove something to him (to yourself?) simmering low in your stomach as you prep your feet for your pointe shoes. It’s a methodical putting on of armor as you grumble to yourself: wrapping your two smallest toes in cooling gel before sticking on protective tape, putting a spacer for more support, and pulling on your toe caps to secure everything together. 

Your pointe shoes are no different - slamming the silk shoes on the floor so that they soften just a tiny bit before pulling them on and wrapping the ribbons around your ankles. You frown when your fingers brush against the scar lining your ankle as you tie your ribbons, feeling yourself seize ever so slightly when you feel a prickle of panic flare at the base of your spine.

You swallow thickly, summoning the bravado you felt ignited in your soul when you first stared him down across the room so that you can drown that feeling deep into the recesses of your mind, never to come out. It works because your fingers brush past the scar without another thought and you’re left with a laser calm focus that spreads throughout your body as you stand up to test your shoes.

You flex your feet, noting with soft satisfaction that the shoes mold and support your feet the way that you like them to. Stepping into First, you let loose a soft breath before slowly rolling up to en pointe - checking for any sort of bad signs as your toes settle on the wooden platform of the shoes.

A second passes, and then another.

And you almost squeal to yourself as you roll yourself back to First, tapping the box against the wood softly as your brain begins to manifest music in your head. The ghosts of steps conjure themselves up in your mind, and you’re quick to grab your phone and put on the accompanying music before you step into position.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you’re about to press play, and you’re almost shocked at how…you you look right now. There’s a determination on your face as you regard yourself, and the way that you hold yourself up is reminiscent of how you presented yourself…before.

That flare of anxiety kicks in, and your ankle aches for just a split second.

“No,” you mutter to yourself, pressing play on your phone and tossing the gadget onto your jacket. “You’re going to do this.”

The music starts softly, a gentle violin quivering in the background as you roll onto pointe. Your body relaxes and you let your arms flow out in front of you, almost as if greeting someone before they move up to Fourth Position, feet pointed outwards as you begin to move across the floor.

As you dance, you catch glimpses of yourself in the mirror. To your shock, there’s a gentle smile on your face as you follow the steps naturally, movements smooth when you bow down. The smile doesn’t leave even when you lift your left leg up to execute a pirouette. In recent times you would have hesitated and it would have fallen apart for you there, but you instead push your anxiety down and let your legs propel you in a neat spin, your skirt whooshing around you as you bring your leg back in and let it down, raising your arms in Fifth before pliéing into a bow.

The smile grows wider as the music swells, quick circular movements of your left leg accompanied by your right foot jumping to the rhythmic stilting of the violin before you exhale, gathering your courage to begin turning across the floor of the practice room. The feeling is exhilarating and you can’t quite contain the laughter that escapes your chest as you allow yourself to do one final pirouette before stopping, stretching your arms out before bowing down in time to the music stopping.

“Giselle, act one variation.”

The softly amused tenor breaks you out of your haze and you’re quick to stand back up, smoothing down your ballet skirt and lifting your head to look at who stumbled upon you - maybe a curious student or a janitor?

No, it’s the cause of all of this.

Rafayel leans against the door and your smile falls, lips settling into a scowl when you note his easy smirk as you sit back down on the floor. Your movements are the complete opposite of when you were dancing - harsh and short as you roughly undo the ribbons of your pointe shoes and push them off of your feet.

“You should be doing a cool down before removing those,” he quips as he enters the room and shuts the door. You roll your eyes once more, feeling that petulant feeling grow in your chest when he plops himself down next to you.

“I’ll do it when I get home,” you mutter back as you free your toes from the toe cap. You toss them unceremoniously into your shoe bag before undoing the tape and stretching them out ever so slightly, releasing the tension and letting them relax.

A hefty silence settles into the air as you finish packing everything up to go home, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and your cardigan before sliding on your sneakers. All the while, your skin prickles with something electric as Rafayel scrutinizes your every movement, hand propping his chin up while he regards you thoughtfully. 

It’s when you’re drinking water that he finally breaks his silence, voice inquisitive as he formulates his statement. “You danced that as if you knew it like the back of your hand, but I don’t ever remember your repertoire including Giselle.”

Your laughter is short and cold, although you’re colored impressed by how well he knows your resume. “Didn’t know you did your research.”

“I did a thorough read of all of the principals of the company before deciding anything.” His response is quick witted, his smile growing ever wider as your patience wears itself thin. “But you…the indefinite hiatus, listed with only two credits as a principal before being placed back into the shadows. And yet…Giselle isn’t one of your roles.”

It hangs heavy in the air, Rafayel’s eyes narrowing slightly when you swallow nervously. The look on his face lets you know that he’s already answered his own question - the only thing he’s waiting for is your confirmation that his suspicions are true.

You sigh before nodding once. “Giselle was the role I was supposed to perform before I got put on hiatus.”

Rafayel exhales sharply as you turn to hide your burning face, shame coloring your expression. You don’t need him to see this side of you when he barely knows you - so full of regret and jilted over the past.

You don’t need to see the pity on his face. You’ve already lived with that for the past year and a half.

“What happened?”

His voice is careful, and you look up to see his neutral expression. There’s nothing on his face - no clue to his thoughts or his feelings towards your situation.

And you find yourself relaxing because of it.

“We were rehearsing the lift for the act two pas de deux. My partner lifted me way above his head but his hold slipped and I just…fell.”

“That’s it?”

There’s a bite in the question and you feel yourself getting defensive over it. “Yes. I tried to protect myself but I just fell wrong. That’s just how it goes sometimes.”

Rafayel rolls his eyes and scoots himself closer to you, scanning your legs clinically underneath the grey fabric of your sweatpants. “And your ankle?”

“Fully healed,” you sigh as you lift the right pant leg. Rafayel squints, eyes flashing with something unreadable when he sees the soft scar that serves as a reminder of your past. “The doctors made sure I was fully healed and are still checking me through the PT I go to every week, but the company hasn’t taken me out of hiatus.”

“Why’s that?”

Your skin prickles at his relentless questions, and you feel the telltale signs of your walls beginning to close up around you. Your voice is frigid as you say back, “Why does it matter?”

Rafayel spreads his arms wide, gesturing to you and around the room. You look at him in confusion until he says, “You deserve to be on the stage.”

“I get what I deserve, and if that means teaching the corps and running through choreo with them then that’s what I get.”

You stand up at your statement, avoiding his intense stare and picking up your bag. There’s a quiet whisper of…something bubbling in your chest, light and incandescent and absolutely something you should not be feeling. Your principal path is all but done and you should be happy the company even let you stay after your incident.

You're almost out the door when Rafayel stops you in your tracks with a statement that steals your breath from you.

“Be my Odette.”

Your hand lingers by the doorframe, wanting to grip it to keep a hold on your reality in the face of his preposterous statement. “Excuse me?”

“Be. My. Odette.” Each word is punctuated with a step towards you, and you feel your spine stiffen when you smell his clean scent of salt and yuzu scarily close to you. Still, you take a deep breath before shaking your head once, twice, three times.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You scoff, although your voice trembles when that feeling you tried to squash down grows ten times bigger in your chest.

“I’m not, I’m being honest.”

And you know he is.

There’s no malicious intent in Rafayel Qi’s voice, no doubt and no jeering at you: the fallen starlet of the Linkon City Ballet Company. There’s only honesty and something you can’t quite figure out in his voice - so raw and genuine that you don’t know whether to laugh or run.

You’re scared where this might take you.

You don’t think you can do it.

You shake your head, clearing your mind of that annoying hope that’s threatening to burn you from the inside out. You don’t bother looking at him as you walk away from the studio, letting that bright feeling die with each step you take away from him.

“Goodbye, Rafayel.”

The company is electric when you step onto the stage the next week.

The announcements for leads and solo artists for the production of Swan Lake are underway, and you have your tablet and pencil ready to jot down which person gets what solo so that you can prepare your rehearsals. You stick to the shadowy corner of the stage, simply allowing for your eyes to scan across the sea of people whispering softly in anticipation for announcements.

A hush settles among the crowd when Rafayel appears with Director Lee and Director Cho, a playful smile on the danseur’s face while your directors sweat underneath the stage lights. Still, Director Cho finds you in the crowd and gives you a smile, easing your nerves. You still bend your neck down so that you can avoid their gazes, getting ready to write your schedule for the next few months.

“Thank you all for having and hosting me,” Rafayel begins, amusement coloring his tone. You lift your head just enough to see what he’s up to, and you feel your skin prickle when his gaze catches yours underneath the stagelights. His eyes still hold you in your place as he continues his spiel, his cordial smile growing into something more mischievous.

“I’ve seen so many incredible auditions on and off the stage, and your work ethic does not go unnoticed. With our joint collaboration I know this production of Swan Lake will be the best yet.”

An appreciative sigh ripples through the crowd, causing you to roll your eyes as Rafayel throws a cheeky smirk in your direction. With his speech done he pulls out a binder he had tucked by his side, flipping it open and scanning the page that has the cast list.

“Alrighty…”

His voice is soft as he announces each solo artist, and everyone claps politely as you frantically scrawl your notes across your tablet so that you can track down each person and schedule their rehearsal. Your writing goes from neat and pristine to a scratch-like scrawl as you try your best to keep up, oblivious to the fact that he’s reaching principal roles and that he’s looking at your furiously focused form - about to drop something so monumental it’ll overshadow any other role announcement.

“The role of Odette and Odile will go to Ms. ____.”

Silence befalls you as you continue your hasty scrawl, beginning to write your own name on the line meant for the role of Odette before you even realize what he said. Your head snaps up at his words and you stare bewilderingly at the crowd that stares back - their shock reflected in the panic that roils hotly in your stomach.

“W-what?!”

You squeak it out, barely any air in your lungs as you feel your palms go clammy against your tablet. Your company stares back at you while Director Lee looks at you with severe expectation, narrow eyes scanning your shaking figure from head to toe. Even with Director Cho’s clear excitement, you still feel apprehension stiffen your body as your shoulders curl in on yourself.

“Mr. Qi insisted on it.” Director Lee’s voice is tight as he regards you coolly, a challenge lingering in the air. Your head snaps to Rafayel’s, and all he gives you is a thumbs up and a wide smile as you whip your head back to Director Cho.

“Director Cho, there must be some sort of mistake-”

“There’s no mistake.”

Rafayel’s voice is severe, cutting through the air even with the pleasant smile that tugs on his face. But you see it in the way his eyes narrow slightly as the company bow their heads with the heat of his stare, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his folded arms as he addresses you directly.

“Your audition for Odette was…incredible.” The genuineness in his voice makes your heart stutter for a second, and his eyes soften when he sees how your apprehension has locked your muscles in place. “I think it’s time for your reappearance as the technical princess of the Linkon City Ballet - don’t you agree, Ansel?”

There’s silence as Mr. Lee regards you with thinly veiled displeasure, only for his eyes to widen when Rafayel coughs subtly. Still, the disdain is clear in his voice as he grits out, “Yes, Mr. Qi. We respect your decision so we…agree.”

Well, that doesn’t make you feel too good.

“B-but the corps,” you try to begin, clearing your throat as you try to quell the nervousness that rises in your body. “Rehearsals, individual tests-”

“-will be handled by the choreographers. You will be rehearsing.”

The air of finality in Rafayel’s tone almost has you believing in him and his vision - surely it’ll be that easy to just…step into one of the dream roles you’ve coveted since you first started ballet as a little girl.

You’ve dreamt of your return since your hiatus - of the roses raining down onto the stage when you make your first triumphant bow after finishing your first show back on, of the lights following your movements as you rehearse steps etched in your muscles from all the times you danced quietly to yourself after the rest of the company had gone home. You think of finally being able to use the pent-up emotions that have festered into your body for something more productive; for expressing the story through your body, from the tips of your pointed toes to your fingernails.

You think of how much you’ve missed performing.

But then you feel their looks, the silent huffs you think you hear as you shrink back into yourself and hide yourself behind your tablet. Of the quiet critics, of Director Lee’s current displeased look in the face of your silent turmoil, of the way your arms were bruised after that fall and how your breath rattled in your ribcage after those initial seconds of impact-

You feel your right leg slightly give out, and you flex it to try to get rid of the shadow of pain.

“I don’t think I’m quite right for it.”

Even when you say the words you can feel how they settle heavily on your tongue, your hidden dreams hidden under the weight of your conclusion. You’re not ready for this, this should go to one of the other principals, you were built for choreography and helping others shine because that’s all you know these days-

“You will do it.”

Surprisingly enough, it’s not Rafayel who utters these words but Director Lee. His gaze is sharp as he regards you coldly, but you find that instead of shrinking you feel yourself rise to meet his stare.

You may shy away from Rafayel, but you will never shrink under Director Lee’s scrutiny.

“Mr. Qi requested you, so you shall. There is no use in fighting it, Ms. ____. You shall be Odette.”

It’s almost as if everyone’s holding their breath as they absorb that statement, you included. What exactly did Rafayel say and do to have him wrapped around his finger like this? Do you even want to know?

You know there’s a right answer though. Honestly? There’s only one answer you can give.

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

The brilliant smile on Rafayel’s face is almost enough to quell your unease.

Almost.

You feel odd walking into the rehearsal room as a principal and not a pseudo-instructor.

But there you are, standing at the entrance of the main rehearsal room a week after the cast list had been announced. You peek in through the little window, and you exhale in relief when you see that no one else is there. Quickly looking up and down the corridor, you make sure no one else is nearby before you open the door and slip into the air-conditioned room.

It feels like a sin to be in here by yourself and not in the tiny rehearsal room you’ve only allowed yourself to exist in for the duration of your hiatus, stretching your feet as your eyes wander to the little star plaques hanging above the mirrors. They’re an homage to the principals who had started and ended with the company, each one inscribed with a name, a start and end date, and the number of performances they’ve done.

You hate it.

You realistically know that there’s only so much a little plaque can tell, but you hate that it erases their hard work, their most iconic roles, their aspirations - all of their dreams. It feels hollow and unattainable, like you’re simply a cog in the machine.

You shake your head, quickly pulling on your pointe shoes and tying them. You’re loathe to dwell on it now, not when there are bigger things to worry about.

This first rehearsal with all of the soloists and principals is at the forefront of your mind. You’ve gone over the steps Rafayel had sent you in a video over the past week, sure that you have a basic understanding of most of your choreography. You still have to wait for spacing and to practice duos, but you’re mostly confident in your choreography.

You hate to admit it to yourself, but you can see why Rafayel is also the choreographer of this production. All of the iconic moments and steps are still there, but he introduced a fluidity and modernity that makes the production fresh and exciting. He also had a sharp eye for technique, blending it with the score and creating a musicality that you haven’t seen in recent years.

And you honestly struggled with it.

Sure, you can do almost all of the steps - your training prepared you for that. But there was an emotional depth you couldn’t seem to tap into. Every time you tried, you ended up stumbling - too busy overthinking every critical detail.

You exhale deeply as you examine yourself in the mirror, pulling up your leg warmers and straightening your skirt. You’re about to walk over to the audio system and start some warm-up music, but you stop in your tracks when you hear the door open.

Rafayel, the rest of the principals, and some solo artists you vaguely recognize enter the room, full of laughter and light as they place their bags down and begin to put on their respective shoes. You feel a flicker of envy at how comfortable Rafayel has made himself with the rest of the company; something you used to be able to do, but not having been successful to do so since your accident.

Still, you’re shocked when the main solo artist and understudy (you believe her name is Jenna) waves you over, a friendly smile on her face. “____! Come over here!”

You manage to school a smile over your shock before you awkwardly jog over, giving a small wave to the group. You can immediately sense the tension, causing heat to race up your spine as you cough and say, “So…how’s everyone’s solo rehearsals going?”

You relax slightly when it seems to break the tension, although you can feel the intensity of Rafayel’s stare over everyone else’s animated chatter. The danseur for Siegfried’s friend (a gentle-mannered man named Thomas) groans on and on about how sore his legs are, causing everyone to laugh and nod in agreement.

“How about you, ____?” Jenna asks, turning the question back to you. You feel yourself shrink under their intense stares, even though you know that they mean well. “How are your rehearsals going?”

“Mmm…they’ve been okay,” you murmur back. You stretch your right foot out almost absentmindedly, turning your ankle to alleviate it. “It was kind of a shock going from not performing to back on the stage after a year.”

“I can only imagine,” sighs one of the cygnets - Simone is her name, you think to yourself as you examine her face. “You’re going to be incredible, I know it!”

“Ah, you guys are too kind,” you smile sheepishly, holding your hands out. “At least wait until the first rehearsal is over to judge!”

You’re pleased to hear everyone’s laughter, although one’s voice is noticeably absent in the shared happiness. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Rafayel’s face shift between multitudes of emotions, but he never settles on one for too long. Instead, he clears his throat - stopping everyone’s chatter and drawing everyone’s attention as he moves towards the audio system.

“So…let’s start, shall we?”

Everyone, including you, is quick to follow his command.

After a precursory warm-up, Rafayel starts with the group of four cygnets. You retreat to the corner of the room as you follow along with their movements to warm up a little bit more, nodding in approval to their clean execution of the tricky footwork.

“Now, let’s link hands and try it out as if you were performing it.” Rafayel’s gentle authoritativeness puts the cygnets at ease, Simone smiling to herself as she positions herself in the middle. Once everyone’s situated, he clicks on his phone to start the music-

-only to stop immediately when the cygnets topple over their feet.

You’re quick to run over, helping each of them stand up and making sure they’re okay. Your eyes flit over to their ankles, trying to note if one of them has hurt themselves…

“____, they’re okay.”

Rafayel’s voice is by your ear, carefully neutral. Still, it’s enough to draw you out of whatever haze you’ve induced yourself into as you look up to their…giggling faces? “I wasn’t expecting that!” Simone laughs, smoothing her inky black hair back from her face. Relief floods your entire body at their easy happiness, just glad that they aren’t injured.

“You guys were standing too close to each other.”

The words slip out of your mouth unwittingly, but they still pay attention to you. You feel yourself heat slightly, but you clear your throat of the lump lodged in there and say, “Imagine your shoulders as the space you’re given. It’s just barely enough to do all of the steps and maneuver your legs in between each other. If you need to, start at a slower tempo and stagger yourself a little bit too. Build up to it.”

“Thank you, ____.” Simone’s grateful smile has you smiling back, nodding to each of them before retreating back to your cozy corner.

But something feels different within you now. You feel more confident.

And by the way he keeps glancing at you, you can tell Rafayel sees it too.

Soon enough, it’s your turn to rehearse your choreography. You walk timidly to the center of the room, biting your lip when you see everyone’s gaze reflected on your face through the mirror that stretches across the wall. You can tell they’re all curious to see how this starts for you - it has been a year since they’ve seen you dance.

What if you’re not as good as they expect you to be? What if you fail to live up to their expectations?

You barely hear Rafayel’s countdown to starting over the sound of your rapidly beating heart, distracted by the immense pressure you’ve suddenly put on yourself.

“...and one!”

Your feet unwittingly move, your body moving on its own accord as Rafayel counts to the beat. You look up to the star plaques above the mirror, to the stereos mounted on the wall, to the light crack on one of the ceiling corners as you try and combat the fear and phantom voices that begins to manifest in your head.

She’s not as good as I remember.

Why is she dancing like that?

Her right ankle is weak.

____.

____. “____!”

You barely recognize your own name, breath trembling as you stop your movements harshly. Rafayel looks at you with mild concern, marred with something you can’t quite place as your arms drop to your sides limply.

“Are you all right, ____?” He steps towards you, reaching out a gentle hand so that he can hold your bicep. His slightly cool fingers are a relief against your warm skin, and you realize belatedly that your breath is unsteady as you allow your eyes to look back in the mirror.

And you’re shocked to see that all you can see is concern and awe on everyone’s face.

“Are you with us, ____?”

Rafayel’s tone is gentle, akin to one soothing a crying baby. The pressure on your arm increases, grounding your floating thoughts as he moves to stand in front of you. His other hand reaches up to cup your cheek, and you feel yourself melt into his touch almost immediately.

It’s like you’re experiencing the moment from the third person, witnessing how he softly brings your racing mind down until you’re connected back to your physical body, breaths tapering out in time with his own.

“I-” you try to begin, only for your eyes to widen when you feel a tear slip down your cheek.

“____-” He begins, but you shake your head as you pull away harshly, guiding your eyes back up to the stars before taking one step after another towards the door - all but sprinting from the rehearsal room before anyone can see the sobs that wrack your body.

You pick at your tempura dejectedly after that mess of a rehearsal.

You’re still in your ballet clothes - you had simply pulled on a pair of sweatpants over your tights and thrown a sweatshirt over your leotard before running out of the door, tugging on boots over your pointe shoes and making sure your phone and wallet was in your pocket as you let your feet guide you to the little udon and sushi shop by the theater. It was thankfully empty other than the owner and her chef husband, so you had requested the corner booth. They had graciously given it to you, dropping off your usual pot of hot green tea as you collapsed against the table to cry your eyes out.

Why are you crying?

You didn’t even fall, why are you feeling like this?

Your breathing slows as you slowly gather your thoughts with the arrival of your appetizers, picking at the fried food while scanning through all of the emotions that cloud your being. There’s anxiety at the forefront, followed by fear and…happiness?

Why do you feel happy?

“____, your shredded beef udon with soft-boiled egg.”

The owner’s voice is soft as she places the tray down in front of you. She places a comforting hand on your shoulder and you give her a sniffly smile as you murmur your soft thanks. The appearance of food makes your stomach grumble, making you pick up your soup spoon so you can taste the delicate broth.

You’re mixing the soft-boiled egg into the soup when the door swings open, bringing along a gust of wind. You hyperfixate on letting the yolk swirl into the broth completely, barely surprised when you smell yuzu and salt air settle across from you.

“Knew you’d find me somehow,” you say softly as Rafayel slides off his jacket and removes his hat, shaking his slightly sweaty hair off of his face.

“What are you talking about?” Annoyance flairs at his easy show, and you glare up at his half-smile as he flags the owner down to order his food. “I just wanted sushi.”

“Right.” It’s a drawl, the both of you conceding to an awkward silence as you continue to eat your noodles and tempura bit by bit. You eat so slow that Rafayel’s sushi comes as you’re only about halfway through your bowl, your scowl deepening at his glee.

“You waited for me, ____?” The teasing edge has you softening ever so slightly, although you still roll your eyes as you pass him a piece of tempura as a peace offering.

“Just shut up and eat, Qi.”

The both of you tuck into your food, soft hums and slurps the only sound as you both enjoy the delicious fare. You don’t bother to make conversation - what even is there to discuss?

Well, there is one thing you need to ask him.

“Do you regret it now?”

You mumble it quietly, acting nonchalant as you place a noodle into your soup spoon. You hear his chopsticks clatter to his sushi platter and you will your hands to stop shaking, playing cool as you eat the small bite.

“Why would I regret anything?”

Rafayel says it so easily, as if it’s a universal truth. Your eyes flicker up to his own, and you’re shocked by the steady conviction that lays beneath his stare. Although his mouth is straight, you can see the corners of his lips tilt up slightly as you process his words.

“I’m a mess,” you begin, idly poking at a noodle. “I could barely get the steps out and I left in a river of tears. Director Lee would have recast me by now-”

“You doubt yourself too much.”

You scowl at Rafayel’s initial interruption, although you soften when you register his words. You poke at your noodles once more as Rafayel ponders his next words, eyes darting back and forth across your face until he utters, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a pufferfish when you look vaguely annoyed?”

“I do not!” You say indignantly, your cheeks puffing out slightly almost unconsciously at his cheeky grin. You kick his shin softly under the table, and he acts out a dramatic oof to your chagrin.

“You do,” Rafayel insists. He puffs his cheeks out before sucking them back in, surprising you when a laugh slips out at the ridiculous display. “Your cheeks puff out slightly and your eyebrows knit together when you’re annoyed or you’re focused. It’s…adorable.”

“I absolutely do not,” you try again, if only to drown out the adorable adorable adorable that jumps around your brain.

Get a grip, ____!

Silence descends once more as you continue to eat, but you barely get another bite in before Rafayel continues again.

“You’re not a mess, ____. You were actually…quite perfect.”

“I doubt it,” you scoff, but he shakes his head quickly as he looks at your face intensely.

“Your steps and timing are near perfect. But when you were dancing, there was this look on your face…kind of like you weren’t all there. I was worried for you, ____.”

“You nailed it on the head, Qi.” You nestle your utensils into the bowl, fists slowly curling shut as you begin to study the wood grain of the table. “I was so in my own head, anxious of what everyone would think of my dancing after being on hiatus for so long. I hadn’t danced with a group like that and it…terrified me, I guess.”

“I should have thought of that,” he breathes softly. His hand inches toward your fists, his nails scratching lightly against your knuckles before pulling away. “I’m sorry, ____.”

“It’s okay,” you reply. “I have to get used to it.”

Silence befalls the two of you as you both pick up your utensils to eat. Your hands are less shaky now, mind a little bit more soothed as you finally allow yourself to make bigger bites for your noodles. There’s still a thought that lingers in your mind, though, and before you even register what you’re saying it tumbles out of your mouth.

“I was so…happy dancing like that again.”

Rafayel is nonplussed, looking at you with a softness that has you melting slightly. “I can only imagine, ____. It must have been exhilarating dancing freely after confining yourself for so long.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, placing some noodles in your mouth to cut the conversation short.

You both focus on eating a little bit more, but you can tell Rafayel is thinking about something by the way his eyes flicker from his sushi platter to your face. You act unbothered, simply continuing to eat because somehow you know that he’ll end up talking to you about what’s on his mind.

“You know, I saw you up there once.”

His confession is quiet, almost drowned out by the chatter of the husband and wife behind the noodle bar. But, oh you hear it, and it’s enough to make the chopsticks you’re holding drop into your bowl unceremoniously as the mouthful you had placed delicately onto your tongue begins to taste like ash.

“Did you?”

You fish your chopsticks from the bowl and try to continue eating, doing your best to ignore his scrutiny as you fill your spoon with the salty broth. You take a slow sip as you try to think of your words, before settling on a slightly sarcastic, “What’d you think?”

Rafayel hums and you allow yourself to look up at him, feeling your posture loosen when you see he’s focused on the sushi before him. He picks up a piece of fatty tuna delicately between his chopsticks before he dips the piece into his platter of soy sauce, taking a big bite and humming in delight.

“I thought you were incredible.”

He says it like it’s just a fact of nature; like he was commenting on how the sky is blue and how grass is green. Still, it steals your breath away from you - only to be crushed slightly when he continues on.

“In a technical sense, that is. Your movements were so precise and delicate that you outshone everyone in that department. But your emotions fell flat.”

You try to open your mouth to say something else, to try and refute but he simply picks up a piece of yellowtail and plops it on his tongue, chewing a couple of times before swallowing and speaking again.

“I saw you up there and knew you’d be a pleasure to dance with, but I also wanted to see if I could peel the walls and layers you put up around you off of your face and show everyone your true talent.” Rafayel’s head lifts and he holds your eyes with his - unwavering and making a shiver race up your spine. “Sure, you reflected everyone’s moods well enough, but something about you lacked depth. I wanted to find it for yourself.”

“So that’s why you’re here at Linkon,” you say flatly, bitterly processing the information he gives you. Rafayel’s eyebrow quirks at your hurt apathy, simply choosing to reach over and grab a noodle from your bowl. “You did this because I’m your charity case-”

“-I did it,” he cuts you off lethally, dropping the noddle on his plate to stare at you dead in your eye. “Because I saw the potential laying beneath the surface. I’ve read every article pertaining to you, and all you’ve talked about was your technique and your elegance and your training. Not once did you mention how you felt while dancing ballet - your supposed one passion in this entire world.”

His words render you speechless, setting your chopsticks on the platter by you as you think back on what he’s brought up.

How do you feel about ballet?

Do you even love ballet?

It’s so easy to find the answer: you do. You wouldn’t have dedicated your life to it if you didn’t love ballet as much as you did. You loved it all - the technicality, the hidden strength you’ve displayed time and time again, the methodical aspect of it…

Shit, do you even like the emotional aspects of it, like he said?

You dig deeper. Pushing past what you’ve been spoon-fed for your entire life, past all of the critiques you’ve taken to heart before finally reaching the core of you.

You feel it then - your steadily beating heart, whispering at how it loves when you’re soaring across the stage in high leaps, how you love to spin in dizzying pirouettes until you collapsed onto the floor in a giggly mess, of the sense of accomplishment you feel when you took your bow after completing your first principal role and how you wanted to keep going on this track for as long as you could.

You love it with every fiber of your being. You may only show the technicality but deep in your soul you know.

“I love it all.”

It’s a steady declaration, one that Rafayel is barely surprised by as he reaches over to your side of the table and dips into your bowl, this time stealing a spoonful of soup. You scowl at him but he only winks at you as he takes a sip and nods at the pleasant flavor.

“I know you do,” he simply says, reaching again to dip his spoon into your bowl. You brush his hand away in a show of mock protection, trying to ignore the zing that races up your arm when you feel your knuckles brush against his.

“So why cast me as Odette and push me into being a principal like this?” You ask.

“Because the world should get the privilege of seeing you at your fullest potential and joy, just like how I saw you in the principal practice room after you spun around the room with the biggest smile on your face.”

“Right…” Your voice tapers off, your anxiety beginning to fill your brain. Is he really sure about it? What if you’re not what he expected? What if you fail at the last hurdle- A hand settles on top of yours slightly, brushing away the worry and soothing the negativity that lingers in your chest. You look up again to see Rafayel’s serious expression - a fry cry to the teasing smiles and winks he’s given to you up until now.

“I mean it, ____. You’re the brightest star there is, and I won’t rest until everyone else sees the shine I got the privilege of seeing just in a small practice room.”

Rafayel’s fingers squeeze tighter, lacing in between your own and offering a warmth that travels all the way to your rapidly beating heart. The sincerity on his face is almost enough to soothe that ugly place in your mind, but you still find words tumbling out in a shaky breath.

“Do you mean it?”

“I do,” Rafayel promises, hooking his pinky between yours and giving a firm squeeze.

And as you squeeze back, you find that you feel completely at ease.

Because even after knowing him for only a couple of weeks, you know that he would never lie to you.

You’re more prepared the next time you step into the rehearsal room for a big principal and soloist rehearsal.

Rafayel had been more considerate following that first rehearsal, placing your following rehearsals with Thomas and Jenna or with Simone and the other cygnets. You had slowly opened up to them in the way you once did, and you find that it’s easier to smile and exchange jokes with them in the rehearsal room. You feel much more at ease with them - to the point where you had taken them to the sleepy udon bar by the theatre once rehearsal was over.

It made duo rehearsals with Rafayel bearable, putting your all into focusing on their cheers and constructive critiques instead of the way Rafayel’s warm hands brushed against your spine with each pirouette he helped you execute.

No, you definitely do not have the feeling of his calloused fingers tracing your spine ingrained into your memory.

You shake your mind of that distraction when you note that Rafayel steps into the room, elbowing Jenna and Thomas slightly so that you can focus on him. You miss the knowing smiles they exchange behind you, but you definitely do not miss the way Rafayel’s eyes sparkle as he examines your face.

“You’re staring, ____,” Jenna says teasingly - making you scowl as you bang the box of your pointe shoe against the floor.

“I am not,” you reply hotly, to their laughter.

“Alrighty,” Rafayel begins, effectively cutting off Thomas’s reply. He gestures to you, a cheeky smile on his face as he gestures to you with a hand extended towards your figure. “I hope you all don’t mind, but we’ll be running Act III, starting with the soloists followed by the Coda.”

Everyone nods in agreement, and everyone clears the room as you move to stand next to him. You ignore the way his bare arm brushes against yours, his white muscle tee barely hiding his physique. He stretches his arms up and you ignore the way his biceps and forearms ripple with the movement - especially when you see the teasing smirk playing on his lips.

Get a fucking grip, ____!

It’s hard, especially when you can’t help the small smile forming at his antics.

You’re attentive to the soloists, cheering and clapping as they finish each of their turns. Rafayel’s smile is ever wide as he barely gives any critiques, simply noting some small criticisms they can improve upon. Soon enough, he nudges your elbow and announces to the pianist and the cast, “We’ll be doing the Act III Coda now.”

The pianist gives a thumbs up and Rafayel turns to you, giving you a soft wink that makes you roll your eyes. “Will you miss my presence?”

“Just shut up and dance, Qi.”

Rafayel’s laughter follows him to the center room, and you’re thankful you can’t see your reflection in the mirror because you know you’ll look like a pufferfish.

You count off the pianist, and the jaunty theme soon begins. You watch Rafayel’s form as he easily leaps up, executing a difficult leap before bringing his arms in for a turn. His lithe body moves with the grace of ocean waves - strong yet steady as he executes leap after turn after jump. Your eyes wander from his physique to his face though, and you’re shocked to see how easily he’s able to portray his emotions on his face.

A big smile on his face, flickering in between a wanting stare and a love-struck gaze. You’re entranced by just how easily he’s able to portray Siegfried’s every single emotion - believing the story he’s telling.

He’s absolutely captivating.

It makes you want to match him, to let yourself tap into that emotional talent you’ve hidden deep down so that you can compete with his emotional skill.

You register the music picking up, signalling your entrance as Odile. You shake your head loosely as you walk from the sidelines of the rehearsal room to the center of the floor with your feet pointed and arms in First, Rafayel winking at you while he executes a turn before making his own way to the side of the floor. You scoff out a laugh at his easy theatrics but you find yourself getting into the mindset of the character. The pianist’s fingers move even faster and you take a deep breath, getting your feet in position before beginning your thirty two fouettés.

Your foot bobs up and down to the piano’s rhythm, head whipping quickly with each turn of your body. With each pull-in of your arms your speed quickens, and yet you barely move across the floor as you continue on. 

You can feel your breath begin to stutter from exertion as you begin to bring your leg in and out for the climax of your turns, but your genuine smile never falters even with the ache as you twirl one last time before striking Odile’s iconic ending pose.

You barely hear the claps in the room as you move to the side, eyes glued to Rafayel as he executes his own turns. The sheer strength and agility of his movements has your cheeks warming, but you can’t find it within yourself to blame your recent movements because you know that it’s him that does this to you.

So engrossed with how magnetic he is, you almost miss your entrance cue. Your body moves on autopilot though, and Rafayel steps aside just quickly enough for you to step and extend your arms and legs to the score the pianist plays. Your eyes make contact with him and you find that your teasing glance and seductive smile isn’t from Odile at all - it’s just you and him in your natural element, Rafayel smiling at you widely as he makes you laugh and continue your steps towards him.

Your heart sinks when you register that it’s almost the end of the coda as Rafayel guides you back to the center of the floor. His hands guide your pirouettes as you duck your head in a mock show of shyness, but your triumphant smile still peeks out when you lift your head back up. Your breath catches in your throat when you hear the notes signaling the beginning of the lift, but Rafayel’s fingers slightly squeezing your sides placates your anxiety.

“I’ve got you, ____,” he murmurs softly - something only the two of you can hear.

With his soft promise you raise your arms above your head as he lifts you high, trusting in his strength as you point your toes and tilt your head back.

He places you back down onto the floor gently, and you swiftly move to his side. With practiced ease the two of you mirror your movements before he kneels down onto the floor, offering his hands out to your own. You ignore the way your heart stutters annoyingly in your chest as he looks at you like you’re the most stunning work of art, placing your hands on top of his warm palms before placing his head on top of your intertwined fingers.

The contact is so raw that you almost miss your cue to move one of your hands away. There’s a stirring in your chest when you finally move one of your hands away as choreographed, and you’re shocked to discover that you want Rafayel to keep holding your hand and looking at you like he believes in you.

You’re about to turn your head away when he lifts his head to look at you, and you find your wide smile slowly slipping into something softer when he looks at you in such a way that has your breath catching in your throat. You can see an unspoken set of emotions rippling across his face, but you find that they somehow reflect the ones you feel so strongly in your chest.

Most of all, appreciation for him.

You vaguely register the clapping in the background of your mind, but it all fades away when Rafayel stands, his hands still holding onto yours tightly. Your mouth moves before you can even process what you’re saying.

“They’re looking.”

It’s a soft gasp, your bashful whisper one that has his eyes widening ever so slightly before they hood again, his signature smirk growing on his lips as he lifts your hand to his mouth.

“Let them,” he breathes in response.

His lips brush against the back of your hand and you feel the world around you stop, breath stuttering as you come to a quiet realization:

You’re completely and utterly screwed when it comes to Rafayel Qi and his smile.

You don’t know how you and your rapidly growing feelings are going to survive this duo rehearsal with him.

Sure, you’ve survived the past couple of duo rehearsals with him over the past few weeks. But that had been before your burgeoning feelings for him - so warm and explosive you’re afraid hearts will pop out of your eyes if you even look at him for too long.

But, with Swan Lake's opening being two weeks away, you both need to refine your pas de deux. And so the two of you have begun to rehearse together after hours. The pianist is usually gracious enough to stay,  but she had called off in a flurry and rushed home due to a family emergency.

Thus, leaving you and Rafayel.

Alone.

“This is fine this is fine everything will be fine,” you chant to yourself as you put on your pointe shoes. You stand up to test how worn they are, noting how you look in the mirror while doing a little turn. “Just make it through the rehearsal without kissing him and you’ll be fine!”

You see the way your eyes widen at your own statement, and you cough sheepishly as you approach the mirror so that you can examine your current ballet outfit. You fix the cap sleeves of your white leotard before reaching into your bag and pulling out a black skirt with the matching long sleeved wrap, stepping into the skirt and tying the wrap’s belt around your waist so that the backless leotard isn’t so backless. With a quick smooth of your hair and pull up of your white knitted leg warmers over your pointe shoes, you nod to yourself and your makeshift armor before making your way to the stereo system and plugging your phone in.

“You’re going to make it out unscath-”

“Make it out of what?”

Rafayel’s voice is by the door, and you whip your head up to bashfully stare at him as he enters the room. He’s in short rehearsal tights that emphasize the muscles of his thighs and ass, muscle tape around his left ankle and right knee to support the endless amounts of jumps and turns he’s about to do. Paired with a white muscle tee that does little to hide the smooth skin of his abs when he lifts his arms above his head and his tousled hair, you feel your shreds of sanity slowly slip away as he drops his bag by your own and gives you an easy smile.

Breathe, ____, you need to get through this rehearsal-

“Your cheeks are puffed up again, pretty.”

“They are not!” 

Your tone is hot, embarrassment burning in your veins when you look up at him with a scowl. You feel it slip, though, when you see how laughter creases his eyes.

“Now they are,” he says sweetly, and you rub at your cheeks while you glower at him. He holds his hands up in mock surrender, instead offering his hand to you to help you stand up.

“We’re going to go through the Act II pas de deux today since your Odile is flawless if that’s okay.” Rafayel guides you to the center of the room, guiding your arms up and down with his own so that the two of you can stretch. You decide to ignore the way desire pools in your stomach at the way you can feel his muscles tense and relax against your own, instead making sure your ankle is steady.

“How many lifts are there again?” You mean for it to sound casual, but you can’t help the hint of anxiety that seeps into your words. Rafayel’s hands squeeze yours gently, making you relax ever so slightly as he twirls you in his hold.

“A lot,” he admits. “But I’ll make sure to be steady with you every single time, and we’ll take it one at a time so that you can figure out how to shift your weight and how I can place my hands so that you’ll be completely secure.”

“Okay.” You hate how small your voice is and how your anxiety clouds your judgement, fingers shaking ever so slightly as he moves away to begin to start the music. You move to the side of the room as he hits start, and you rub your hands against the sleeves of your wrap as he begins recounting his steps.

You watch his choreography from this side, waiting for his bodily cue to begin your entrance as Odette. Your steps are airy as you mimic the titular swan, easily rolling onto pointe and extending your arms to reach out to Rafayel.

You both exhale at the same time, and he steps aside just enough for the two of you to mirror your steps before you allow yourself to breathe out deeply, lowering your body to imitate a resting bird. You find that it’s easy to tap into the melancholic emotions you’re supposed to feel as Odette, but it’s even easier to let Rafayel soothe the negativity away - even if he only thinks it’s just for the choreography.

Rafayel’s hands help you move up slowly, and you find that the seriousness you feel in your chest reflects the straight line of his mouth as he moves your arms above your head, steadying you as you extend your leg out slowly before swiftly moving his hands to your waist as you pull your leg in. He’s steady in helping you execute your turns, fingers tightening when he begins to bend you towards the floor-

-only for you to gasp, catching yourself when you feel yourself dip too low and accidentally going off of pointe.

Rafayel stops the music with a quick voice command, pulling you back up and cupping your face with his hands. “Are you okay, ____?”

“Yes.” Your voice trembles and your skin suddenly feels too hot, making you clear your throat as you rapidly untie and pull your wrap off of your shoulders. You throw it in the vague direction of your bag, letting your feet flex as you try to quell the anxiety that’s beginning to overtake all of your senses. You breathe in deeply, and then out, and then look up to see Rafayel looking at you with concern.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” he murmurs softly. He guides you back to the center of the floor, moving his hands to your waist and giving you a gentle squeeze. “Do you want to start with the lifts? Just so that you can figure out how it’ll feel?”

“Yes,” you breathe out. Gratitude warms your entire body as you give a shaky smile up at him, Rafayel returning a steady one as he instructs the audio system to start from the top.

“Okay, ____,” he begins. “I’m going to lift you up two times in quick succession, do you want to try it out slowly at first?”

You nod in the mirror, not able to trust your own words but Rafayel tuts from behind you, his hands settling onto your waist again.

“I need a yes or a no,” he murmurs softly against your ear. You fight the urge to shiver in his hold, turning your head slightly so that you can look at him directly.

“Yes, you can lift me,” you whisper. Your hands find his own and you squeeze his fingers, giving him a small smile. “I trust you.”

“Okay, my swan.” With that, he counts off and you brace yourself, shifting your weight in such a way that when he lifts you up you barely jerk, instead able to lift your arms up and stretch your legs out as elegantly as you muster. Once you’re down on the floor he counts you off again and you repeat your movements, the pit in your stomach slowly growing smaller with each reassuring squeeze of his hands against your waist.

With the first few lifts out of the way you’re able to relax slightly, your steps flowing as you both execute the next few lifts and turns. All the while Rafayel counts down softly, keeping time and talking you through each of the steps - helping your ease grow.

Your apprehension gets to you when you get to the lifts you dread though: one of his hands on your waist and the other on your thigh, lifting you high above his head as you mimic a swan flying through the air. Rafayel barely blinks, though, gently guiding you into position as he whispers softly, “I won’t let you fall, I promise.”

With his reassurance you nod, your breaths syncing as he moves his hand to your inner thigh and lifting you above his head. His hold is steady, gently placing you down and guiding your steps forward before lifting you once again over his head and holding you there in time to the music.

The weightlessness you feel paired with his steady hold makes you feel like you’re actually floating in the air, and you can’t quite suppress the smile that forms on your lips as he places you back down onto the floor. It’s not supposed to be how the character feels, but you’re loathe to stop it as you both continue on past step past pirouette past mirrored movement.

The end of the pas de deux has him lifting you up above his head once more before wrapping you in his arms and helping you bend deep to the floor. You’re prepared for it this time, ready to execute it-

-but you both stop in your tracks, your eyes catching each other in the reflection of the mirror.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register the music slowly fading to a stop but you can’t even find it in yourself to care.

Not when it’s just you and him, existing in your own little space.

Your steady breaths slowly pick up once again when you realize just how close you are to Rafayel - your bare back pressed against his heaving chest as his hands settle on your waist. Your breath catches in your throat when his fingers move slowly down to your hips, hands squeezing softly at every bit of skin he can touch as his fingertips slowly inch underneath the fabric of your rehearsal skirt.

“Raf-” you breathe, head lolling back to rest on his sturdy shoulder as he pulls you ever closer - fingers barely brushing your inner thigh. You watch as your eyes slowly hood, lips parting ever so slightly at the hot eye contact he maintains through the mirror.

“Tell me this is okay, ____.”

It’s a rasp, his voice deepening as he leans down to brush his lips against the bare column of your neck. You whimper your soft assent just as his lips find your pulsepoint, tongue flicking out to feel your warm skin. A groan tumbles from his mouth at the taste of your skin, making you whine and press yourself against the bulge that grows in his pants.

“Fuck, ____-” It cuts off as he pushes you towards the barre in front of you, all the while pulling your hips against his. You gasp when you feel the wood digging into your hips, your arms winding up behind his head almost unwittingly so that you can grip the hair against the nape of his neck while you bare every bit of yourself for him to see.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Rafayel says reverently, making your head fall back against his shoulder as you whine. His hands travel up your hips to your clothed breasts, skillfully pinching and pressing against your nipples until they pebble underneath his dextrous fingers and the thin material of your leotard. The stimulation has you panting, thighs pressing tightly together so that you can try to alleviate the ache that settles in between your legs.

“Raf- oh my God-” you gasp when his lips begin to suck lightly against the column of your neck, making you roll your hips back against his straining bulge. His hands move to grip at your hips so tight, moving your hips back and forth to a rhythm that has the mirror in front of you fogging over from your mixed gasps.

One of his hands quickly moves up to your head, undoing the clip in your hair so that your hair falls in messy strands around your face. With his hand still free, he wipes the surface in front of you so that you can see just how he wrecks you with a simple roll of his hips against your weeping core - so wet you can see how it begins to stain the delicate white material of your tights.

“Do you see what you do to me, pretty?” It’s a low statement, voice rough as he continues to guide your hips back and forth on his straining cock. “You fucking undo me.”

You lift your hooded eyes to catch his face, and you whimper when you see the dark look in his eyes paired with the red flush of his cheeks. His hair sticks to his forehead every so slightly, lips bitten red from how his teeth bite at them.

Seeing his lips like that makes you want to do something stupid, like turning your head and catching them with your own.

“I-” you try to begin, only for your hazy thoughts to break off in a moan when you feel the slightest bit of muted pressure on your clit. All the while, his lips press heated kisses up and down your neck - slowly increasing their intensity until you can see where he begins to leave his mark on your skin.

“This is only for me to see, do you understand?” Rafayel’s voice reverberates around your skull, mixing with your desire until all you can register is him and your impending end. His lips move from your neck to your chin, from your chin to your jaw, before finally resting against the shell of your ear. He kisses that too, and you can feel the little bite he gives your earlobe makes you clench pathetically.

“Your happiness when you execute your pirouettes…your sadness when you play dead at the end…that can be for the audience,” he murmurs hotly in your ear. His hips snap forward, making you cry out from his entire length pressing deliciously against your soaking cunt. A desperate part of your mind wonders how it would feel if you were both bare, pressed so intimately against each other until you didn’t know where he started and you ended.

“But this…” he continues smoothly, punctuating his thoughts with a thrust of his hips. “Your wantonness…your desire…this is only for me.”

“R-Rafayel!” You cry out, feeling yourself begin to unravel.

He simply moves his mouth to the top of your head, pressing a reverent kiss against your temple. “Cum for me, my swan.”

And you do.

It’s not as intense as you would like, but it still shatters your earth as you fall apart in his arms. Your breaths leave you in heaving gasps, small whimpers and moans escaping your raw lips as your fingers scramble to tether you against the torrent of your heady pleasure. Rafayel laces his fingers in between yours, allowing for you to fully succumb to the pleasure safely.

All the while, he showers your neck with his kisses, eyes tight as he holds off on his own climax to examine your rapidly rising chest and trembling body in the mirror - held by him. You’re a stunning vision, one that he tucks into a corner of his mind for later examination.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, although you can barely hear it over the roaring of your ears.

Slowly, you float back down to your reality, eyes slowly peeling open. Rafayel’s still holding you to his chest, but this time his arms secure you tightly in a hug. Your head lolls to the side, allowing for you to brush your lips against his jaw lazily. You still feel his shiver, though, and it makes you smile against his slightly sweaty skin.

“My tights are wet,” you grumble, although your annoyance is soothed with his laughter.

“Well, that’s what happens when I make you cum so pretty like that,” he teases softly. You roll your eyes at him, hands gently squeezing his forearms. He squeezes your body once more before scooping you up properly in his arms, carrying you to your bag so that you don’t have to waddle all the way over there.

“You’re impossible,” you say, rolling your eyes as he settles you onto the plastic chair with a wide grin.

“And you’re adorable,” he counters, rifling through your bag to pull out your sweatpants.

You feel yourself warm from his unexpected comment, ducking your head so that you don’t have to look at his soft expression. You hear him step towards you and he kneels down in front of you, brushing your hand against his knee.

“Come with me to dinner on Friday?” It’s a soft plea, a gentle smile on his face as he regards you. “I want to take you out.”

You barely have to think when you murmur a soft confirmation, his lips brushing against your knuckles feeling like the start of something dangerously beautiful.

You can practically see the glow radiating from within you as you prepare for your dinner with Rafayel.

There’s an ever-present smile on your face, that glowing feeling in your chest when you think of him making you feel happier and warmer than you can remember from the past year. He hasn’t just strengthened your love for your craft, he’s also helped you remember what it’s like to live happily instead of only surviving.

As you pull on a knit sweater over your dress, you can only smile wider.

You hope this feeling never goes away.

Your phone buzzes against the comforter of your bed and you grab at it quickly, smiling when you see that it’s him and the confirmation that he’s waiting for you downstairs. You’re quick to grab your bag and slide on a pair of your comfy shoes, making sure that your door is locked before running down to meet him.

The incandescent feeling in your chest threatens to overtake your entire body when you see Rafayel leaning by the passenger door of his sports car, cheeks aching when you see his eyes light up at the vision of you. His gaze is slow, a sensual drag up your figure as you approach him that has him nodding with a smirk on his face.

“Beau- pretty,” he stutters out. He offers you his hand and you place it in his without question, feeling a shiver race up your spine when he brushes his soft lips against your skin reverently. He pulls his mouth away, his smile rivaling your aching cheeks as he pulls your arm up so he can twirl you in his hold.

Your laughter escapes you as he spins you round and around before stopping you and pulling you into his arms. The air is knocked out of your lungs at the sudden embrace, but you’re quick to wind your arms around his neck so that you can hold him closer to you.

Nothing needs to be said. You think you know how he feels about you, too.

With that, he opens the car door and ushers you inside, closing the door gently with a wink.

Even the car ride to the restaurant is filled with laughter and aimless chatter, you and Rafayel learning about the tiniest details about your respective lives in and out of the rehearsal space. You learn that he’s an avid swimmer, and that if he wasn’t in ballet he would be competing in international events right now. He learns that you love reading - often spending your weekends away from the theater engrossed in the latest fantasy novel. It’s why you love the fantastical elements of ballet, too.

You also learn from firsthand experience that his driving is…unique.

“Slow down!” You gasp out in laughter, Rafayel somehow weaving in and out of traffic effortlessly as he gets you both to your reservation in record time. “We aren’t street racing!”

“They were going too slow,” he grumbles, but he does take his foot off the gas just a little bit for you.

Once inside the omakase restaurant he’s the picture of a perfect gentleman, pulling out your chair for you and making sure you’re comfortable. It never feels stuffy, though, it just feels like you and him - cracking soft jokes about pufferfish and talking about rehearsal and what each of you can improve on.

“So…” you begin once the conversation ebbs just a little bit. You’re a couple of courses deep into the tasting menu, your wine glasses barely touched as he holds your stare from across the table. “Are you ready for the Swan Lake opening?”

“Yes,” he replies easily. His hand reaches to grasp your own, letting his fingers tangle in between your own. “The corps looks incredible, the soloists are incredible, you’re incredible…”

“You’re impossible,” you huff, although your voice softens when you say, “You’re incredible too.”

“I just reflect my surroundings,” he says, although his eyes shine a little brighter.

You shake your head at that. “You’re choreographing and leading this ballet! Of course you’re incredible, Raf. You’re so talented and…”

“And?”

“And I’m happy this is my first show after my hiatus.”

If Rafayel’s smile was wide before, the one on his face now could rival the sun with how bright it is. His mouth opens and shuts, seemingly at a loss for words before he settles on, “I’m honored I could help you rediscover that joy.”

The silence that befalls the table isn’t uncomfortable, it’s one of strong companionship. Your fingers flex against his own as the two of you continue to eat through the menu and try as you might to come up with something new, the only thing you can think of is how much you want to kiss him.

Sure, there was that…moment in the rehearsal room. But he had only kissed your neck and whispered his salacious thoughts in your ear while he brought you to your end. You want to feel his mouth on yours, his bare skin against your own, how his hair would feel when pulled by your fingers…

You shake those dangerous thoughts away, tucking them into a corner of your brain for a later late night.

It’s nearing the end of the night when the desserts are brought out by the chef, some sort of meringue with fruit and curd with whipped cream balanced on top of it. When you ask for the name of the dessert he shrugged and said, “Pavlova, named after an old ballerina who was light and airy like this dessert!”

The name rings a bell for the both of you and you both nod, simply tucking into the dessert. It’s not too sweet, the flavors melting together on your tongue and marking the sweet end of a delicious meal. It feels like there’s nothing that could go wrong, that everything’s perfect-

“Oh, Mr. Qi and Ms. ____?”

Your smile slowly slides off of your face as you look up to see Director Lee with some people behind him - perhaps his family? You aren’t sure. But you try to keep a gracious smile on your face as you stand up and bow to him in greeting.

“Hi, Ansel.” Your voice is careful, although you’re conscious of maintaining your smile as you sit back down. “How are you? Are you here to have dinner with your family?”

“Yes, well, celebrating the season opening with them,” his tone softens when his eyes flicker to his daughter, and when you smile at her in greeting she smiles back at you. “I’m just surprised to see you two together, is all.”

“What do you mean?” You ask curiously. Why wouldn’t you be spending time with Rafayel? You’re…friends, and friends can definitely spend time together…right?

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Rafayel stiffen, realizing something faster than you realize. Your mind scrambles for any sort of reason he could be uncomfortable but you find…nothing. Why would you have to be uncomfortable or worried anyways? You trust him.

“You don’t know?” Director Lee’s voice is curious and he turns to Rafayel in mild shock. “You haven’t told her yet?”

“Ansel, not now-” Comes Rafayel’s stiff voice, panic flaring on his face. You look at him, though, a sick curiosity beginning to consume you as you turn directly to Director Lee.

“I-” you try to begin, but Director Lee is quick to cut you off.

“What was that you said about her being too mechanical during rehearsals…’Well, you know how primas are sometimes?’”

Rafayel blanches at Director Lee’s words, making your head turn to him slowly as you look at him in shock. “Raf- what-”

“You didn’t know, darling?” Director Lee puts on a look akin to sympathy, his eyes darting between you and him. “He mentioned offhandedly that he thought you were stiff.”

“____, I didn’t mean it like-” he begins, but all you can feel is the hurt simmering in your stomach as you slowly pull your hand away from him.

“I- that’s certainly interesting,” you say. You abruptly stand up, looking at the space between the two of them as you try to quell the tears that begin to brim in the corners of your eyes. “Was there anything else Principal Qi said about me that I can improve upon?”

Director Lee hums, and the voice of reason that’s slowly being drowned out by your tsunami of grief tries to shout that Rafayel doesn’t mean it. That Rafayel cares for you as much as you care about him, that he would never hurt you or let you go-

“He said that you were cold and unfeeling. Something about…not having enough within you?”

Something in you breaks.

“____,” Rafayel begins, standing up before you. His hands reach out but you step back, shaking your head in shock.

You barely remember bowing to the two of them, grabbing your sweater and bag before running out of the restaurant. You’re quick to flag down a cab, thrusting a wad of cash from your bag towards him as you tell him to take you home - and that you’ll pay him extra if he cuts down your arrival time.

Once you’re back in your apartment you don’t make a sound, methodically removing your shoes and peeling your sweater off of your overheating body before sitting on the edge of your couch. And yet you don’t cry, simply staring off at the distance as those ugly words bounce around your head and burrow themselves into the cavity in your chest.

Your eyes tighten and that warm, bright feeling that had been living in you for the past couple of months slowly dies as a cold rage overtakes your entire body.

He said that you were cold and unfeeling?

He doesn’t know the true extent.

Not yet, at least.

You’re not avoiding him.

You’re not going to avoid him.

No, you have a job to do, and that job is to make sure that Swan Lake is performed beautifully as quickly as possible so that you can go home and avoid him once again.

Everything about your preparation is mechanically methodical, from putting on your undergarments to you putting on your makeup to the dressing department helping you put on your top and tutu and the feathered crown that sits atop your bun. Even when you’re flexing your feet and putting on your pointe shoes you don’t crack, simply going through the motions and giving barely there answers to Thomas and Simone - who exchanged worried glances over the top of your head.

You thank your lucky stars that you’re not going on until later in the act. You have time to compose yourself, stretching your arms and making sure you’re at least in the best technical state of mind so that you can be half decent when you perform.

“Are you okay, ____?” Director Cho is looking at you with mild concern but you brush him off with a cool half smile, preparing for your first entrance.

“I will be.”

You brush by Director Lee as you prepare for your entrance, missing the smirk that’s on his face at your dejected figure.

Everything about you is near perfect when you begin your routine, steps light and airy as you play your part the best you can. You can feel the way Rafayel tries to catch your eye as you continue your dance, though, so you turn away and continue on as best you can.

It’s harder when you’re in close proximity with him, back pressed against his as you both execute intricate movements with delicate precision. You’re trying your absolute best to keep it together, but it’s so fucking hard.

Especially when you feel his hands grip your waist, about to dip you down on the floor.

Keep it together keep it together keep it together-

You gasp, tumbling out of his hold slightly and beginning to pitch towards the floor.

You’re luckily able to catch yourself and you put your hands on your knees, catching your breath as the room goes deadly silent. The conductor looks at you with pure concern on his face as your breath leaves you in unsteady puffs, and you close your eyes so that you can try and mute the world that’s beginning to sound too loud.

“I- everyone take ten.”

Rafayel’s voice is sharp and no one questions it, you included as you all but sprint from the stage to the door leading to the outside of the stage. He’s quick to catch up to you, though, grabbing your arm and wrapping his fingers tightly around your wrist.

“____, please listen to me,” he begs while you push the door open. The frigid air hardens you resolve, and you finally gather enough of the cold everyone accuses you of having to face him.

And you hate it, oh you hate how he’s able to make you melt with one look at his face.

Even when he looks devastated by the circumstances, he still looks achingly beautiful. His hair is messily slicked back, the navy blue of his costume’s top bringing out the sapphire of his eyes while the silver of his buttons gleam against his skin so exquisitely. He looks so much like the Siegfried your Odette is so in love with, full of yearning and a need to fix things and to break your curse.

But then your vision distorts, and all you can see is him and the words he’s apparently whispered behind your back, just like how Siegfried broke his promise to his beloved swan princess.

“What is there to listen to?” Your voice is clipped, short and devoid of emotion as you finally yank your arm back from his hold to wrap around your breaking body. “You said I was too mechanical, too cold and unfeeling. Well, now you have that version of me.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he groans in frustration, hands reaching up and ruining his perfectly styled hair. His hands never stop moving, fingers flexing and twitching to do something, anything, but you refuse to entertain the fact that he may want to pull you close.

“So what did you mean?” You ask. The ball is fully in his court, and he knows it by the way he closes his eyes to try and explain himself.

“That was…before the udon shop. Before I got to properly know you and to learn about you and to work with you. You…you’re exquisite and I don’t know what to do with myself-”

“So I was right about this being a charity case back then too.” This time, the hurt seeps in through the cracks and your form begins to shake. “You didn’t actually want to work with me, did you? You just wanted to fix Linkon City’s broken prima ballerina?”

“What? My swan, no-”

“Don’t call me that.”

Your voice drops to a whisper, lethal before he can hurt you. Your arms drop limply to your sides and it feels like you’re too sensitive all of a sudden, too aware of the rocks underneath your pointe shoes and the evening sun bathing your skin in its warmth and the way Rafayel looks at you like you’re his entire world when you know you aren’t.

“I’ll finish this show. I’ll be your perfect ballerina and then after that you can work with anyone else because I belong in the practice room and working with the corps instead-”

“____, no-”

“Rafayel, yes. You don’t need to explain anything because I know how you truly feel-”

“God, ____, can you at least let me explain myself before reverting back to this godawful, unfeeling version of yourself?”

The words burst from his mouth, and his eyes widening before you can even fully comprehend what he said. But it hits you, oh it hits you straight to your core and you physically stumble away from him because the hurt is suddenly too overwhelming.

The world stills.

Your vision grows watery, distorting Rafayel’s shimmering eyes and mouth that hangs open at what he uttered between the two of you. His words are incisions that cut deep, finally piercing through the layer of ice you had encased your heart and making you bleed.

“I don’t mean that.” He breathes unevenly.

“You do.” Your voice is sure, even as your hands shake. “Because why would you say it to me if you didn’t mean it?”

“I-” Rafayel tries to begin, but you swallow deeply and shake your head. You reach up to the crown on your head, pulling at the pins at the base and plucking them gently from your hair. Once completely loose, you pull the crown from your head and turn it in your hand, looking at the feathers and gleaming silver that symbolises the role you once dreamed for with your entire being.

The one that’s now utterly ruined. 

Despite yourself, you can’t help but step forward towards him, pressing the crown into his limp hands. You guide his fingers around the piece, tucking his digits around the crown and giving them a final goodbye squeeze before removing yourself from him - stepping away from him and his warmth for good.

“I’m a product of what this company taught me. I was taught to be elegant and a dancing machine - unfeeling, like you said.” Your voice barely trembles as you laugh bitterly. “I guess I should completely ignore how you taught me how to feel and love ballet as passionately as you do, then?”

“No, ____-” he begins, but you shake your head.

You’ve decided for the both of you.

“Tell Jenna to get ready for Odette and Odile,” you murmur softly. “I’m done.”

You don’t bother looking at him, because it’ll hurt even more than it already does.

So you step back, turning on your pointe shoes and walking away with your shoulders shaking.

Your breath leaves you in short gasps as you lock yourself in the principal’s rehearsal room. The space is dark, only illuminated by the sliver of light coming from the window of the door and the disappearing sun in the small windows. You gasp heavily as you slide against the door, legs giving out from the weight of his words.

God, ____, can you at least let me explain myself before reverting back to this godawful, unfeeling version of yourself?

Godawful, unfeeling.

Unfeeling.

Your hands shake as you lift them to your chest, trying to find any sort of proof that you can feel and that you’re alive. That you’re capable of emotions and that you can open yourself up to people, that you can actually dance ballet with emotions other than the cold elegance that’s been instilled in you.

Your heart thrums under your fingertips, erratic yet strong.

So why do you feel tears welling up in your eyes?

You approach the mirror in front of you, almost afraid of what may greet you. Will a hideous monster be there in place of your visage? Will a robot be in this costume instead of you?

You breathe deeply, summoning the courage to tilt your head up to look at your reflection in the glass. And you’re shocked to find that it’s just you. Still in your Odette costume, your pointe shoes still tied neatly around your ankles. Your hair is a little mussed from where your crown used to be, but other than that it’s still you.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, the intricately ornate costume barely hiding just how ugly you feel.

You hear it now in your mind, the mournful cello reverberating in the back of your mind as you conjure up a routine you’ve seen danced by a prima ballerina before your time. Your brain visualizes the steps, visions of a dying swan floating around as your feet unconsciously get into their proper position.

Your body begins to move to the music in your mind, and you feel tears welling up in the corners of your eyes as you think of him, of the company you’ve given everything to, of how things have fallen apart for you but how everything felt new when he joined and brought a new perspective. Your body stretches to the floor as you bow deeply before slowly gliding back up, standing en pointe and stepping lightly as you try to control the sobs that threaten to escape your chest from the realization that settles in your stomach.

You love him.

You love him so deeply it scares you.

You’ve grown up in the company so cold, so alone - chasing after perfection for so long that having something real scares the ever living hell out of you. Your arms move to reach high above your head, reaching up to the sky as you imagine his arms around you to lift you higher.

Your arms move down harshly and you slow down your steps, crying fully now. You don’t care if your tears leak into the silk feathers of your tutu or streak your makeup anymore. Perfection isn’t worth it if he’s not there to make you feel the joy that was hidden inside of you for so long.

It’s not like you can feel it anymore, anyways. Any sort of light that was still inside of you died when he uttered those words to your face.

You end your solo with a collapse onto the floor, curling up into a ball and crying into your arms. This isn’t how you envisioned your final swan song to be but you find it fitting that it ends alone.

You’ll never do this again.

Not when the person who was finally able to make you feel again took all of that warmth from you, leaving you devastated and cold once more.

Your eyes ignore the calendar app on your phone as you turn the page of the latest fantasy novel you’re reading.

You know what day it is, though. You know it by the bag of cast and management gifts that sits abandoned by the doorway of your office, by the way your phone pings incessantly with messages wondering where you are, and by the hollowness in your chest as your eyes aimlessly read the words that blur together on the page in front of you.

You don’t care.

You shouldn’t care.

There’s a tiny spark in your heart, though, one that won’t go away no matter how much you try to kill it with the ice you’re supposed to feel.

You slam your book shut, pushing yourself up off of your arm chair and waddling to your kitchen so that you can drink some water. As you pass by you see the remnants of breakfast - the leftover crusts of an avocado toast with egg residue and one or two grilled tomatoes by the side.

Your usual pre-show meal.

You scowl at the unassuming dish, trying desperately to tamp down the ache you feel as you grab at the plate and clear it off, scrubbing at the enamel harshly under cold water so that you can maintain some semblance of normalcy with your absurd situation.

You have no right to be hurt and they have no right to seek you out, you’re the one who turned into this unfeeling machine and they’re the ones who pushed you to that brink. You’re just the one who broke in the end. The Linkon City Ballet Company will go on without you like it always has.

For some reason, that thought is bitterly comforting. You may be completely empty but at least your hands don’t shake anymore.

You’re shaken from your stupor with a knock on the door. Your eyes dart to your clock - it’s 3:00 pm, which is company rehearsal time before a show usually.

You imagine that it’s just a delivery, although you can’t think of anything you’re expecting right now. You cancelled the new shipments of leotards and tights you had ordered, no longer seeing a use for them. Maybe a pair of pointe shoes from an order long ago?

You walk to your apartment door, not bothering to look through the peephole because if it’s just a package they’ll leave it by your door. You feel a muted thrum of something deep in your stomach at the prospect of preparing your last pairs of pointe shoes. It truly does feel like the end of an era for you-

“-Rafayel?”

“Hi, ____,” he murmurs. His eyes look tired, hair even more ruffled than usual as he looks at you with all of the hope in the world. “Can we talk?”

You don’t know why, but something in you makes you push the door open wider for him, stepping to the side and allowing for him to enter your sanctuary.

Once inside the awkwardness doesn’t abate, even when he settles himself on your couch and you grab two cups of water. You offer one to him without a word, carefully making sure your fingers are away from him so you don’t risk feeling that zing of electricity between the two of you before sitting on the armchair opposite your couch.

You sip your water, scrambling for a thought before you settle on, “Shouldn’t you be rehearsing for tonight?”

Rafayel is nonplussed by your words, instead electing to take a deep drink of water before setting the cup on the coffee table. Your head dips down right at the moment his head lifts to see if he can catch your eye, and you miss the flicker of pain that flashes over his face at the way you curl in on yourself.

“No,” he says softly. “I…uh, I’m having Thomas go on for me tonight. Said it was a family illness. Director Lee’s in shambles.”

“Mmm,” you hum. You stretch your hands, making a show of rotating your wrists so that you can hide how they tremble under his stare. “What about Jenna and Director Cho?”

“Jenna’s mainly worried about you. Eric…where do I even start with Director Cho?” Rafayel laughs humorlessly, and your eyes flicker up just enough to see the way he shakes his head.

“After I made an absolute mess of things, Director Lee and Director Cho held a meeting with me. We were supposed to be civil but after Director Cho got the truth from the both of us…well, he ripped me a new one, as I deserve. Ansel tried to worm his way out of it but Eric threatened to have him removed from the director’s board if he didn’t make it right with you as well.”

Your heart warms briefly at how Director Cho defended you against Director Lee. Satisfaction also lingers in the back of your mind, but it’s not sweet like you imagined. It’s just…there.

You don’t know why it bothers you so much.

“That’s tough for you and Eric,” you say softly. You don’t know how you fit in this puzzle.

“____?”

Rafayel’s voice trembles, and you finally allow yourself to look up at his face. You’re shocked to see how tears begin to gather in the corners of his eyes, lips pursed thin as he looks at you with an ache you feel reflected in the hollow of your chest. His hands clench and unclench as you sigh heavily, reaching over and undoing his fingers gently. You rub at the crescent moons his nails embedded into his skin, trying your best to ease the angry marks even as your chest leaps at the close contact you have with him.

“I forgive you,” you murmur softly. Rafayel’s hands twitch at your words and you take it as your signal to continue. “It’s okay if you meant it, I know I’m not worth dancing with. But I forgive you because somewhere along the way I began to lo- care for you. I’ll continue teaching with the corps and you can continue to blossom on stage, okay? We can put this behind us.”

“What, ____? No-”

Rafayel yanks his hands from your own, instead tucking one of his palms under your chin and tilting your head up so that you can look at him head on. The depth of emotions swirling in his pearlescent stare makes your breath catch in your throat - sadness, anger, pain, desire, and something unspoken blending together and matching how you feel in your hollowness.

“____, swan, I should be the one who’s sorry.” Your eyes widen at his words and you begin to shake your head but he stops you, fingers tightening on your chin. “I’m the one who fucked up. I’m the one who hurt you beyond repair, who said your deepest fears to you like it didn’t matter. I royally screwed up.”

“Rafayel, you didn’t mean it?”

“I never did. Not one word.”

“You said I was stiff.”

“It was because I could tell I was making you nervous by thrusting you into that role too quickly and in a public space. I messed that up.”

“Cold?”

“Those were Ansel’s words in the conversation, not mine. I swear to you I’ve never thought of you in that way, ___.”

You swallow thickly. You want so desperately to believe him. You want him to kiss the ache away, but the empty thump in your chest just makes the words he did say to you ring around in your brain.

“Unfeeling?” You’re barely able to whisper it out, the grief you feel making that awful word sound like a choked garble from your throat.

God, ____, can you at least let me explain myself before reverting back to this godawful, unfeeling version of yourself?

Your head spins and you can feel it now - your heart aching. You’re surprised it’s still there, to be honest. You thought you were hollow but it turns out you’re not immune to hurt, after all.

The air is still as you sniffle, realizing belatedly that you’re actually crying. You’re crying and you’re not unfeeling and it should make you happy that you’re not the elegant machine that everyone’s forced down your throat but instead your grief hits you full force until you begin to sob, your cries clawing their way out of your throat as you curl into yourself.

“I’m so sorry, ____…my swan…”

Rafayel’s quick to scoop you up into his arms, pulling you into his embrace and tucking your head underneath his chin. His hands play idly with the ends of your hair and massage your back as you sob into his neck, fingers curling into his shirt as you let the overwhelming feeling wash over your body.

That sadness gives way to anger, though, and you feel it cloud your senses as you begin to push at his chest. Warbles escape your throat, ugly sobs getting in the way of you trying to tell him how much he hurt you, how he crushed you underneath his foot with one single word, and how despite it all you love him so deeply, that you ached for him in your time apart and how he’s the warmth you’ve long sought for - and does he know that he means so much to you?

Rafayel takes it all in a stride, letting you push at his chest and wring at his shirt as he reaches up and cups your face, brushing your tears away even when his own run down his cheeks in torrential streams. “Be mad at me, hurt me for all I care,” he breathes softly as you bury your head against his chest again. “I deserve it and I will make it up to you for as long as you'll let me. Please let me, ____.”

The two of you stay that way for what feels like days until your sniffles subside and the tears slow to a stop, both of your eyes red-rimmed. But you also somehow feel a little bit lighter, a little bit warmer, and a little more open to talk as you flop onto your back on your couch, making Rafayel topple on top of you.

He barely blinks at the sudden change of position, pulling you close by your waist and running idle circles up and down your back. Your hands somehow find their way up to his hair, gently running your fingers through the silky locks when your eyes flicker and catch the time.

3:50 pm.

“Raf, you should go,” you whisper, your voice hoarse from your earlier sobs. You brush a hair away from his forehead, resisting the urge to kiss the bare skin as you push yourself up from his hold to look down on him. “The company usually gets ready by now-”

“I’m not going unless you go,” he replies steadily. Determination lights his eyes, mixed with something headier as he sits up as well to examine your face. “I’m not Siegfried unless you’re my Odette.”

“I’m not cut out for it anymore. I don’t think I can…do it properly.”

Your eyes drift back down to the soft blue of your couch, unable to face him anymore. The emotions that lie underneath the surface…they’re dangerous and you shouldn’t allow yourself to be pulled under.

How can you even dance with him on stage when you can barely look at him in the face?

“____.”

Rafayel calls your name and like a ship to a lighthouse, you’re drawn to it. You savor the brevity of it on his lips, how he holds it with such reverence as if it’s something precious to him. You keep that memory close to your chest because you know once this bubble breaks everything will be over and you’ll be back to the present.

“I wasn’t honest about my initial feelings towards you.”

You scoff lightly at his words, keeping your eyes firmly turned down as if you can somehow spare yourself of the hurt that he’s about to inflict on you. “When we first met at the studio?”

“No, when I first saw you dance before your hiatus.”

His confession makes all of the thoughts in your brain screech to a sudden halt, and you whip your head to look up at him incredulously. “What do you mean by that?”

“I remember telling you that I thought you were incredible in a technical sense, and only in that way.” His hands reach out and tuck a baby hair off of your forehead, and you lean into his touch as he traces your temple down to the curve of your cheek. “That’s the only lie I’ve ever told you.”

“So, how did you feel about me then?”

You see it then, in the way his eyes look over your entire face tenderly as his cheeks flush. It’s a flash that you almost want to believe that it’s something your mind conjured up, but you can tell by the way his thumb brushes along your lower lip that it’s real - that everything that exists between the two of you is real.

“I thought that you were- you are beautiful,” he says softly. His forehead presses against yours and you close your eyes at the sudden closeness. All you can smell now is yuzu and clean air and Rafayel, the Rafayel that you want to hold on tight to and never let go.

“I knew that you were beautiful but closed off. I could tell something was making you hold back and I wanted to help you find the joy in everything because seeing you dance for that first time…it was exquisite. You’re exquisite, ____. You bring me so much joy and I hate that I’ve only brought you devastation because I want you to only feel love and the best version of yourself when you’re around me, my swan.”

It slips out of his mouth so fast that you think you’re definitely dreaming it, but your eyes widen at the same time his ears flush red and you know that you didn’t conjure it up.

Rafayel Qi loves you.

He loves you, too.

“Say that again,” you demand. You fix your face so that it looks like you’re serious, but your heart beats rapidly as you try to suppress the warmth that’s slowly worming its way back into your heart.

“I could tell something was holding you back-” Rafayel tries to stutter, but you shake your head and place your hands on his shoulders.

“I want to hear what you said after, about love.”

Rafayel exhales, knowing he’s been caught - but he doesn’t look all that shaken as he looks up at you with the smile you’ve fallen for. “I love you, ____.”

“Again,” you try to demand, although it falls flat when Rafayel takes your face in his hands and begins to press kisses onto every surface of skin he can touch.

“I love how your smile overtakes your entire face after you execute a perfect pirouette,” he whispers as he lets his lips brush on your forehead. 

“I love how your cheeks puff up whenever you're focused on a routine or when I tease you.” Two kisses on each of your cheeks, making you giggle when he rubs his nose against your skin.

“I love your brains and your dedication to the Linkon City Ballet Company, and how passionate you are about ballet - even when you were helping out the corps with their choreography during your undeserved hiatus.” A soft brush across your eyelids, quelling the tears that burn at the corners of your eyes.

“I love you, ____.” A simple statement, one that Rafayel pulls away for so that he can gauge your reaction. You see shimmers of hope and adoration and clear love shining in his eyes, and you can’t help but laugh blissfully as you pull him close.

“Kiss me, Rafayel Qi.”

The words scarcely leave your mouth before he’s capturing your lips with his own, his fingers tightening on your face as he finally, finally, kisses you. It tastes of salty tears but there are no sad feelings behind it, only happiness as you sink into him, your own fingers creasing his shirt from how tightly you hold him as you say all the things that have bubbled inside of you since the udon shop all of those months ago.

I love you I love you I love you.

Something settles in your chest when you pull away, gasping for air as you let your forehead rest against his chin. That warmth you felt when you were first with him is finally back, but it feels different somehow.

Permanent.

Something you’re no longer so afraid of, especially since you know he’ll be by your side.

Your eyes flicker back up to the clock, noting that it’s 4:43 pm. Your eyes dart to his and you smile, allowing yourself to steal one more kiss from his awe-struck face before you make your way out of his lap. As soon as he registers your warmth leaving his body, Rafayel looks at you in confusion as he pushes himself up from your couch to follow you around your apartment.

“____?”

“You can make it up to me properly later, Raf.” Your voice is soft as you grab your ballet bag and the bag of gifts for the cast. “For now, though…”

You sling your bags over your shoulder and hold your hand out, both of your smiles growing when he reaches out and holds on tightly to your fingers.

“Will you make sure I don’t fall tonight?”

Rafayel’s eyes soften, pulling your hand to his mouth so that he can brush a kiss over your knuckles.

“You’ll never fall when I’m the one doing your lifts, ____. I swear it.”

When you look back on this moment in the coming months, you won’t remember the specific faces of the audience members in front of you when you take your first step towards the edge of the stage. You won’t dwell on the months of rehearsals and late nights and hard-won moments of you conquering your fear of lifts.

You’ll let yourself remember the pain, though. You’ll remember the work and the sweat and the tears that went into this exact moment - the moment when you finally bow your head with a serene smile, rose petals and bouquets of all colors raining down all around you as you pull your arms in and bow all the way to the floor.

And you’ll remember how you reach out to Rafayel, his smile outshining the glow of stage lights in front of you as he holds your hand and gives it a kiss before pushing you towards the audience once more, clapping for you the loudest as you take another bow with tears in your eyes. You’ll remember the exact moment you realize your heart has been his for a long time - when he pulls you close and lifts you up in his arms, spinning you around in dizzying circles while you laugh and wrap your arms around his neck to the cheers of the crowd and the company that, despite everything, you still love with every fiber of your being.

And you’ll realize that it wasn’t the end for you. All of the pain of your indefinite hiatus and the strife you were forced to take in stride during rehearsals wasn’t for naught.

It was all for this.

It was for your beautiful rebirth.

Your heart still thrums with adrenaline post-show, your smile never leaving your face as you sit at your vanity and take off your makeup. 

Every surface of your private dressing room is covered in flowers and gifts - peonies of all colors, rose arrangements with little feathers tucked in between the greenery, gift bags on the little table in front of a small loveseat, and letters from the company and front of house stacked neatly on the shelf by the door that has your pointe shoe bag and purse hung on the hooks below.

You didn’t think you would cry when you read the letters addressed to you - but you didn’t realize that so many people were waiting for you too. From the sentimental to the encouraging, your eyes never stopped shedding tears as you read every heartfelt letter - each written word healing something in your heart as your cheeks ached from how hard you smiled.

Well, you did stop crying one time. When you had read the letter from Director Lee you had laughed at the groveling nonsense before tucking it back into the envelope and placing it at the bottom of the pile.

There was a letter and gift that was conspicuously missing though. You had waited with bated breath as you read through the pile, waiting for a certain purple-haired danseur’s letter to pop up. Your disappointment was slight when you had reached the end and you didn’t see his penmanship, but you had simply shrugged it off.

You know that you’d be seeing him again, so it didn’t matter too much to you.

You can hear the hallways grow quieter as you finish your routine, face clean and hair slightly damp from taking a quick shower in the shower attached to your dressing room. You’re patting your serum into your face when you hear a knock at your door. You barely turn around, able to look at who’s going to greet you as you answer, “Come in!”

Your heart does a flip when the door cracks open and Rafayel’s head peeks around, his tired eyes crinkling at the corners when he sees your face in the mirror. “Hey, swan.”

“Hi Raf,” you reply with a little grin, gesturing for him to enter the room. He’s quick to follow, his gaze scanning your room as you reach for your little tub of moisturizer.

“Are you going to start running a flower shop here?” He jokes as he leans his body against the table. You scowl at his playful joke, though it’s quick to be soothed when he leans down to brush his lips across the crown of your head.

“Nope,” you say. You finish rubbing your moisturizer onto your face before turning back up to him. “I’m going to donate a majority of them to the hospital that treated me. They could do with some flowers.”

Rafayel's eyes soften at your words. “Let me know if I can help you with transporting them,” he replies. His hands reach for yours and he brings one of them up to his mouth, pressing lazy kisses along your fingertips as you reach for the quarter-zip folded neatly on your desk.

“Are you not going to the after party?” You ask curiously. He’s dressed similarly as you - grey sweatpants and a baggy white shirt, hair ruffled after a shower. You shouldn’t be feeling so hot seeing him in such mundane clothing, but something in your stomach simmers when you see him this…fresh.

“That was dependent on you,” he admits shyly. His bashfulness is a direct juxtaposition to the way he rubs his nose along the inside of your wrist, and you try to suppress the shiver that races up your spine when you feel his tongue flick out to lick at your pulse.

“I- I was going to get udon instead-” your voice shakes as you lean back in your chair, goosebumps prickling on your arm when he lifts his head up slightly and looks at you with hooded eyes.

“How long is the udon shop open for?” His voice is gravelly as he pulls at your arm lightly, and you’re quick to follow his movements and stand in front of him. His hands settle lightly on your hips before he turns your bodies around so you’re the one leaning against your vanity and he’s the one towering over you - his hands moving to settle behind you so you’re caged in by his arms and slowly getting drunk off of his clean scent.

“Until midnight-” you try to begin, but your voice cracks when he pushes his nose against your neck, breathing deeply before running his mouth up and down the delicate skin. Your arms wind around his neck and you tilt your head back, giving him more access to your sensitive skin.

A whine slips from your lips when you feel his mouth brush against the skin connecting your shoulder and neck, uncovered because of the little lace camisole you’re wearing. You feel the smirk against your skin before he moves down further, his hands moving to trace your torso as his tongue traces the lace against your aching breasts.

“Oh shi- Raf- the udon-” You try to say, but it sounds pitiful in your ears as he huffs out a laugh. His head moves back up and he kisses your cheek, the tenderness making you forget all about the udon you had in mind.

“I have other things on my mind, pretty,” he says softly. Rafayel pulls away slightly, and you can see the way his pupils dilate at the sight of you - so pliant and ready under his touch. “Need to make up for some things.”

“Rafayel-” It’s broken when he kisses you, hungry as you open your mouth almost immediately. His tongue is quick to slip into your mouth, brushing against yours as he tilts your head so he can get as close as possible to your addictive taste. His chest rumbles and you moan hotly, pulling him as close you can manage. Getting the hint he moves his hands from your torso to your legs, reaching down and wrapping them around his slender waist so tight that you don’t know where he starts and you end.

Your need for Rafyel builds, that simmering you felt in the pit of your stomach slowly consuming you until you’re burning all over, each brush of his hands over your body and stroke of his tongue against your mouth eliciting a quiet whimper or wanton gasp of his name from your swollen lips.

Rafayel is no better - his unsatiated need for you making his hands grab at any skin he can blindly feel before finally settling his palms on your ass. He massages the thick flesh roughly, allowing for him to grind his rapidly hardening cock against your clothed core until you’re both rutting against each other desperately. The kisses turn messy the closer you reach your end, teeth clacking together when Rafayel angles his hips just right to slide his clothed cockhead against your clit.

“Do you feel what you do to me?” He groans, swallowing your cries with a fervent kiss. “You make me so fucking hard, ____-”

His voice breaks in a whimper, his grip on you tightening before he pulls you from your vanity and blindly stumbles his way to the loveseat with you in his arms. You take advantage of the loose neckline of his shirt to suck your mark onto his neck, unwittingly making his head spin to the point his shin bangs against the corner of the coffee table.

“Ow, fuck- shit, pretty-” he moans. He collapses onto the couch with you on top, his hands guiding the movements of your hips so that he can bring you to the climax you so crave.

“Wait, Raf-” you gasp, grabbing at his wrists. With all the strength you can manage in your lust-addled mind, you move his hands away from your body and pin them to the back of the couch, making his eyes flicker open to look at you in shock.

“____, my swan, what-” Rafayel tries to begin, but you lean down and steal his train of thought away with a kiss that makes his cock twitch underneath your body.

“Let me make you feel good,” you whisper, leaning over and biting the shell of his ear. Rafayel’s eyes glaze over at the hood of your eyes, the small smirk on your lips making his mind blank because no way you look this fucking hot on top of him-

Your hands push his sweats down, dragging the baggy fabric over his muscular thighs and down to his ankles before standing up to do the same for you. Rafayel sits up in a daze, dragging his shirt over his head as you pull your sweatpants off of your legs before settling back down directly onto his clothed cock. With the baggy fabric gone you’re able to feel how his precum leaks through his boxer briefs, mixing with your slick until you’re both moaning and making a mess of your underwear.

“Rafayel-” you moan, feeling the knot in your stomach beginning to unravel. You rest your forehead against his collarbone, breathing deeply as your hands rest on his defined pecs. “I’m- ah!”

All of a sudden you’re on your back, Rafayel’s hands pulling at the delicate scraps of lace still on your body until your panties hang on your ankle and your camisole is pushed up over your chest. Rafayel's lips move with intent, sliding from your mouth to your breast so he can pull one of your sensitive nipples in your mouth.

“Hah-” you gasp, back arching further into his mouth when you feel teeth tease the little bud. 

“Fuck, ____” he groans with a wet plop of his lips. He pushes his boxer-briefs down his legs impatiently, lifting your right leg up so that it’s pressed against your heaving chest. With the new space between your legs he’s free to slide his cock in between your pussy lips, the raw heat from his sensitive cock making you cry out.

“Please,” you beg, tears threatening to slide down your cheeks from the need that you feel eating at your body. “Please please please put it in me, I need you so fucking bad Raf-”

“Shit, I have you swan...” Rafayel’s hands shake as he guides his weeping cockhead into your wet heat, closing his eyes and tilting his head back at the feeling of your walls trying to suck him further into you. You whine at the limited contact, wrapping your left leg around his waist so that you can pull him closer but his hands stop your hips - fingers gripping your skin so tightly you know you’ll have his mark on you for days.

“Be patient, pretty lady,” he murmurs darkly. He pushes in agonizingly slow, allowing for the both of you to savor each inch he sinks into your cunt until he’s pressed against your deepest spot - his cock nudging against your g-spot and making you see stars.

“Oh- oh my g-” you try to complete your thought but it leaves in an incoherent whimper, head thrashing back and forth on the armrest. You can’t even think - it feels too fucking good, it’s a feeling you want to live in you forever.

“Fuuuck, I’m so in love with you,” Rafayel slurs- almost drunk off of the feeling of your walls massaging his length erratically. His hips shift out ever so slightly, pulling out shallowly before slamming himself back in. His cock nudges against that spot in you, and your legs twitch as a squeak escapes your lips.

“P-please move-” Your whimper ends in a high pitched cry, Rafayel driven by his intense need to see the way your face scrunches as you fall apart from the pleasure he brings to you.

“C’mon, pretty,” he grunts. His hips begin to piston in and out of your pussy faster, the squelches he elicits filling your dressing room with sounds of your sin. While he’s bringing you closer to the edge, his lips move to the leg propped up on his shoulder - tilting his head so that he can kiss the barely visible scar on your ankle reverently.

“I fucking love you.” It’s a whimper from his lips, Rafayel’s head moving down to your shoulder so that he can leave marks only he can see on your body. “My swan, my beautiful ____, my prima ballerina-”

“Ngh- I love you too Raf-” you gasp. Your hands grab at his face and you pull him down for a kiss, feeling the knot in your body about to snap. “‘m bout to cum-”

“Cum with me, ____-” He groans.

And with one last slam of his hips against his g-spot, you fall apart.

All you can manage are whimpers and love confessions mixed with shaky gasps of his name as you cum, the pleasure so overwhelming that your vision fades to black for a swift second. You’re brought back to him, though, when you feel a pleasant warmth fill your body as Rafayel finishes inside of you with a long-drawn out moan of your name.

Rafayel’s arms give out with the pleasure he feels, his head bumping against your collarbone as he moves your leg off of his shoulder before his entire weight collapses on top of you. A little oof escapes from your mouth, although you can’t quite contain the smile on your lips as you brush his sweaty hair from your forehead.

“You sucked my soul out of me, swan.”

The low statement has you laugh from the sheer hilarity of it, and you can feel Rafayel’s sleepy smile at your joy as he kisses one final kiss on your collarbone.

“Good thing we don’t have a show tomorrow,” you joke. Your fingers move to his back drawing little patterns on the muscular expanse as you contemplate your next words.

Rafayel beats you to it, though, leaning down and stealing a kiss from your smiling lips. “I love you, ____.”

“I love you too.”

The quiet settles once more before you finally remember what you wanted to say:

“Soo…udon and sushi?”

Rafayel huffs a laugh, kissing your forehead once more.

“Sure, my swan. Anything you want.”

a/n #2: i am so sorry for how long this is LOL :')) anyways, i hope you enjoy!! thank you for reading and reaching this far, i really appreciate it <33

“what’s it called?”

“uh.” you look up, digging through recent receipts and credit card statements. “dragon…”

he draws in another breath of you.

“fire…” you gasp when he nips at your skin with his teeth, unable to hold back any longer. “…kiss?”

he freezes, then chuckles. “ah.”

“ah?” you frown when he lifts his head. his lips land on your hair. “what do you mean, ah?”

“ah, this makes sense.” he grins, planting more possessive pecks onto your forehead. even up here your sweet scent drives him into a frenzy. “how much did you get it for?”

you purse your lips and suddenly you’re bashful. never once in your relationship has he asked you about prices, having said at the very beginning that it would take decades for you to even make a dent into his fortune no matter how much you consume.

it shouldn’t be a point of shame either, because he actively asks you to use his card for anything you might need. yet, confronted with it now… it’s harder to admit that you’d thought a luxurious bottle justified such a price for a few drops of product.

and like he reads each thought you just had, he bends to kiss your lips gently, to coax you out of the spell. “i don’t mean to pry.”

“i think i spent too much.”

“no,” he drawls, utterly entertained by you. “not at all, sweetie.”

you pout. “then, why…?”

“you don’t have to buy this again,” he’s like a bird, pecking at the skin of your blushing face with butterfly kisses.

you open your mouth— to bite, to complain, to express the frustrating confusion he’s wringing you into.