I'm Bora (for now, till i think of something) 26, she/her, Bi, ARMY
I love reading fanfiction, it's my most favorite pastime. Rarely post anything. As mentioned, it's all about supporting writers and artists!
Fandoms I usually reblog: Attack on Titan, Love and Deepspace, Jujutsu Kaisen, Call of Duty
Fair warning: I will tag you if we share similar interests and I find good works, regardless of being a mutual or not. I do ask sometimes, but I forget mostly 😅
Smth smth reader with an Evol like Julian's "curse" in the Arcana, where you can heal any wound, but you take it on yourself. That scene where MC is forced to shoot Sylus through the chest, but it's you, and you immediately cover the wound with your hands and try taking it on yourself. You get halfway there: you gasp and cry out as you feel your chest get torn open, your heart burning from the heat of an invisible bullet. But Sylus's Evol works faster than yours, healing him up fast enough to bleed into you, repairing your heart and the hole in your chest, leaving behind only the blood
Like idk just the horror on Sylus's face that you would try to heal him after All That. That you'd nearly killed yourself to save his life
unpopular opinion probably but I actually like that ao3 doesn’t let people take back their kudos.
unlike social media platforms (which ao3 is not) where people unlike stuff whenever they think or find out the original posters’ moral compass doesn’t perfectly align with their own’s or whatever, and “likes” can be taken back at any time, ao3 treats kudos as something sacred. once you give it, it’s the author’s to keep forever.
sum. pranking the lads men by replying to them with "she's busy rn."
notes. yall mamas was sick these past few days but we're so back 🤣 valko is so coming back i can feel it in my veins (im going insane without him). no warnings for this.
Instead of sex pollen, what if a Wanderer sprayed you with pervert slime, giving you the ability to see people’s dirty thoughts about you?
Sure, you get the occasional gross deviant, but isn’t it a surprise to see what the LIs imagine… who you are NOT currently romantically involved with.
Part 2! Where having dirty thoughts about you really really pays off.
For Context: Part 1
NSFW 18+
CW: ♡ Straddling ♡ Riding ♡ Oral (giving & receiving) ♡ Groping ♡ Neck Kissing ♡ Making Out ♡ Wall Sex ♡ On The Floor ♡ Nipple Play ♡ Rough Sex ♡ Mentions of Spanking ♡ Unprotected Sex ♡ Mating Press ♡ Body Licking ♡ Mild Teasing/Banter ♡ and probably more, sorry if I've forgotten anything.
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Valko
The conference has just finished, the attendees now networking, but all you can think about is getting fucked. For two hours, the man next to you has been relentless in his fantasy, and it’s left you a sticky, aching mess. Speaking of, the mystery pervert is still sitting next to you, twisted away and thoroughly intrigued by his phone.
You know better, because as of right now, he’s imagining sucking on your nipples, blouse ripped right off.
It’s almost impressive, knowing he’s been rock hard for two hours. For you, a stranger. You eye him properly now, and damn, he’s gorgeous. Slutty little glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, delicious broad shoulders, and that jaw…
You’d come here to learn and to meet people… fuckign them counted too, right? Absolutely it did
You lean toward him, holding out your hand as you introduce yourself. “Hi there.”
His amber gaze flickers to your hand, back to your face. Clearing his throat, he says, “Oh, hey. Yeah! Nice to meet you, I’m Valko.”
You initiate boring small talk, asking why he’s here, clenching around nothing as more slick comes to pool between your legs. What you wished you could say was ‘So, last week I got attacked by a new Wanderer, and now I can see people’s dirty thoughts. I can see your fantasy, and I’m very happy to make that a reality.’
Valko is chatting away, mentioning something about insights and protocores… until you lean in even closer, desperate to try and feel some of his warmth, but instead your scent washes over him… his words stutter.
The fantasy explodes with more desperation, more sweat, more everything. You’re on the floor now, the chair hindering his ability to fuck up into you the way he needs. With you on top, he can grasp your hips, guide you along his thick length. He slips a hand up to squeeze your bouncing tits, fingers trailing back down in admiration of your body… You’re a panting mess, moaning and gasping as he pushes you closer to the edge of oblivion. He wants to help. He begins to rub your clit, and from this angle, he can lean up and lap at your perked nipple, bite it even, needing you to make an absolute mess of him—
You fidget, rubbing your knees together, rolling your hips into the seat, needing friction. Needing release. You can’t take it anymore.
“Basically, I just think that—”
“There’s a supply room down the hall,” you cut Valko off.
“Pardon?”
You swallow, blinking at him a few times. Were you really going to do this?
Your throbbing cunt is screaming yes.
“Don’t get me wrong, the chair and the floor are hot, but there are too many people here.”
Valko’s jaw drops, entire face growing crimson. “Um. Sorry? Wait… What do you mean—”
“It’s a long story. But that doesn’t matter; what does matter is that you want to fuck me, and I want to fuck you. Let’s not make it difficult. You can ask for my number after, ok? But after two hours of that, I can’t take it anymore. Please.” You plead with your eyes, purring the please.
Valko swallows, brain short-circuiting. “Um.”
Impatient, you seize his wrist and rise. He glances to the dark patch left on your chair, then your face, a lustful haze taking over his pretty amber gaze.
You were so sure the Wanderer side-effect was a curse… But now you’re pinned against the storage room wall, legs shackled around Valko’s waist as his cock slams into you at a ridiculous pace. He's rasping sweet praises, breath hot against your temple… fuck you're tight, holy shit you're beautiful, don't even know me and you're so good… His palm is rough against your open mouth, trying to dampen your unabashed moans as he consistently hits that sweet spot so deep within you. Your nails dig into his shoulders, holding on for dear life… yeah, you couldn’t be more thrilled.
Sylus
If Sylus is going to have the audacity to bid on that old thing as some kind of token, a tribute to his dirty fantasy, you’re going to make him work for it.
“Sixty,” you counter, flashing your paddle.
Sylus makes an amused sound, something between a snicker and a snort, raising it again. You strike back, making it eighty. And so the war begins, the price soaring high, until you feel the tickle of hot breath against your ear. “Do you think you can outbid me?”
You twist in your chair, flashing him an innocent smile. “Of course not, but I can make you spend a stupid amount of money for an old desk.” You turn back to the front. “One-fifty!”
You’re not seated on that desk anymore, but bent over it, struggling to take his monstrous cock. He’s used your blazer sleeves as restraints, hands tied behind your back as he pins you down, one large hand on your waist while the other spanks your ass with the bidding paddle. You clench around him, new spurts of slick coming to coat his thighs as he thrusts into you—
You inhale, crossing your legs so you don’t twitch. So now he wants to punish you? Yeah, ok… let’s see how high you can hike the price.
Eventually, Sylus ends up paying a million for the old thing. Your mission might have been a dud, but you did learn some interesting intel.
“Congratulations on your new desk,” you greet him afterward.
He smirks down at you. “Cute.”
“It’s a lovely piece of furniture,” you continue, nodding along to your own compliment. “Very sturdy. Very reliable. Worth every penny, I’d say. Where are you going to put it?”
“I think it would look remarkable in your apartment,” he casually returns.
Sylus has never seen your apartment… well, not from inside. But he knows that it would look great in the corner, so when you’re lying across it with your legs slung over his shoulders, you’ve got nowhere to escape. He pummels into your soaked cunt, chuckling as your eyes roll to the back of your head, then when you go to cry out, he can shove two fingers into your panting mouth—
You need that desk in your home NOW!!!!!
“Oh, that’s so kind of you, Sylus. Are you going to help me move it into my apartment? It looks a little heavy.”
“Of course, sweetie.”
Sylus is a man of his word, the desk now sitting nicely in your home. You inspect the wood, running your hand along the surface, then decide to sit on it. Seems sturdy enough, despite its apparent age…
Sylus, shrugging his jacket back on to leave, tsks at you. “That’s not what it’s designed for, sweetie.”
“Didn’t stop you from imagining me in all sorts of positions on it though, did it?” You counter with a mocking sigh.
Sylus pauses, arching a brow at you.
You swing your legs, feet unable to touch the ground from the desk’s height. With a sweet smile, you continue. “I’ve been so patient, you know. Aren’t you going to bend me over, spank me with the paddle? Did you even bring it?”
There are very few moments—if any, really—where you catch Sylus off guard. His brows shoot up, lips parting ever so slightly… But he is Sylus. And, of course, he recovers. The man chuckles, a darkness taking hold in his gaze.
“You certainly deserve it, for thinking you could rile me up during the auction.”
This man… Can't you just have one victory? One? (Well, at least you know you’ll be getting more than one orgasm.)
His rich laugh has you clench your fists—and your pussy. Never have you loved such a sound, only for it to fill you with inexplicable irritation, and the only way to be rid of it was to touch yourself.
“Did you forget, sweetie?” He motions to his eye—the aethercore. “What’s a true surprise is that I had no idea you could see mine.” Despite his smug casualness, his gaze drops to your mouth. “I’d have been more… tasteful with my imagination if I’d known.”
Speaking of taste…
You shuffle back on the desk a smidge, spreading your legs as an invitation. “Oh, don’t worry, Sy. I'm not complaining.”
And so, the leader of Onychinus is kneeling before you, tugging at your suit pants down so he can devour you. He’s an absolute fiend (haha), and true to his dirty thoughts at the auction, Sylus has you shatter on his tongue several times before you shove him away, overstimulated tears prickling. Your mind is completely gone by the time he sinks his cock into you. You’re laid back on the surface, ankles hanging up over his shoulders, his thick arms wrapped around your thighs to keep you steady. Vision permanently blurred, drool slipping down your cheek to pool onto the wood, Sylus doesn’t take his eyes off of you. Your hands grip the edge of the desk, ignoring how it creaks with each punishing thrust, because all you can really focus on is how his cock throbs, how it kisses your cervix so perfectly… You want him to fill you up, until the warmth of him seeps into your very soul.
(If you want more Sylus desk fucking and spanking ~ here.)
Xavier
“Will you walk me home?”
He shares a gentle conversation with you the entire way, all while his mind replays that one scene over and over with slight alterations. Like he’s trying to find which one would be the best for you. Face and tits smushed against the glass? Hot, but probably a little uncomfortable for you. Back against the tile, one leg hooked up over his shoulder, basically doing a split on him… also hot, but again, probably uncomfortable. He’s really caught up on it, actually. Like, the more he replays them, the more you have to remember that it’s a fantasy and not reality.
At least, not yet.
Because once you get to your front door, you take a shaky breath, knowing you’re about to cross a boundary you can never take back.
“Want to come inside?”
(Oh, he’ll be coming inside alright).
He cocks his head, a little confused. “Aren’t you going to shower?”
You feel your face flush, but you manage to hold his eye this time. “Um, yeah. I thought… maybe… um, like—I mean—”
Fuck. You’re fumbling. C’mon, now! You can do this! Don't you want to know how it feels getting railed in the shower? By Xavier?
Damn straight.
You compose yourself and, with complete control, announce, “I thought you’d like to join me.”
Xavier goes red. Like, really red. It would be cute if you didn’t already know how dirty this pervert was.
He’s in genuine shock. “You want… wait. Is this a trick?”
Your heart is pounding like crazy, but you seize his forearm and pull him inside.
You’re both standing in your living room, the silence piercing, but not uncomfortable. Xavier wants to rush forward and rip your clothes off—and you know this because you can see it in your mind—the only reason he hesitates is that he also wants more than just sex. He’s going to let you lead, until you say otherwise.
You grip the hem of your shirt, and with tantalising slowness, pull it over your head. He is quivering, trying to keep his gaze on your face, but he can’t help it… Those pretty blue eyes drop to admire your tits in your bra.
You turn around, murmuring, “Can you help me?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, and you feel goosebumps ripple across your body as his warm fingertips brush your skin. He unclasps you with ease, and the bra drops to the floor. Reaching back, you find his hands, leading them up to cup your boobs.
“It’s ok, Xavier,” you whisper, grinding your rear into him. “Whatever you want, take it.”
You end up forfeiting the shower… well, for a good while, at least. You end up stumbling into your room, where you discover what he liked to fantasise about in bed late at night. Xavier has you in the meanest mating press, mouth permanently attached to yours, absolutely drunk, groaning low in his throat. You have long melted away, Xavier swallowing your whimpers and moans as he fucks you so deeply, so entirely full you can barely breathe. He wants to praise you for taking him so well, that you’re such a good girl, how he’s fantasised about this for the longest time… but kissing you is addictive. Every second he wastes by talking is another second he’s missed out on.
Rafayel
“Fishing for compliments? C’mon, cutie. You’re always ravishing,” he returns, that cheeky smirk of his so charming and playful.
Everyone has headed into the gallery, leaving you alone with Raf. Folding your arms, you glower up at him, still feigning annoyance. “Oh, really?”
He mirrors you, crossing his arms, brow furrowing. “You—”
“Prove it.”
Everything goes silent, save for the few crickets chirping and the music gently trailing out from the building. Rafayel opens his mouth to speak, only to clamp it shut again.
“Cat got your tongue?” You drawl, leaning closer, resting your hand on his arm. “I sure hope not. I’ve never had every inch of my body licked before.”
He snaps upright, utterly startled, his frozen spell broken. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Look, I don’t know how…”
You can’t help but feel giddy, relishing his flustered reaction. You want to keep taunting him. “Are you saying that you don’t want to?”
His face is the perfect shade of scarlet. “I’m so confused right now.”
You glance down, the artist fully tented. “Not all of you.”
He turns away, shielding his face with a hand so you can’t stare at him. “Stop that! How did you..."
“Don’t be embarrassed, Raf,” you coo, stepping forward to chase him, reaching up to grasp his wrist. You lower his hand-shield, meeting his eye. He’s still bright red, breathing shallowly, and at your touch, his throat bobs.
“I’m sorry for teasing,” you whisper, almost purring. Your eyes suggest you’re anything but.
But honestly, you should have been meaner about it. Should have teased him until he cried.
Because now you’re fucked.
Literally.
Forget the gallery; the second Rafayel realised that this was real, that you wanted him, he drove you to his studio. Now you’re sprawled naked on his ‘muse’ chair—a velvet chaise that he’d bought for you so he could do your portraits… and not the clothed kind.
His tongue runs up the length of your calf, his warm hands holding you open so he can climb higher. He’s planting soft wet kisses along the inner of your knee, licking and nipping higher and higher, until he’s right where you need him most… except he doesn’t indulge. He skips your slick pussy, ignores your throbbing clit, and bites your hip bone… licks up your navel, kisses your torso while his fingertips skim your ribcage, until finally he’s at your breasts. And the cruel bastard does it again; he ignores your nipples, the tip of his tongue circling them but never flicking. Once he’s on your neck, you thread your fingers through his hair, arching your body into his, chasing the delicious, unbearable heat of him. He’s naked too, his hard length digging into your side as he suckles on your pulsepoint, licking a stripe up the column of your throat so his teeth can graze your ear.
He’s told you again and again, ever since you first whined and begged for him to kiss you, to touch you where you needed him most, for him to fuck you already… “You think I’m going to rush this, cutie? No, no, no. You don’t get to have me until I’m satisfied.”
Zayne
You can't stop thinking about what you saw.
You’ve had a crush on Zayne for the longest time… but you’d never let yourself indulge. But now that he had a dirty thought about you, it was essentially permission. So now you’re imagining straddling him on that office chair, sinking onto his cock, especially when he murmurs, “Breathe deeply for me.”
Except that’s not what’s happening, unfortunately. He has a stethoscope pressed in the middle of your back, listening to your lungs—and your racing heart.
You glance to the space beneath his desk, throat bobbing, mouth watering. If that’s what Zayne imagined for stress relief, well… what kind of friend would you be not to offer, right?
“What’s got you so stressed?” You probe him, watching as he puts the instrument away. “Just standard doctor stuff?”
His smile is soft, that green gaze flickering to you. “Yes. And I have some reports that are due soon. I haven’t had time to complete them.”
“Poor Doctor Zayne,” you sympathise for him, giving him a big lower lip. “So stressed he’s gorging on cupcakes. You know if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”
He averts his gaze, likely out of guilt, because in that moment he imagines—
You’re on the examination bed, knees together and pressed into your chest as he tastes you (still in his medical coat, mind you). The position makes your pussy more prominent, a little tighter, so he really has to work for it as he thrusts his tongue into you—
DOCTOR ZAYNE! That is not professional.
“Thank you, but I’ll manage,” he says instead, so casual about it you’re in genuine disbelief. You always thought he was a terrible liar, but here he is, imagining you in compromising positions without so much as breaking a blush.
“Are you sure?” You say, almost accusing, raising a brow.
He stumbles on the way back to his chair, clearing his throat out of mild embarrassment. Finally meeting your stare, he gives you a subtle nod.
“Are you sure?” You lift your chin, glancing down to the space beneath his desk. “I’d definitely fit under there.”
“Pardon?” Zayne frowns, and bless his soul, genuinely confused. At least, for the few seconds, until it clicks.
Hehe, there it is… red blooms across his face, right up to the tips of his ears. He’s speechless, but to your surprise, manages to hold your eye.
“I’ll take it that you haven’t read my report from this morning, with the new Wanderer I fought.”
He’s paralysed, but eventually shakes his head. “I… I was going to look at it before you came—I mean, for the appointment.” He's so quick to add that, you can’t help but snicker a little.
Zayne is regaining some composure, perhaps convincing himself that what he just heard was, in fact, a hallucination. Until you do it again.
“You can read it while I help you,” you suggest with a shrug. “But I’ll make sure to lock the door. You’re right, Doctor. It would be mortifying to have someone walk in.”
And so, with the door locked and the blinds drawn, you’re kneeling beneath Doctor Zayne’s desk, licking up his throbbing length as he tries to read your report under his breath. You’d told him to speak out loud, so he can really absorb the information, you know? Your knee actually is quite sore, but who the fuck cares? You swirl your tongue around his tip before finally taking him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks so you can take all of him—but he’s fucking huge, and you fail. That’s ok, you wanted to make him suffer, anyway. You bob up and down with agonising slowness, letting your tongue taste every thick inch, feel every vein. You pop off, hand gripping his base to keep him close.
“I can’t hear you, Doctor,” you warn.
He groans, throaty and pained. “S-sorry…”
“Don’t be sorry,” you say, your breath warm and teasing, lips brushing against his tip as you speak. “Now start again, I missed the first part.”
Caleb
Caleb finishes his drink, eyes darting around the room. “Alright, I dare you to… let me text someone from your phone.”
You frown. Um, hello? Wasn’t he going to whisk you into a cupboard and shove his tongue down your throat?
When he holds out his hand, you roll your eyes. Wow, how exciting. You pass your phone with an annoyed huff, but for an entirely different reason than he thinks.
“Relax, Pipsqueak. I won’t be too embarrassing,” he laughs, giving you a playful shove on the shoulder.
A few more people have their turns, until finally it’s yours. If Caleb were going to be a coward about this dare, you wouldn’t.
“Truth or dare, Caleb?” You turn to him, giving him a mischievous stare, willing him to choose dare with your mind. He laughs at you, unbothered and understanding your expression.
“You don’t scare me, Pips. Dare.”
Without a beat, you say, “Kiss the prettiest girl in the room.” (Sorry for the Perks of Being a Wallflower trauma.)
He goes completely still, eyebrows nearly shooting off his face as his jaw drops a little.
You are so smug, settling back as you narrow your eyes, teasing. “Go on, Caleb. Choose wisely.”
Everyone, utterly drunk and juvenile, is enjoying the game too much. All of the girls immediately straighten up, a little excited and hopeful.
Caleb stares right at you, refusing to even glance at everyone watching him, content in holding your gaze, a million thoughts whirring inside his head. He wants to kiss you so bad, wants to crawl atop of you, peel your clothes off, sink into you slowly… He doesn’t want to fuck you here, but like hell will he pass up the opportunity to finally have you.
“Well? Have you made your choice?” You murmur, licking your lips.
“I’ve made my choice for a long time,” he whispers, only to you. He leans forward, confident, lips pressing against yours sweetly… It starts as a cute confession, but you’re both hungry. You kiss him back, palm cupping his cheek, holding him close as you lick across his bottom lip.
“Alright now, c’mon! Tara calls out. “Get a room or something!”
She stands up, shooing at you both. Everyone laughs in agreement, and before you know it, you’re shoved into the darkness with Caleb, the closet door clicking closed.
You’re in his clutches, hands gliding down your sides to grab your ass. You arch into him, swallowing his moans, needing more. Caleb whimpers low as you grasp his hand, guiding him lower, until he cups your needy cunt through your shorts. His thumb manages to find your clit, fingers rubbing along your clothed slit, the perfect amount of pressure…
You return the favour, rubbing his bulge, the pair of you twitching and grinding with your clothes on like horny teenagers. You supposed you were long overdue for this, surprised it hadn’t happened sooner, to be perfectly honest. It doesn’t take long for the pair of you to cum, Caleb making a mess in his pants while you slump against him, trembling, legs threatening to turn to jelly as your orgasm crashes over you.
“Let’s go home,” Caleb rasps into your ear, planting a suggestive kiss. “I need to be inside you. Now.”
"When I made her for you, I didn't think this was how you'd use her."
You smile sheepishly against your phone. The 'assignment' you gave her was simple; check on Sylus, and maybe you had given her something extra as well to give him. It was nothing really, just some food you had made him so he'd eat.
Yet along the way, she seemed to have spotted something else she wanted to give him. Angling his phone so you'd see, in her beak, she held a bug. One she seemed to try to be offering to your darling dragon.
"It means she likes you," you reason, watching and hearing Mephisto caw loudly in the background, wings flapping wildly. Your own companion screeches in return, extending her own wings to further agitate the other.
Sylus spares the two quarreling birds a glance, before turning to you.
"Mephisto doesn't seem keen on that idea." he takes the wrapped food you had sent, letting a smile coke to his lips, "I appreciate the delivery, I'll be sure to rate it five stars."
"Mhm, you better!" Sylus mirrors your grin, giving your owl a couple more scratches and bumps before sending her on her way back to you.
🌷 NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR
Inspired by someone's reblog. I don't wanna tag them because they might not want to be but if you do, let me know!!
Also thank you all for the love on that dorky piece hwqehqkeka I'm a tad emotional I'm so sorry
Sylus' hand stops just as he pokes at something in Mephisto's insides, the tool in his hand that you honestly forgot the name of being put down in favor of listening to you.
"I suppose I can," he nods, studying the way the spark in your eyes seemed to just get a bit brighter. "Why do you ask?"
It's instinctive for you to rein in your excitement, he notes. When he poses even the slightest question towards your interests, good or bad, you get flustered and retreat. Like a frightened cat seeking shelter in a corner. It's no different now, when you pull back, shaking your head and waving it off.
"No reason." the words leave you quickly, and you retreat just as swiftly under the pretense of having forgotten to do something.
A few days later, you hear a foreign screeching accompanying Mephisto's outside. Well, other than Luke screeching about another 'stupid bird' knocking something over. Making your way out of the house, you come to stand beside Sylus, who seems far too focused on the two soaring figures above.
One of them familiar. Like an old friend you made for yourself as a child, resurfacing after so many years.
"Since when did you have an owl?" you ask quietly, hesitant and just barely containing yourself from asking a million questions.
Sylus doesn't face you, but he does lift a hand and extend it to the air, hand open. To your utter surprise, it isn't his beloved crow making landfall on his limb, but the new owl, twitching and peering at you curiously.
"Actually," he says, lowering his arm and extending it to you now, letting his creation take you in all your glory, "she's yours."
Part 2
🌷NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR
Some backstory: I've REALLY liked birds since I was a kid. I'm not a huge nerd about them but I really like them, ESPECIALLY owls, ravens, doves and love birds (I ACTUALLY HAD TWO A FEW YEARS BACK!!). So when I first saw Sylus with Mephie I instantly fell in love (w/ Mephie, not Sylus lol).
All this to say,,,,, if I can't have an actual owl, I'll settle for a fic. And I want to pet one in real life just ONCE!
summary: in which you’re dating valko + experience a few different scenarios with him.
notes: all of these are prompts i’ve already done for the other 5 lis w/ the same titles! all of these are gender neutral and pretty fluffy + a few mentions of sexual acts here and there so MDNI / NSFW but that’s it ^^
p.s. og links can be found on my masterlist (- -)(_ _) i hope you enjoy RAHHHHHHH ty to everyone who requested these for valko. it was hard to narrow down but these were the most popular read SO !!!
guilty pleasure
in which the valko (accidentally) eats aphrodisiac sweets.
target locked
in which valko reacts to you being hit on by another guy.
ragebait
in which you attempt to ragebait valko.
three’s a crowd
in which you ask valko if he’s ever considered a threesome.
under wraps
in which you ask about valko’s condom size.
a/n: these were silly and basic but i wanted to do more valko so…yay…ty for reading (- -)(_ _)
your ex used to say that you were “too loud” during sex… but he says, “the louder, the better!”
feat. xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus, caleb x fem!reader (no valko yet ‘cause i don’t wanna mischaracterize, and i’m still holding onto the hope that he WILL be back)
cw: smut; dirty talk; oral sex (fem receiving); fingering (fem receiving); cowgirl; doggy; hair pulling; belly bulge + size kink; missionary; biting; slight masochism (caleb); the “ex” in question is implied but not explicitly mentioned, so this can just be read as someone who is embarrassed to moan in front of their partner teehee
notes: birthed this concept whilst in the shower, actually. signed as someone who has never had a toxic ex but does live in a house with thin walls <3
nsfw content below the cut! minors dni
“mmf…”
the low, needy moan resounds from between your thighs. it sends mind-numbing vibrations up your spine.
xavier almost looks like he’s enjoying this more than you are.
your legs, bent at the knees, are thrown over his shoulders. his hands are at your hips, fingers dug desperately into the softness of your thighs like he needs to anchor himself to reality. to you.
the only sounds filling the room are his hot, heavy breaths and the obscene slurp of his mouth against your pussy. he eats you out like it’s the only thing he was put on this earth to do.
in his mind, that’s a pretty good life purpose to have.
he flattens his tongue against your folds before licking a slow stripe upwards. then, he flicks the tip of it right over your clit.
you throw your head back and gasp. your fingers curl around the sheets.
he seems to perk up at the subtle hitch in your breath. suddenly, he lifts his head away from your wet heat. you swallow back the whine of protest that almost crawls its way up your throat.
the lower half of xavier’s face is shiny with slick. his eyes are hooded, pupils blown so wide that his irises are nothing but slivers of blue. he licks his lips, looking absolutely debauched and just like sin incarnate.
“come on, starlight,” he says, voice hoarse and a little breathless. “i know you can do better than that.”
instantly, you flush.
“xaviii,” you whine. “it’s embarrassing…”
your boyfriend doesn’t respond.
instead, he just dives right back in.
with the way his mouth is moving, it seems as though he’s trying to force every moan out of your throat through your pussy. he shoves his tongue into your entrance and swirls it around inside. his arms lock a little more securely around your thighs.
he’s determined, you’ll give him that.
your mouth falls open, but the only noises spilling from those pretty, perfect lips are your labored breaths. your chest heaves as you struggle to suppress the wave of pleasure that threatens to swallow you whole. all you can do in your attempt to fight it is squeeze your eyes shut.
xavier is having none of that.
the lascivious sound of him making out with your cunt intensifies. it’s like he’s trying to wring out every sound that he can get. he’s relentless in his pursuit. he licks and sucks and groans, eyes rolling back in bliss at the taste of you. his nose bumps against your clit, and you jolt.
“xav… hah, x-xavi…”
“mmh.”
his reply is halfhearted at best. the way he sucks your clit into his mouth is anything but.
“xavier!”
your back arches off the mattress as his teeth graze over the sensitive bud.
the cry of his name has his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. his eyes light up for a moment before darkening with arousal.
he shoots you a grin that is very unbefitting of his sweet, boyish features.
“that’s it, angel. give me more.”
zayne has always been quiet during intimacy. usually, the most you’ll get out of him is a low grunt or groan, a whisper of your name or the occasional expletive muttered under his breath. so it was only natural for you to assume that he would also be turned off by a partner who is vocal in bed.
you couldn’t have been more sorely mistaken.
“darling.” his voice is deceptively calm, even as two of his fingers scissor relentlessly in and out of your dripping hole. “please remove your hand from your mouth.”
you barely hear him through the blood rushing in your ears. and even if you could hear, you doubt you’d be able to comprehend it. your brain already feels like it’s melting into a puddle of mush in your skull. when he crooks his fingers upwards, your whine is muffled against your palm.
zayne clicks his tongue.
“don’t make me repeat myself.”
his words are laced with an icy-cold edge that wasn’t there before. you know that tone. you know it means business, and promises punishment if you don’t behave.
so you swallow your pride and ask.
“… huh?”
well, you try to, at least.
ever-gracious and oh-so-patient, he reiterates his request. this time, you catch it.
slowly — hesitantly — your hand drops down to your side.
he hums. “good girl.”
his fingers continue to pump in and out of your sopping cunt. the wet shlick, shlick, shlick that hits your ears makes you want to close your thighs around his wrist.
“zayne,” you gasp. “pl-please, zaynie, i—”
“shhh…” his hand skims up your side, calloused palm sending shivers up your spine. “relax, my love.”
“b-but… i can’t…” you choke on a sob, squirming uncontrollably beneath his touch. “i can’t help it…!”
“i know, darling,” he says. “go on. let yourself go.”
your cheeks flush. adamantly, you shake your head. when the tips of his fingers graze your g-spot again, you sink your teeth into your bottom lip to muffle your whimper.
a quiet sigh escapes from zayne’s lips. it isn’t a sound of anger or frustration or even disappointment. it almost seems pitying, really, when coupled with the sudden softness of his gaze.
the hand that was once a grounding presence at your waist finds a new home at the curve of your jaw. he gently tugs at the corner of your mouth, coaxing you to release your bruised lip from between your teeth. when you finally heed his silent command, he immediately slides his thumb past your parted lips.
“there,” he murmurs, half to himself. “keep it open. just like that.”
your brows furrow in confusion as your sex-addled brain struggles to comprehend why his grip on your jaw has become so firm.
you don’t get the chance to figure it out before he slips another long finger into your fluttering pussy, angling all three upwards until you’re seeing stars.
the moment the heel of his palm grinds down over your clit is the moment that finally breaks you.
“ah!”
the moan you let out is embarrassingly loud, thanks to the way your mouth has been pried open against your will. your entire face feels like it’s been set on fire.
zayne, of course, hardly reacts. only the faintest twitch of his lips and the glint in his eye gives him away. but you can tell he’s pleased, because the next words out of his mouth are gravelly, rough, and a little bit strained.
“good girl.”
for someone who dedicates his life to the pursuit and creation of art, you think that rafayel himself rivals even the most stunning masterpieces currently in existence. especially when he’s sprawled out on the bed beneath you.
a beautiful rosy hue is painted across his cheeks, reaching all the way to the tips of his ears. his eyes are half-lidded and hazy with bliss. his jaw is slack, lips parted around the prettiest moans you’ve ever heard. just the sound of them causes heat to flare up in your gut.
and yet, you still haven’t let out a single pleasured sound of your own. not because he isn’t making you feel good; in fact, quite the opposite is true.
old habits die hard, as the saying goes.
your hips slow to a near-complete stop as you grind yourself languidly against him. you’ve been riding him relentlessly for nearly twenty straight minutes, and your thighs are beginning to ache.
rafayel lets out a whine of protest at the sudden lack of friction.
“cutie,” he whimpers, voice breaking around the syllables. “d-don’t tease. you’re killing me here.”
“i know,” you say. “fuck, ‘m sorry, raf, just— give me a sec…”
his hands tighten around your waist. you can tell his patience is starting to wear thin.
you’re thankful that your hands are already braced on his shoulders for stability. if they weren’t, you would’ve toppled forward the second he started moving.
you hadn’t even noticed the way he planted his feet on the mattress until he begins to jackhammer up into you. he immediately sets a downright brutal pace, hips colliding mercilessly with your own. his fingers dig into the plush of your ass, bouncing you up and down on his cock. he’s not so much guiding you as he is pulling you down — like a siren dragging an unlucky sailor to their demise.
you, of course, are far from unlucky. but you do feel like you’re drowning, with the way he leaves you gasping for air.
“raf— w-wait, slow down…!”
but he can’t. he’s already too far gone, lost in the heat between your legs and the way you clench so perfectly around his length.
his thrusts are sloppy, mindless and desperate. he needs you even more than a fish needs water to breathe. but the fervor with which he ruts up into you is almost punishing, as if he’s trying to say, look at what you’ve done to me. look at how you ruin me.
he’s a wreck. your wreck. and you love it almost as much as he does.
you’re pretty sure you’re going to find bruises in the shape of him tomorrow morning.
“sh-shit, shit, shit,” rafayel warbles, “you’re so beautiful… perfect… gorgeous… my muse…”
each word is punctuated by a sharp snap of his hips. your fingernails dig into his shoulders until red, crescent-shaped indents mar his milky skin.
his moans are unabashed, and oh, so loud. you feel every sound like a vibration in your very soul. you’re lucky he has no neighbors. you still half-expect to receive a noise complaint.
the bedroom is filled with just that — the echoes of his pleasure and the wet slap of skin on skin and your heavy breaths laced with faint whimpers that refuse to fully form.
that is, until he shifts his angle. the swollen head of his cock slams against your spongey front wall, and you shriek.
the sound is so abrupt, so raw, that it feels like it was torn from your chest. mortified, you clamp both hands over your mouth in shock.
rafayel’s pace falters. for a moment, he stills. and for the first time since you took him to the hilt tonight, he’s silent.
the air between you is thick, charged with electricity and something more.
your brain screams at you to do something. apologize, or push yourself off of him, or bury your face in your hands and vow never to look him in the eye again out of sheer embarrassment. anything.
then, he smirks.
he doesn’t even give you a chance to blink before your positions have flipped. the air is knocked out of your lungs as your back hits the mattress, in the exact spot he lay mere moments before. the sheets still carry the warmth of his body. you can’t even fully process the loss of his cock or the emptiness that follows, because in an instant he’s already shoving back into you with a force that makes your back arch and your throat go hoarse with the weight of your scream.
“yes,” he gasps, “that’s exactly what i need. come on, cutie, let me hear how good i make you feel.”
of all the positions sylus has put you in, you think you like this one the best.
not because he reaches the deepest like this, although that certainly is a perk. not because it’s the most comfortable, because if you’re being honest, your knees are starting to hurt.
no, it’s because in this position, you can afford to be as loud as you want.
your hands fist the sheets beside your head as you bury your face a little further into the pillow. the loud moan that rips through you as his hips collide with your ass is completely muffled.
and sure, your drool stains the pillowcase. your teeth catch on tear-stained silk every time the pleasure grows impossible to bear. and yes, you have to admit that it’s getting harder to breathe.
but it feels so good, you forget to care.
“kitten,” sylus groans out from somewhere above you. “if you keep squeezing me like that… this will be over sooner than you think.”
all you can do in response is whine and grind yourself back against him, forcing him deeper until you damn near feel him in your womb.
his grip on your waist tightens, fingers leaving indents in the pliant flesh.
“you’re determined to push every single one of my buttons tonight, aren’t you?” his voice never wavers, though it takes on a new timbre.
your back arches a little deeper. you try to mumble out a response — really, you do — but the only thing you can manage is a choked-out sob into the pillow. the sound vaguely resembles his name.
the obscene squelch of your cunt and the heady smell of sex permeate the air. combined with the considerable lack of oxygen in your lungs, the whole situation is making you feel somewhat dizzy.
another hard thrust drives his tip just below your cervix, and the cry you let out turns your throat raw. you claw desperately at silken sheets, scrabbling for purchase. part of you wishes your nails were raking down sylus’s back instead.
he leans down until you feel the hard planes of his chest against your shoulder blades. his breath is hot as it fans enticingly over the shell of your ear.
“that’s it, sweetie,” he all but growls, “take it. all of it.”
your jaw goes slack as you keen.
before you realize what’s happening, one of his hands is sliding down your body — from your waist to your front, right where your pelvis is canted up at an angle and away from the mattress beneath you. the tips of his fingers trace the curve of your stomach. they linger just below your bellybutton, applying the slightest pressure until—
there.
he feels it. the slight swell that protrudes from your tummy every time he surges forward. his palm flattens over the area. partially for support, keeping you upright, but mostly just to feel the physical evidence of his size and what it does to your body.
a strangled whimper escapes your throat.
you’re getting close. you can feel it. the tightening in your core, the way your pussy squeezes around him like it’s trying to suck him in even deeper.
sylus feels it, too.
you barely have time to process the momentary high before you’re falling over the edge, the pleasure wracking through your body like a tidal wave.
the noise that falls from your lips is strangled and undignified, voice cracking into something unrecognizable as your own.
you don’t register the sudden rush of air that hits your lungs until it’s too late.
the pillow is no longer pressed against your face. silk is no longer clenched between your teeth.
instead, a fistful of your hair is tugging at your scalp, held up by sylus’s hand. the other is still at your stomach, helping to hold you upright.
you can’t see it, but sylus has that signature devilish smirk of his painted across his infuriatingly handsome face.
“there we go. that’s what i wanted to hear,” he says, sounding much too smug for his own good. “now, i want you to do it again.”
sometimes you wonder how your loving boyfriend can be so damn mean.
caleb is unbelievably sweet in all other aspects of your relationship. seriously, he checks every box. he cooks, he cleans, brings home flowers, opens the car door, pays for all your dates, lavishes you with all the love and affection you could ever want or ask for… et cetera, et cetera, so on and so forth. all of it. the works. he’s at your beck and call.
but right now, he’s fucking you like he hates you. he’s got your legs hooked over his hips, knees locked around his waist and ankles crossed at his back. his cock pistons in and out of your dripping hole like he’s trying to drill his way up into your stomach.
not that it’s a bad thing, of course. you’d be lying if you said you didn’t love it.
but he’s making it really hard to stay quiet.
your teeth sink into his shoulder. it’s the only way you can think to muffle the needy whine that almost falls from your lips.
caleb grunts in pain. or it could have been a low moan of satisfaction. you wouldn’t put it past the masochist in him. and you’d hardly be able to tell the difference, anyway, since it feels like your head is stuffed with cotton.
he slams into you again, and you bite down a little harder. if you were anywhere near coherency, you’d probably be afraid of breaking skin. not that he cares if you do.
his hands are clenched into tight fists, biceps flexing on either side of your head as he digs his nails into his palms. it’s all he can do to ground himself — and to keep from cumming too fast, but that’s a secret that will stay with him.
his chest is flush against yours. he can practically feel every breath you take, the thrumming of your heart against his own… and, of course, the soft curve of your breasts, the tantalizing way they slide and bounce with every move.
admittedly, the latter is taking up a large portion of his attention.
your entire body jolts with every roll of his hips. you’re pretty sure you’re drooling against his shoulder.
it’s not enough for caleb. he's greedy. he wants more.
he wants to see your face. he wants to see your pretty little fucked-out expression, with your eyes rolled back and your tongue lolling out of your slack-jawed mouth. but that would require separation. pulling his sticky, sweat-slicked skin away from yours. drawing back from the heat of your body. and he doesn’t want that. oh, no. that's the last thing he wants.
he supposes that some sacrifices must be made.
so he squeezes his eyes shut, lest he succumb to the temptation. and then, he picks up speed.
the sudden change in pace almost breaks you. the whine catches in your throat.
he notices.
“c’mon, pips…” he’s panting like a dog. “i know you can— fuck— g-give it to me… i want to hear that pretty lil’ voice.”
your nails scratch at his arms, as if in protest of his words. you shake your head weakly. he chuckles, the sound dark and throaty and laced with danger.
“aww, don’t be embarrassed. i— ah, i like it when you get loud.”
caleb knows you like the back of his hand. every thrust is full of intention, the angle of his hips precise. it has sparks exploding across your vision and a moan on the tip of your tongue.
“you’re close, aren’t you? i can feel you clenchin’…”
your pussy lets out a lewd, slick sound in response, answering his question for you.
“that’s right, baby,” he groans. “tell me how much you love my cock.”
you’re pretty sure he isn’t even talking to you anymore.
your head falls away from the junction of his neck, the tip of your nose tracing along his jawline. you inhale deeply, and the scent of his skin fills your lungs.
“caleb,” you slur, lips brushing over the shell of his ear. “please— hck! w-wanna cum…”
you can almost hear the wicked grin in his voice as he responds.
“hmmm… i dunno, pips,” he says, pretending to mull it over. his pelvis grinds over your clit, and you sob.
“maybe if you say it louder, i’ll consider it.”
final remarks: phew, baby's first smut fic posted to the big tumblr dot com. ngl i think i did xavier kinda dirty here, his portion had the shortest wc at 507 :(
“You rang the bell...the bell means you need me.”
“I always need you, Zayne.” You guide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your bare stomach, and the breath he lets out against your neck is almost a surrender in itself. “I think you need me, too.”
synopsis: butler!zayne is trained to anticipate your every need. what he hasn't been trained for is you—home alone, ringing the one bell he's never been able to ignore, asking for the one thing he's never been able to give.
wc: 8.8k | ao3
tags: butler!zayne, brat tamer!zayne, age gap, power imbalance, porn with plot, fluff + smut, comfort no hurt, spanking, edging, cunnilingus, hair pulling, vaginal sex, backshots, prone bone, size difference, aftercare
a/n: giving zayne one (1) barely legal fantasy……..as a treat……….
The first time you tried, you were sixteen.
It was the thick of summer, the kind of damp heat that turns the estate into a greenhouse. Your mother's garden party sprawled across the south lawn, and you’d hidden upstairs long enough to change into a sundress that was definitely too short and absolutely on purpose.
You padded barefoot down the service stairs to the kitchen, where Zayne—the perfect butler, the one who runs the household, the one who never lets anything go wrong—was reviewing the evening's schedule.
You perched yourself on the counter beside his clipboard, crossed your legs, and let the hem ride up.
“I need help with my zipper,” you said, turning to show him the back of the dress, which was zipped perfectly fine and you both knew it.
Zayne hadn't looked up from the schedule, hadn't so much as blinked. He simply reached over, tugged the zipper up the remaining quarter-inch it didn't need to travel, and said, “Will that be all?”
You stared at the back of his head, face burning, and vowed that one day you'd get him to break.
You tried again on your eighteenth birthday.
Your parents had thrown a party, the kind with floral arrangements and a champagne tower and three hundred people who knew your family's net worth better than they knew your name. You spent the evening smiling until your cheeks ached, accepting congratulations from strangers, and dancing with boys your mother hand selected who were perfectly nice and perfectly boring and perfectly wrong.
By midnight, you escaped to the kitchen—kicked your heels off, discarded your tiara on the counter, and sat on the floor with your back against the island eating leftover cake with your fingers.
Zayne had found you there. He'd taken in the scene—the dress pooling around you, the smudged mascara, the pink frosting on your thumb—and silently retrieved a fork before sitting down beside you.
He was still in his suit, still immaculate as ever, but he'd loosened his tie—and the sight of that one concession to comfort had made something hot pulse through you. You sat together in silence for a while, passing the cake back and forth. Then, because you were eighteen and a little drunk and very tired of pretending, you asked:
“Zayne. Do you think I'm pretty?”
He blinked, keeping his eyes shut for an extra heartbeat—processing the question, the context, the thousand reasons he should deflect.
“You've been drinking.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“The answer doesn't change based on your sobriety.”
“So there is an answer.”
He reached over and wiped a smear of frosting from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The gesture was gentle and natural, the kind of thing he'd done a hundred times when you were small. Except you weren't small anymore, and his thumb had lingered a second too long, and you ached to know if he’d still be gentle if he pressed it against your tongue.
“You should drink some water,” he'd said quietly. “And go to bed.”
“Come tuck me in, then.”
You'd meant it as a joke, but the words came out too soft and the look on his face told you that you'd gotten closer to something real than either of you was prepared for.
He didn’t give you a response. Just stood up, filled a glass with cold water, and set it on the floor beside you.
“Happy birthday, princess.”
You'd sat there alone in the kitchen as the door shut behind him, holding the cup with both hands, and hated yourself for pushing. Maybe hated yourself more for not pushing harder. You'd felt his thumb on your mouth for the rest of the night. For weeks after.
Sometimes, if you closed your eyes, you could still feel it now.
Tonight, you’re twenty, and the house is trying to eat you alive.
You’re home from university for winter break, but the house is empty—your parents are out of the country, occupied by some charity board retreat that requires a week of their attention. The staff has all gone home for the holidays, leaving you alone in a house that was built for thirty.
Alone except for Zayne.
Zayne stays. He always stays, because someone has to manage the property and someone has to manage you, and your parents have never trusted anyone else with either job.
The estate is settling into its bones, creaking and groaning like it’s alive and reminding you how small you are inside it. The hallways are too long, the ceilings are too high, and every shadow seems to have eyes looking directly at you.
You’re not scared.
You’re an adult. You have self-defense training and a home security system that could protect a small nation.
You're not scared.
The floorboards squeak directly above your bed, and you flinch so hard you nearly fall off the mattress.
Okay. Maybe you’re a little scared.
Your eyes find the bell on your nightstand.
It's small—worn with age, fitted with a wooden handle meant for hands of a much younger you. Your grandmother had gifted it after you'd had a nightmare and screamed the house down and said, Ring this whenever you need someone, darling. Someone will always come.
Someone always meant Zayne.
Your parents never really had the time, or the patience, or the interest in dealing with your whims. But Zayne…Zayne always did. He was paid to maintain order after all, and managing you was just another task—though it never felt like one.
Not when he answered the call of your bell every time.
You'd rung it the night of the thunderstorm when you were eight, and he'd appeared within minutes with a flashlight and a copy of The Secret Garden and read to you until the storm passed. You'd rung it the night before your first day of secondary school, sick with anxiety, and he'd brought warm milk and sat with you while you listed every possible catastrophe and he assured you, very gently, that none of those things would happen and that if they did, he would personally intervene.
You rang it less and less as you grew older, saving it for the real emergencies—when your first boyfriend broke up with you by text, or the night before your final exams when you couldn't stop shaking. He always came. Never commented on the hour or the reason, just showed up at your door ready to handle whatever you needed handled.
You haven't rung it in over three years.
You pick it up, letting the cool brass warm in your palm. You turn it over once, feeling the weight of it, the history, the lifetime of someone always coming when you called.
You ring it.
The sound is small in the vast quiet of the house, barely louder than the wind outside your window. But you know he hears it. Zayne hears everything.
Two minutes pass before footsteps echo in the hallway, followed by a soft knock at your door.
“Come in,” you call.
He opens the door and stands in the frame, and the sight of him makes your mouth go dry.
After all this time living under the same roof, you've only ever seen him in his suit, his work clothes, or—once, memorably—a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up that had nearly killed you. But this is something else entirely.
Grey sleep pants hang low on his hips, a white t-shirt stretching across his chest. His hair is tousled over his forehead, glasses sliding just slightly, jaw shadowed with the kind of stubble he'd never allow during working hours.
His eyes find the bell in your hand, and something in them softens.
“The house is making noises,” you explain.
He leans against the doorframe, taking in your oversized t-shirt, your bare legs, the way you’re sitting cross-legged at the center of your mattress on high alert.
“It's an old house,” he says. “It makes noises.”
“Scary noises.”
“You're not a child anymore.”
“Age and fear are not mutually exclusive.” You return the bell to the nightstand with unnecessary care. “I read that somewhere.”
“You read that nowhere.”
“I might have,” you counter. “You don’t know my reading habits.”
“You're currently halfway through a fantasy romance novel you hide inside a copy of The Economist when I bring your breakfast.” He crosses his arms, which emphasizes the broadness of his chest in a way that should come with a warning. “I know your reading habits.”
“It’s romantasy, Zayne,” you correct drily, though your face heats. “And that's—invasive.”
“It's observational. You leave the dust jacket loose.” He steps into your room, letting the door close behind him. “What do you need?”
You. I need you. I've needed you since I was sixteen and you zipped a dress that didn't need zipping and I need you to come here now and hold me and never leave this room.
“Company,” you say instead. “Just—stay for a while. Please.”
“There's a guest room adjacent to—”
“Zayne.”
“—mine, which I can prepare in—”
“Zayne, come on. You used to read to me when I couldn't sleep.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “You were eight.”
“And you were a very good reader. I remember the voices you did for the characters.”
“I did not do voices.”
“You totally did voices. Mrs. Medlock had a Yorkshire accent.”
He tries to fight the corner of his mouth lifting and loses. “That's historically accurate.”
A branch scrapes against the window and you jolt, pulling your knees in tight to your chest, and you watch it happen in slow motion—the moment Zayne registers the current of anxiety beneath your bravado, the delicate weight of his propriety crumbling against the fact that you rang the bell, the bell that means I need you, the bell he's never once ignored.
He crosses to your bookshelf, scans it, and pulls out a slim paperback.
“Persuasion?” you say, catching a glimpse of the cover.
He takes a seat on the edge of your bed, leaving a tortuously polite foot of distance between his hip and your knee. “It was on the shelf.”
“It’s a romance novel.”
“It's Austen. It's literature.”
“You just gave me a hard time for reading romance novels.”
“I gave you a hard time for hiding them.” He settles his glasses higher on his nose. “And this is a novel about patience. Restraint. Waiting for something even when it seems impossible. I thought you could use the lesson.”
You scoff in mock offense. “Was that a dig at me?”
“It was a recommendation.” He opens the book, then clears his throat. “Now stop talking.”
He reads.
You lie back against your pillow as his voice fills your bedroom like candlelight, settling into the spaces between the house’s creaking. When you were younger, his reading voice was a sedative, designed to pull you under. Now you're aware of every inflection, every pause, every place where his tongue shapes a word in a way that makes your thoughts drift to what else his mouth could be doing if he stopped being so goddamn careful.
After a few minutes, you start to shift. Not dramatically—just adjusting yourself in a way that happens to settle your body closer to his.
“You're not sleeping,” he says without taking his eyes off the page.
“I’m listening.”
“You're fidgeting.”
“I’m cold.”
“You’re not using a blanket.”
“A blanket isn't warm like a person.”
His gaze drags between you and the blanket you never bothered to use, eyes caught somewhere between mild disapproval and reluctant indulgence.
“Come closer,” you continue. “I’m requesting warmth. As a service.”
He lifts a brow. “You're requesting warmth.”
“From my butler. Who is paid to ensure my comfort.”
“I'm paid to manage the household.”
“Managing me is part of the household.”
“A fact I'm reminded of daily.”
Still, he moves closer an inch. Then another, when you give him a look that says it’s not enough. He eventually ends up beside you, back against the headboard, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body but not quite touching.
“Better?” he asks.
You let your head rest on his shoulder, the way you used to when you were small—except you weren't thinking about the way his shoulder felt under your cheek then, or the firmness of the muscle, or the way he smells like clean linen shadowed with something rich and heady and him that you’ve never been close enough to catch before.
“Getting there. Keep reading.”
He obeys, though the words have lost all meaning. All that matters is the vibration of the words from his body into yours, the way the sound fills the aching space behind your ribs with something tender and safe.
You let a few minutes pass, let him settle into the false security of the routine—you leaning on him, him reading, the benign pretense that this is just an act of service. Then you curl closer, tucking your legs up and angling your body until you're pressed along his side with your face against his chest and your hand resting on his abdomen.
His reading stops.
“Comfortable?” he asks without looking down.
“Almost.” You spread your fingers wider against his stomach, savoring the way the muscles there tense beneath your touch. “Your heartbeat is fast.”
“I was reading aloud. That's exertion.”
“Liar.”
“Cardiovascular response to sustained vocalization is well-documented.”
“Seriously?”
“There are several studies. I'll send you the citations in the morning.” He shuts the book and sets it on the nightstand, effectively abandoning the charade. He folds his glasses and places them neatly beside it, pinching the bridge of his nose with a long exhale. “Go to sleep.”
“Hold me first,” you insist, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and guiding it to your waist. “I said I was cold.”
His hand rests at your side, settling on top of your shirt with a minimal contact that technically fulfills the request while giving away not an ounce more.
“Zayne.”
“Mm?”
“If I asked you to hold a box, would you balance it on one finger?”
“If the box asked to be carried with unreasonable specifications, possibly.”
“I’m not a box.”
“No. A box would be far less difficult.”
His arm wraps around you, pulling you against him properly, and the sudden full-body contact is dizzying. He's warm everywhere—the solid plane of his chest against your cheek, his arm heavy around your waist, his thigh pressed along the length of yours.
“There,” you murmur. “Was that so hard?”
“Yes,” he replies simply. “Now sleep."
“I’m not tired.”
“Then close your eyes and try.”
You shake your head against his shirt. “I can't sleep like this.”
“Like what?"
You shift, turning in his arms until your back presses against his chest. His body seems to adjust instinctively, turning with yours before his mind registers the implication—his arm resettling around your waist, chest flush against your spine, and you feel more than hear the sharp intake of breath he tries to hide when your bodies slot together.
“There.” You hum in approval. “Perfect.”
Zayne’s hand flattens against your stomach the smallest fraction, and the silence between you buzzes like a dare neither of you has the courage to break. The wind whips outside your window, but you don’t hear it, can’t focus on anything other than the way his thumb starts to move in a faint line, back and forth, tracing the hem of your shirt where its ridden up at your waist.
You’re barely breathing, afraid that any acknowledgment will make him stop, afraid that the touch you’ve been craving for so long will disappear before you even have the chance to feel it. His thumb runs over the hem again, and this time his fingertips dip beneath it—barely a touch, the rough pad of his finger against soft skin, and the sensation is so acute it makes your spine arch involuntarily.
He freezes, thumb stilling mid-stroke, as if suddenly remembering exactly who he is—and who he shouldn’t be right now.
“Don't stop,” you whisper.
His forehead drops to your shoulder. “You rang the bell.”
“I rang the bell.”
“The bell means you need me.”
“I always need you, Zayne.” You guide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your bare stomach, and the breath he lets out against your neck is almost a surrender in itself. “I think you need me, too.”
When his hand moves again, it isn’t the absentminded tracing from before. His palm slides across your stomach with intent now, exploring the naked skin beneath your top—up your ribs, down to the dip of your waist, to the space just above the waistband of your shorts.
A soft noise catches in your throat and his hand stills, as if deciding whether to reward or reprimand the sound.
“More?” he asks against your neck.
You nod. “More.”
His hand resumes, but he doesn't go further, continuing the same path—ribs, waist, hip—following it again and again, learning you by touch. And every time his fingers drift close to the waistband, your breath catches, and each time he retreats to safer ground without crossing the line.
“Zayne—” Your voice is thin with want. “That's not—you're teasing me.”
“I’m doing exactly what you asked,” he replies, casually enough to make you want to put a pillow over his face. “You asked me to touch you. I'm touching you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what you said. If you want something else, you'll have to request it.” His thumb draws an infuriating circle around your navel. “I’m a butler, not a psychic.”
He's playing the game, you realize. Your game, your rules, following your every request to the letter, and the compliance is intoxicating. He owns the control, yet the way he bends just enough to match your desire feels like a form of surrender uniquely his.
“Kiss me,” you try next.
“Where?”
You tilt your head to the side, certain he can see your pulse leaping where it shows. “My neck.”
He presses his lips there so gently it barely registers as contact, lingering for a moment before pulling back.
“Again,” you whisper.
He kisses the same spot equally soft, and you could scream from the tenderness of it, from how something so gentle can make you feel like you're burning alive.
“More.”
“More what?” His breath heats your skin as he speaks, and the almost-contact is worse than nothing. “Be specific.”
“Harder.” Your hand finds the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, and the groan that it pulls from him is quiet and improper and makes your thighs press together. “Open your mouth.”
He presses his mouth more firmly against your neck and parts his lips slightly, just enough for his tongue to steal a taste of your skin.
“Anything else, princess?” He holds there, lips parted against the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, breathing you in like he needs this just as much as you do. “I’m at your service.”
The title drips with affection and irony and heat, twisted together like ribbons old and new. Princess. He's called you that since you were small, since you used to stomp your foot and demand things and he'd raise an eyebrow and say as you wish, princess. Except now his tongue is on your body and your ass is pressed where his cock strains against his pajama pants and the word means something it was never supposed to mean.
You turn in his arms until you're facing each other on the pillow, his hand still on your waist under your shirt. This close, you can see where the hazel-green of his eyes has gone dark with desire, where his lips shine wet from where he kissed your neck, where the muscle of his jaw tenses with something that looks like it hurts to hold back.
You bring your hand up to soothe it, the stubble there rough against your fingertips. He leans into the touch, a tiny tilt of his head that presses his cheek harder against your palm.
“I want you to kiss me,” you whisper, “here.” You touch your own lips.
He leans in slowly, mouth stopping just short of yours, hovering over your lips.
“Here?” he asks.
“Yes.”
The kiss is barely anything. A brush of lips, the softest pressure, there and gone before you can feel it. You chase his mouth as he pulls back, but he's already out of reach—settled against the pillow, calm on the surface, though the flush at the tips of his ears betrays him.
“That wasn’t a kiss,” you pout.
“It was, definitionally, a kiss.”
“It lasted half a second.”
“You didn't specify the duration.”
“Zayne.”
“Yes?"
“Kiss me longer.”
He leans in again, pressing his mouth to yours for—you count—exactly two seconds.
“Zayne.”
“That was measurably longer. I can go get a stopwatch if you'd like to formalize the parameters.”
You roll your eyes and swear you feel his wrist twitch at your side.
“I want you to kiss me like you can't help yourself. Like if you have to tear your mouth away from mine you'll lose your mind. I want the kiss I imagine when I’m alone in the bath and I close my eyes and pretend it’s your hands on my—” You stop to catch your breath, frustrated, heat rising to your face that’s part shame, part want, all desperate anticipation. “That kiss. Give me that one. Please.”
His hand slides from your waist to the back of your neck, cradling your head, angling you beneath him. His eyes move between yours and your mouth and back again, and the man who read you bedtime stories and carried you when you fell and tucked your blankets with precise corners is nowhere in this room. The man looking at your mouth right now is one who has been drowning for years and decided that here, now, tonight, he’s coming up for air.
“Hold still,” he says, and kisses you again.
This time he starts slow and stays slow, his lips moving against yours with a patience that burns, learning the shape of your mouth, the way you respond to pressure. His tongue traces your lower lip, not parting it, but outlining the edge, you whimper at the tease of it.
He swallows the sound, feeding it into his mouth like he means to keep it long past tonight, a secret possession for him and him alone. Finally—finally—his tongue slides against yours, deep and unhurried, filling your mouth until there’s nothing left but feeling.
The kiss goes on and on and on. Zayne is in no rush. He kisses you like he has all night, like time is a resource he intends to spend lavishly, like every stroke of his tongue against yours is an end in itself rather than a means to something else. And each time you try to speed up he gentles you, his hand on the back of your neck holding you in place, his mouth setting the pace, refusing to let anything take this moment away from him until he’s ready to release it.
Your hands slip underneath his shirt, pressing flat against his abdomen, and the muscles there flex at the contact. You trail both hands upward, following the ridges of his ribs until he huffs out a breath against your lips.
“Eager,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw.
“Impatient,” you correct, tugging the hem of his shirt up his chest. “And maybe a little eager.”
“A little, hm?” He catches both of your wrists, halting your exploration. “These are going above your head.”
“That seems unnecessarily restrictive.”
“It seems like the only way to keep you from getting ahead of yourself.” He guides your wrists to the pillow above your head, pinning you there with one hand. “Better. Now stay.”
He releases his hold to remove his shirt, and whatever bratty comment you had prepared dies in your throat the moment he tosses it to the floor in a move so unlike your butler you’d laugh under different circumstances. He works your top off next, pulling it up and over your arms, letting it join his on the ground.
The cool air makes your skin prickle, and you fight the immediate urge to cover yourself—a reflex that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that you’re not generous in this department, never have been, and lying beneath him with your arms above your head and nothing to hide behind makes you feel completely, uselessly small.
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
“Don't what?"
“Whatever you're thinking right now. Stop.” His fingertips graze your collarbone, then lower, trailing between your breasts. “You have no idea how many times I've thought about this body.”
“About my tragically average—”
“Finish that sentence and I'll make you wish you hadn’t.” His palm covers your breast easily, thumb brushing across your nipple. “These are perfect. And I don't say that about many things.”
“You say that about your silverware polish.”
“My silverware polish is also perfect. You're in excellent company.” He rolls your nipple between his fingers and your back arches off the mattress. “Responsive, too. Do that again.”
“I can't just do it on command—”
He rolls your nipple once more, firmer this time, and your body betrays you with an identical arch, with a sharp hiss of breath you can't hold in. Zayne watches it all unfold with an expression of deep, undeniable satisfaction.
“Interesting,” he says. “So it's pressure-dependent.”
“Are you taking notes?”
“I'm nothing if not thorough.”
He lowers his mouth to your breast, and the first brush of his tongue is almost painful in its relief. He paints a lazy, wet path before closing his lips around your nipple and sucking hard, drawing out a humiliatingly loud gasp from you that echoes through the room.
“That—” he says before his mouth closes around you again, teasing his teeth around the peak “—is my new favorite sound.”
He moves to the other side, giving it the same attention—tongue and teeth and the occasional scrape of stubble that sends sparks straight down your spine. His free hand stays on the breast his mouth just left, rolling your tight nipple between his fingers, then trails down your stomach, fingers grazing along the top of your shorts before retreating. Again and again he teases, each time a little further, each time making you jerk your hips up, chasing contact he keeps pulling away.
“You're doing that on purpose,” you say.
“Doing what on purpose?”
His fingers line the waistband again, dipping just below the elastic, and pull back. He blinks down at you, all wide-eyes and deceptive innocence, and you’re certain you’d be strangling him if your hands weren’t busy holding onto the pillowcase above your head for dear life.
“That. You keep almost touching me and then—“
“Patience—” He kisses the underside of your breast, your sternum, the dip of your navel. “—is a virtue.”
“Patience is for people who aren't this turned on.”
He pins your hip with one hand and you squirm harder, as if your body senses where he's headed and is vibrating with the need to get there faster, faster, faster.
“You never could hold still, could you?” You’re flipped onto your stomach so fast the room blurs. He works your shorts down your legs, leaving you facedown in nothing but your underwear. “Not once in twenty years.”
His hand strikes the curve of your ass.
You gasp, not from pain, more from the shock of it. The thrill that Zayne—controlled, careful Zayne—just spanked you on top of the same pink sheets he used to tuck you into.
“That's for squirming,” he says.
He lowers and presses a kiss to the spot he just struck, then smooths it over with his palm.
“You always needed this part,” he mouths against your skin, where it tingles from the sting. “The injury was never the problem. You just wanted someone to make it better after.” He travels higher, kissing up to the small of your back. “Every scraped knee. Every bruise. Every splinter you could have pulled out yourself but brought to me instead.”
“You had better hands than the first aid kit.”
“I had hands you trusted.” His hand settles at the base of your spine, nearly spanning the width of your low back. “You'd come find me wherever I was in the house and hold out whatever was hurt. Then stand there as long as it took for me to pay attention, looking up at me like I could fix anything.”
“You could fix anything.”
His hand slides up your spine with a familiarity that prickles at the edges of your memory. You've felt this hand on your back before—this exact path, this exact pressure.
Zayne has, too.
“Do you remember,” he says, bracketing your hips with his knees, “when you had me put sunscreen on your back?”
He asks as if every detail isn’t burned into your being.
It was the summer before you left for university—the sun was too bright, the pool smelled of chlorine, and your hot girl summer playlist terrorized every corner of the estate. You lay on your stomach by the pool with your bikini top untied and your bottoms hardly covering anything, and called your butler over with a voice you'd practiced sounding careless in the shower a dozen times.
Zayne, I need sunscreen. I can't reach my back.
He'd knelt beside your chair and obliged. His hands had been cool from the shade inside, the sunscreen warm from the sun. The restraint in his palms as they moved across your bare skin should have been unsexy but wasn't, because you could feel the effort in it as his fingers slid down your spine, across your waist, along the sides of your body.
You missed a spot, you'd said, though he hadn't. Still, he'd gone back and covered the same ground slower.
My legs, too.
His hands had worked your thighs, slick with sunscreen, rubbing the lotion from the backs of your knees up to where your thighs met the barely-there bottoms, the two inches of swimsuit the only barrier between the wet heat pooling between your legs and your butler’s thorough hands.
“I remember,” you whisper.
He traces the path now—down your spine, your waist, to the flare of your hip. The same route, the same pressure, except there's no sunscreen and no pretense, just his hands on your body.
“You lay there for an hour after I went inside,” he says, moving his palms in the upward strokes he'd used that afternoon. “In those godforsaken bottoms that hardly qualified as clothing.”
“They qualified.”
“They qualified as a provocation.” His hands move to your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin. “And every time I moved away from them, you'd wiggle your hips and tell me I missed a spot.”
“You did miss spots.”
“I didn't miss a single spot. I take UV protection very seriously.” His knuckles graze your inner thighs, and your hips lift involuntarily. “You just wanted my hands closer to places they had no business being.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? So you don't remember what happened when I reached right about—” His hand stills at the crease of your thigh, fingers resting against the edge of your underwear. “—here?”
You press your face into the pillow because you remember exactly what happened.
“You spread these legs apart, just enough for my fingers to go somewhere they shouldn't have.” He follows the edge of your underwear with one fingertip, over the swell of your ass, down to the strip between your legs that does nothing to hide how desperate you are for his touch. “And I cleared my throat. And you said sorry, I'm just getting comfortable. And I said of course. And we both pretended nothing happened.”
“Something happened.”
“Something happened,” he agrees. “And you knew. You always knew. That's why you kept pushing me, isn’t it?”
He traces the same line again, the border between what’s covered and what isn’t. Though this time when he dips low, he stays there—hand cupping you fully through your underwear, the pressure of his palm against the soaked fabric at your pussy delicious and unbearable and enough to make you moan.
“Answer me.”
“Mm,” you manage. He rocks the heel of his palm in a slow circle, and your nails dig into the sheets. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
He grinds against you more firmly, pressing the damp cotton deeper between your folds. You try to press back, to reach for the friction you’ve been chasing all night, but he pulls his hand away.
“Yes,” you concede in a shaky exhale. “Yes, I knew, and I—I wanted to see what would happen if you didn't walk away. If you just—kept going.”
“Kept going where?”
You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “You know where.”
“I have a long list of places I've wanted to put my hands on you.” From this angle, you’re able to watch as he fists his cock over his soft pants, the light grey fabric darkened with precum where the head of him leaks. “So you're going to have to clarify which one you were hoping for.”
“Past my bikini. Past the line you always—” Your breath catches as his fingers brush inside your underwear, skating the skin he's never touched. “—always stopped at.”
“Like this?” His fingers slide deeper, tracing along the edge of your slit as he strokes himself more firmly, still not quite touching you properly.
“Further.”
“Greedy.” He removes his hand entirely, and you wince at the loss. “And then what? If I hadn't walked away. If I'd let my hand keep going while you lay there in the sun pretending to be innocent. What did you want to happen next?”
“I wanted you to—”
Your thoughts are interrupted by a blunt pressure against your center from behind—not Zayne’s hand this time, but his cock. The tip nudges between your thighs over the soaked cotton, the warm weight settling against the outline of your needy cunt.
“Keep talking,” he says, voice nearly a groan. He stays motionless, the thick head of him pressing the fabric further into you, letting you feel exactly what he’s withholding. “You wanted me to what, princess?”
“I wanted—” You try to push back against him, and his hand blocks your hip. “I wanted you to stop thinking and just take what you wanted.”
“What I wanted.” He rocks forward slightly, a small movement that drags his leaking tip down the length of you, his precum mixing with your wet arousal as he slides toward your clit. “You were eighteen years old, lying outside on a pool chair, and you wanted me to put my hand into your bikini and touch you.”
“Yes.”
“In the middle of the afternoon. Where your parents could have walked out and seen.”
“As if they’d bother paying attention.” He smacks his cock against your underwear deliberately, and any attempt at keeping your voice casual shatters. “Besides, I didn't care.”
“No. You didn’t.” Your panties cling to every part of you, slick enough that he slides easily between your thighs. The friction is obscene—his cock hard and throbbing where you’re soft and needy, separated by nothing but a scrap of ruined underwear. “I had to care enough for both of us. And you made me pay for it with every little scheme you pulled to put my hands on you and watch me try to walk away.”
“And?” You dare through gritted teeth, smirking into the pillow. “Did it work?”
His hand at your hip guides the rhythm into something more punishing. His mouth finds the back of your neck, and the kiss he presses there is soft and completely at odds with the way his hips are bucking against yours.
“I’m grinding my cock against your pretty little cunt in your childhood bed, sweetheart. What do you think?”
He pulls away suddenly, and between the filthy words and loss of his weight you think you actually could cry.
“These—” His fingers hook under the center strip of your underwear, knuckles gliding up and down between your swollen folds as he assesses. “—have been through enough tonight.”
“So ruin them the rest of the way.”
He tears the fabric with two hands, ripping them off you in one clean pull. His hands spread you open from behind, and the sound he makes at the sight of you—bare before him for the first time—goes straight to your core.
“Christ.” His thumbs trace the inside of your thighs, spreading you wider. “Look at you.”
He lowers his mouth to your low back and kisses his wa down, patient even now, following the path of your spine, nipping the curve of your ass, outlining the crease of your thigh with his tongue. You feel his breath against your center, warm and unsteady, then the lightest brush of his nose against your entrance as he breathes you in.
“Fuck, Zayne—”
“Language,” he chides, the word humming against you. His tongue drags a single, slow line through you from behind, and you both groan at the contact. “If you could follow instructions even once in your life, this would go much faster.”
“I don't want faster. I want more.“
“You'll get more. When I decide you've earned it.”
His tongue works in long strokes, tasting every inch of you he can reach from this angle, and when he finds a spot that makes your thighs tense under his palms, he stays there.
“You're—that’s—”
Your lack of composure only seems to spur him further. “Articulate as always.”
He licks into you over and over again, and you feel yourself clench around nothing, feel your body begging for something to hold onto that he hasn't given you yet. The angle this way, his mouth against you from behind, is indirect and maddeningly intimate and never quite enough and always almost there.
“Zayne—I swear to god.”
“Swear all you want.” His tongue barely grazes you, keeping you suspended with a laziness that borders on cruel. “Begging looks good on you.”
He spreads you apart wider with both thumbs and builds you back up with wet, hungry strokes that don’t have a rhythm, that aren’t meant to serve a purpose other than to let him taste what he does to your body, what he’s been doing to it since long before he answered the bell tonight. Pleasure pools low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter, and you're right at the edge and—
He pulls away.
“No—” you whine. ”I was right there—Zayne, don’t—“
“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Not from this.”
“You can't just—”
“I can. And I did.” You hear him moving behind you, feeling the shift of weight against the mattress as he discards the last of his clothes. “The only place you’re going to come tonight is around my cock, and that’s not open for negotiation. I've waited too long for it to happen any other way.”
You feel the head of his cock press against you, this time bare against your slick skin. He doesn't enter yet, resting there with one hand on your hip, the other flat on the mattress beside your head.
“Last chance to ring the bell,” he murmurs. “Tell me to stop.”
“If you stop now I will scream.”
He pushes in.
It’s slow, so slow you feel the stretch of every inch building in a long, devastating ache that empties your lungs and fills you with him. He groans hot against the back of your neck, fingers digging into your hip, and when he bottoms out you both need time to breathe. You’ve never felt so complete as you do in this moment, so perfectly full, Zayne’s cock thick and heavy as it throbs inside you. Your walls flutter around him involuntarily, pulling him deeper inside.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Language,” you mutter, the tremble in your voice undermines any sense of authority.
“You're right. How unprofessional of me.” He pulls back in a slow drag against your walls that makes your mouth fall open—and pushes forward again. “I’ll submit a formal apology. After I’ve made you come so hard you can’t speak, let alone critique my vocabulary.”
He starts to move, the full length of him withdrawing and filling you whole, and when he finds the spot that makes your thighs shake he doesn't say a word. You're soaked—you feel it on your thighs, hear it in every wet slide of him inside you, and your face burns even as your body seeks his with every thrust.
“You get tighter every time I pull out,” he observes. “Like you're trying to keep me inside you.”
"Am not—"
“You are.” He grinds forward and you clench around him again—hard—and his breath comes out in a hiss. “And it's making it very difficult to think straight.”
You turn your head on the pillow, looking back at him over your shoulder, because you need to see his face, need to see what Zayne looks like right now, inside you and undone. With his jaw tense, eyes dark, sweat at his temples—he looks nothing like the butler who irons his shirts twice and arranges bookshelves alphabetically. He looks like a man who has wanted something for a very long time and is finally, finally taking it.
“Eyes on me,” he commands when he catches your gaze drifting away. “You started this. You're going to watch me finish it.”
You scrunch your nose and stick your tongue out at him. “Make me.”
His eyes narrow with a flash between amusement and danger, and he wraps your hair around his wrist and pulls—enough to keep your face turned toward him, your neck arched, your eyes locked on his while he drives into you from behind.
“There's your make me, princess,” he says low, hips bucking harder with the leverage. “Any other requests?”
“Several,” you manage between thrusts, “but at your age I’d hate to put too much strain on you.”
“In all the scenarios I’ve imagined.” He gathers your hair tighter, using the grip to tilt your head back, and his tongue traces the exposed line of your throat from your shoulder to the bone of your jaw. “Not once did stamina come up as a concern.”
“You've been dreaming about me?” You try to sound unaffected despite the fact that your voice is shaking and your knuckles are white in the sheets. “Should I be flattered?”
“You should be terrified. I've had a long time to plan,” he says against your neck. “Though in my head, you were slightly less mouthy.”
You clench around him deliberately, and his groan vibrates against your back. “And in mine, you were considerably less smug.”
Zayne sucks hard at the sensitive skin above your collarbone in response before releasing your hair, letting it fall down your back. He braces both arms on either side of your head, and the change in position lets him go harder and deeper, his hips driving you into the mattress with each thrust.
“You've spent your whole life making sure no one could take care of you the way I do. Making sure no one else fit. Ruining yourself for anyone who wasn't me.” His hand reaches beneath you, and the first touch to your swollen, aching clit makes your entire body tense. He circles with barely any pressure, in time to the grind of his hips, and the combined sensation is almost too much to bear. “So now I’m going to give you everything you’ve been asking for all this time. Take care of you the way I’ve always wanted to. And you’re going to be good for me and take it.”
Every edge he pulled you back from tonight, every almost, every year of wanting with nothing to show for it—all of it—collects into a single climax that tears through your body in waves. You clench around him so hard his hips stutter, and his mouth is at your ear the whole time—
That's it—that's my girl—you've been waiting so long for this, haven't you? So long. I know. I know. I've got you. Feel that? That's all for you. You earned this—you earned every bit of it—
—and his voice is the anchor you cling to while the rest of you drowns, his name the only word left in your mouth, your mind, your heart.
He slows, letting you breathe as your aftershocks tighten around him in involuntary pulses. And you wait for it—for his hips to drive forward one final time, for the heat of him to fill you from the inside the way you've always imagined it would.
He pulls out instead, and the sudden emptiness makes you frown, your hips pressing back against nothing, searching for him.
“Zayne—why did you—” You turn your head, and the confusion must be written across your face, because his gaze softens even as he strokes his cock, slick from you, in long pulls.
“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he says, and the two words form a promise that makes your heart flip—that there will be other nights, that this is the first and not the last, that he’s already planning the ones that come after. “Tonight I want to see it on your skin.”
He straightens behind you, settling both hands on your hips. His thumbs press into the dip of your lower back, pressing circles over the skin there.
“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you asked me to put my hands on you by that pool. And I've thought about it every day since.” His palms trace the canvas of your back a final time. “Marking you. Imagining how pretty you'd look with the evidence of what you do to me all over your body.”
“You don’t have to imagine, Zayne. I’m right here.” You arch your back for him in shameless offering, and the sound he makes at the sight is low and wrecked and strips away any remaining possibility that either of you will ever recover from this night. “I’ve always been right here.”
“You're going to be the end of me,” he says through a ragged sigh. “You know that. You've always known that.”
“Promise?” you murmur, tilting your hips higher, giving him more of yourself.
His laugh is barely a sound, and his hand picks up speed, rougher now, knuckles brushing against your skin with each tight stroke. You watch his lips part, watch his brow furrow, watch the moment arrive on his face before you feel it on your skin—the warmth of his release spilling across the small of your back in pulses, painting your body with the proof that he was here, that this happened, that you belong to him in a way no amount of respectable distance will ever undo.
He stays like that for a while, breathing hard, looking at you looking at him. His expression softens into something so affectionate it makes your chest ache, and he leans down and presses a long, lingering kiss between your shoulder blades.
“Promise.” His hand finds yours on the pillow, squeezing once before pressing a kiss between your shoulderblades and lifting himself off you. “Now don't move. Give me ten seconds.”
“Was that an order? Because I've been told I'm bad at those.”
He grabs his pants from the floor, sliding them up over his hips. “Nine seconds.”
You hear the tap running, the drip of a towel being wrung out in the sink. He's back before you can count to four—warm cloth in one hand, cold glass of water in the other—and sits beside you on the bed.
He cleans you with a care that shouldn’t surprise you but makes tears prick behind your eyes anyway, following the path his mouth traveled earlier, rewarming the cloth twice because it cooled too fast and he noticed before you did. He wipes your thighs, the backs of your knees, places that don't need cleaning but get attention anyway. When he reaches the small of your back, he presses his lips against the clean skin there one final time before setting the cloth aside.
He helps you into fresh pajamas—a matching flannel set he selects from the second drawer of your dresser—lifting your arms, guiding them through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders and down your back. The gesture is so careful, so him, so entirely removed from everything his hands were doing ten minutes ago that a tear actually escapes down your cheek before you can catch it.
His thumb finds it, though, and wipes it away without comment, without concern, without making it into something you'd have to explain. He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders, tucking the edge beneath your chin the way he's done since you were small, and reaches for the glass on the nightstand.
“Drink,” he says, holding it to your lips.
“I’m fine—"
“Humor me.” The corner of his mouth lifts, barely. “I’ve been humoring you all night.”
He watches as you drink, gives a small nod of approval once he’s satisfied you’ve had enough, then sets the glass on the nightstand. He pulls on his t-shirt—you mourn the loss of his bare chest immediately—and slides under the covers beside you.
When you curl against him, his arms wrap around you like a reflex he's done fighting.
“I should resign,” he murmurs.
“You should absolutely not resign.”
“This is a rather significant breach of professional boundaries.”
“I don't care about your professional boundaries. I care about you staying in this bed.”
He lifts his head to look at you in the lamplight. With his hair wrecked, glasses long gone, and an expression so open and unguarded, he looks…younger. Lighter. Like something heavy has been set down after years of carrying it.
“Stay,” you whisper. “Not as my butler. Not as my anything. Just stay.”
His arm tightens around your waist. You feel his heartbeat match yours, both rhythms slowing to something calm. His chin settles on the top of your head, and for a while neither of you speaks, but the silence is nothing like the one that scared you an hour ago.
“Mm,” you hum against his chest. “I always get what I want eventually.”
“You do.” His thumb traces a lazy circle on your shoulder. “It’s your single most irritating quality.”
“And yet you keep indulging me.”
“You are exceptionally difficult to say no to.”
“So stop trying.”
“I suppose that would simplify my schedule considerably.” He pulls you closer. “Free up the hours I currently spend on damage control and cold showers.”
“See? Efficient. You love efficiency.”
“I do love efficiency.” His mouth presses against your hair, and you feel him smile. “Though I suspect you're going to be far more work than you were before tonight. Not less.”
“Probably.”
“Almost certainly.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” His fingers find the spot behind your knee—the left one, the one he knows is ticklish—and you yelp, squirming against him, your laugh bright in the quiet room. He catches you before you can escape and pulls you back against his chest. “Now promise me you’ll ring the bell again tomorrow.”
“That depends. Will you read me more Austen?”
“If you behave.”
“And if I don’t?”
His teeth graze your earlobe, tongue teasing the sensitive skin just below. “Then I suppose I’ll have to resort to alternative methods of tiring you out.”
You give his chest a playful shove and he catches your hand, kissing each knuckle one by one. You melt closer, curling yourself tighter against his chest, letting the cadence of his breathing, the warmth of his arms, the undeniable sense of home pull you under.
The house continues its symphony through the night—wind whistling through the cracks, pipes bellowing deep in the walls, wood floors sighing under the weight of the night.
