᭡⚟ call me daz, dazzi .ᐟ twenties .ᐟ college student .ᐟ reviving my writing skills .ᐟ
᭡⚟ love and deepspace only .ᐟ might explore other fandoms .ᐟ can’t pick a love lead .ᐟ
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ⓘ this is my only writing account @bobbedazzled . my main can be found @dazzidazzled . translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted.
a/n: two more to go!!If i had more time this is definitely a prompt i'd fully fledge. the boys using their evol during the deed is a topic i'm very passionate about. much to think about while i procrastinate my assignments.
The fabric slipped over your eyes, shutting out the world in an instant. The world shrank to the pulse drumming in your ears and the heat of a hand steady on their wrist. Sight dissolved into the suffocating thickness of the blindfold, edges rough and brushed against cheekbones. A fingertip skating along the jaw, sighing heat over your ear.
His hands glide up your leg, scarred palms rough against your skin. His fingertips draw a cold so sharp it steals your breath, ice splintering across the strip he traced. The air itself chills, a faint mist curling from his hands as frost blooms along your skin, shimmering in the midnight light.
The bedframe rattles as the rope tugs at your ankles, fibers biting, your calf twitching at the first jolt of freezing contact. Every sensation is amplified. Blindfolded, you can only gasp as goosebumps ripple over your flesh, the anticipation sharpening each touch. He exhales, his amusement coiling slow as you slip away, tension humming in the quiet.
“Did I tell you to move?” he whispers, his tone cool. His fingers slip around your shin, skating over the indents left from your restraints. “Were my efforts to keep you still not enough?”
The mattress creaks under his weight as he crawls closer, hands skating over your torso. Each touch unfurls a trail of biting cold, ice etching intricate, delicate patterns. Crystals swirl into runes, his initials burning blue on flushed skin. The air smells faintly of winter, sharp and clean. Your heart thrums against your chest, the rasp in your throat raw, mouth gone dry as you gasp. Every moan is fractured, caught mid-breath, muscles locked and shivering under cold fire, the uncertainty of what comes next making it all the more electrifying.
You feel him close, his body radiating heat, pressing against yours, easing the chill he has conjured. As you sink into the sheets, the crisp clink of a dish next to you steals your attention. His breath is steady, a warmth you can't help but lean toward. You sense a smirk at his lips, a small laugh hums against your skin, amused as you cling to your senses.
His lips find your neck, pressing slow, warm kisses from the notch of your collarbone to the edge of your jaw. The rough drag of his lips rekindles the simmering heat within you. His hand rises, fingers quivering inches from your throat, an icy draft following their path, sending a shiver through your skin and leaving you suspended between fire and frost.
Cold water drips from between his fingertips, awakening your nerves before ice kisses your skin. The ice glides against you before fitting between his lips, drawing a trail from your neck down your chest, and every nerve flares to life. Blindfolded, you cannot see it coming, cannot brace for the next touch; only feel the trail it leaves behind, a melting thread that burns cold. Where it travels, goosebumps follow, nerves caught between pain and pleasure. Each slow drag of ice numbs a little more, until sensation blurs the boundary between touch and temperature, the playfulness in his magic making you ache for more.
The ice cube crackles loudly between his teeth, then half the cube drops onto your stomach, melting a cold stripe in the hollow of your belly. Water pools in your navel, skin frigid, then throbs with heat. His mouth is slick with ice water, still chilled as he descends. Your hips pressed flat beneath his hand, fingers digging into your side as you twist and writhe. When the cold lifts, all that's left is aching dampness and skin on fire, nerves pulsing with aftershocks.
“Is this too new?” He asks, the familiar gentleness of your lover returning in his tone. He whispers something low, his voice smoky with mischief, relishing your anticipation. “You should behave more often, then I won't have to get creative.” His fingers press into the skin, drawing slow circles into your side.
The authority melts from his voice, “Should I keep going?” he asks. You breathe out, the sound caught between surrender and hesitation. The ache still hums through your muscles, body trembling against the cold. Your answer is unspoken; you relax instead, your limbs heavy and yielding under the warmth of his palm. His breath lingers close as you settle, the weight of his gaze sinking you into the bed.
The skin tingled sharply, every hair standing, anticipating. The chill lingering on his lips meets your mound, kissing carefully before pressing closer. The heat of his mouth reaches you first, the biting cold blooms with the feel of his tongue. The ice melted by his breath, and the ice cube lay flat on his tongue. Your body throbbed loudly, each sensation raw and consuming, something pooling beneath the skin.
The sting softened into tingling, spreading under the surface, every nerve awake and listening. The ice melted faster now, slipping over skin that pulsed with heat, leaving behind a slick sheen that glimmered in the light. When the ice lifted away, the skin throbbed, tender, nerves humming and cold.
content: cutting, hazardous foreplay, smutless foreplay, just sylus being threatened and enjoying it
a/n: no smut, im tired and a day behind hhh. might lengthen later *wink wink*
The wind rakes through the trees, scattering bronze and amber onto the forest floor. In a country house surrounded by the soft hiss of the autumn breeze, the air carries a faint scent of smoke and fallen leaves. Fine rugs muffle the creak of floorboards. Shelves bend beneath books that show little wear despite their years. The dining room is dim, lit by lamplight and candlelight, gilding polished wood. A modest table covered in cream linen and silver stretches between you.
The hush of the countryside is broken only by Sylus’s quiet movements. His slow, deliberate reach for the decanter. The faint click of crystal on wood. His gaze lingers not on you, but on the window, as if measuring the stillness before allowing you in. You watch him as you trace your glass’s rim, noting the set of his jaw when he’s thinking. The way he always pours your wine first, even when pretending indifference.
Sylus settles into his chair, shoulders sinking into the deep upholstery. His fingers drum absently on the tablecloth, a restless rhythm melting the tension. He watches across the table for the flicker of your hand, the subtle shift of your weight, the things you do when you think he isn’t looking. A faint smile tugs at his mouth, logging your tells, always attuned.
“Kitten,” Sylus calls softly.
You stay at the table’s end, fingers toying with silverware. Its tip grazes your knuckle before slipping off. Sylus props an elbow on his chair, one hand near his glass, gaze flicking to your turning fork.
Without warning, a whip of black-crimson energy cracks through the air, alive with his intent. It snakes around your waist in a single, fluid motion. Its heat and pressure are unmistakable. You’re lifted from your seat, fabric whispering against wood as the whip reels you toward him. The world narrows to the pull of his power. As you reach him, the energy whip spirals, flickering with a hungry red glow, before dissolving into shadow at his fingertips. His arm catches you at the last second. He pulls you flush into his embrace, the echo of his power humming against your sides.
“You have something that doesn’t belong to you.” His tone is light. The warning is not.
His hand slips beneath your dress, palm warm against your thigh as satin brushes his fingers. His callused touch glides upward, knuckles grazing your skin. Anticipation curls in your chest. You lean in rather than away.
“No weapons at the dinner table,” he scolds.
He draws the blade from its hiding place in your garter, sliding his hand beneath your dress with care. The sharp edge rests against your skin for a moment, its presence both threatening and intimate. He slowly pulls the blade so it drags as it passes between your thighs and over his knuckles. His hand stays steady, eyes focused and unwavering on the familiar blade.
“I saw it. And a few other secrets,” you murmur, answering the question caught on his tongue.
Beneath the house, a corridor conceals walls of matte black, reinforced steel. Weapon displays line the walls like private exhibits, each piece precisely mounted. It didn’t belong here, not among antiques and autumn quiet.
“You have quite the collection hiding in this cabin.”
He laughs softly, the sound dry and indulgent. “Is it that upsetting?” he murmurs.
“Isn’t this supposed to be our vacation?” you ask, tilting your head.
A smile spreads. He takes your hand, guiding your fingers along the knife’s polished spine. The metal is cool and flawless. You rotate the blade, candlelight tracing its elegant curve. There’s no ornate hilt or protocore enhancement, just a lethal length of steel.
“It’s well-balanced,” you murmur, testing the weight with a flick of your wrist. The blade moves like it’s a part of you already. “Almost too light.”
“Light doesn’t mean harmless,” Sylus says.
“No,” you agree, eyes still on the knife. “It just means you can’t let it do the work for you.”
You glance sideways as you stand, catching his profile. His gaze is fixed not on the weapon, but on how your fingers rest along the blade’s spine. Your thumb presses, tracing the edge. Testing it. Testing him.
“It doesn’t look like much,” you say, turning it over again. “But it could do a lot of damage.”
“That’s the point.” His voice lowers. He pulls you in, close enough now that you feel the warmth of him, subtle but distinct against the chill of the room. You don’t step away.
You can feel the tension in his posture now, held still like a lion watching something twitch just beyond reach. A wire strung tight. His hand moves swiftly, covering yours to steady the blade. His warm, callused fingers anchor you, not restrain.
“You’re not afraid of sharp things,” he observes, studying your hand beneath his.
“I live with one,” you reply, voice flat. “I’ve adapted.”
The moment stretches. You narrow your eyes, chin lifted ever so slightly. His grip remains gentle but stubborn, refusing to yield first. The air between you thrums with unspoken threats. Neither of you breaks eye contact. Your fingers tighten on the hilt, daring him to let this go unpunished. He arches a brow in return, a ghost of a smirk flickering at the corner of his mouth.
“I am aware of how capable you are.”
“Good. I even have the broach to prove it in case you forget.”
You slip from his hold, pointing the blade at him, playfully threatening. “You think I can’t handle you?”
He chuckles, low and brief. Taking the knife, he leans back for space. “It’s late. You should change before it’s colder.”
“Back to vacation mode?” you ask lightly, though your heart’s still thudding louder than it should.
His smile is faint. “If that’s what we’re calling it.”
You snatch the blade from him, locking eyes. With a flick, you drive the knife point-down at his collar. The sharp edge nicks the fabric and catches a thread. With a single smooth pull, you neatly split his shirt down the middle. The fabric separates cleanly beneath the steel, exposing his chest.
He doesn’t move, just watches you. His hand returns to your thigh while steel glides through cotton, revealing flush skin. You pause at his sternum, tracing slow circles with the blade, watching his pulse. His hand curls around your wrist, steadying your aim.
“Careful, Ms. Hunter,” he mutters. His crimson eyes glare. They admire, like he’s sizing up something rare. His gaze carries both a warning and a dare. Grip tightens ever so slightly around your leg. Enough to remind you whose house you’re in. Whose knife.
You drag the blade sideways across his chest, letting him feel its cold without breaking skin. He exhales, laughter stifled by a groan. He watches you with that steady, unreadable gaze that still manages to feel like a touch. Your hand settles, guiding the blade along his shirt collar.
“Can’t leave work behind for a week,” you murmur.
He leans in, eyes glinting. “You call this work?”
You try to keep the smirk in place, to hold your ground. But he’s watching you the way he always does. Like you’re something worth memorizing. It steals the edge from your feigned anger.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper, more flustered than you’d like.
“Like what?” he asks, perfectly still.
The knife slips, intentionally and neatly, slicing his shirt open down the middle. A pale line of skin appears, unmarked. He exhales, deep and unhurried. His gaze softens, half-lidded and entirely enthralled.
You continue, “Like you enjoy this.”
He smiles slowly, “I do.”
You huff out a breath, the knife still poised between you. His fingers brush the underside of your wrist, featherlight to remind you of his affection. “You’re holding a blade to my heart, but I’ve never felt safer.”
He reaches up, fingers brushing the blade’s spine, guiding it until the cold metal rests flat against his sternum. “There,” he says softly. “Now we’re even.”
His thumb, gentle over yours, guides the knife until it rests above his heart. You exhale, struggling for composure as your resolve fades. Instead of pulling away, you press the blade’s flat to his skin, trailing its cold across his warmth.
“You brought it,” you say quietly, “so don’t act surprised I’m using it.”
He smiles, eyes soft, voice roughened by warmth. “You always did know how to handle what’s mine.”
He doesn’t move. He lets you have the moment, lets you win in that small, dangerous way. The knife dips slightly, your wrist easing under his hand. He feels the shift before you can hide it, how the fight leaves your shoulders.
He doesn’t take it from you. He never does. He just slides his fingers over yours again, guiding the blade down until it comes to rest against the table beside you. The sound is soft, of metal kissing wood.
The distance between you vanishes in the next heartbeat. His hand lingers at your wrist, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles where your pulse runs. The knife is still, gleaming quietly among silverware, your other hand curling against the open line of his shirt, holding him steady as the candles burn around you.
You sigh, eyes closing for a moment, the smallest smile breaking through. “You ruined my bad mood.”
He laughs under his breath. “Let me make it up to you.”
a/n: we're not gonna talk about how long its been since i posted, covid almost took me out so... everyone smile and wave (im feeling better tho). i know i wrote something similar before, i just really like the idea of caleb in a collar+leash hhh
“Scary how convincing you are.”
His hand strokes the metal chain, fingers brushing the links with the soft scrape of metal against skin, easing the tug around his neck as the chain drags across the floor. He stops just shy of the handle, swinging the end in a circle. You sit in the center of the bed, waiting for him to approach.
“Why wouldn’t you want to please your master?” You goad.
“Master?” His smile lifts at the corners. The mattress creaks beneath his shifting weight as he crawls toward you. “And how do you suppose I do that?”
You lift your hand as an invitation. Caleb studies your open palm, then places the leash handle in your grasp. The cool metal is smooth against your skin. You don’t close your hand, instead letting the chain slip, its weight settling into your palm. The links hum against your fingertips as your hands climb the chain, stopping at the base of his throat. With a single, slow tug, you pull him closer, just enough to feel his breath against your lips.
“Will you follow my every command?”
The question lingers. A hand raises to his face, your thumb stroking his cheek. A breathless laugh tickles your nose, the curiosity in his gaze replaced by his growing desire. He speaks slowly, a low rasp ringing in your ear.
“I will take all that you’re willing to give me.”
The warmth of his breath is enticing, almost challenging your composure. Your thumb drags across his lips before drifting between your bodies, tracing the outline bulging from his boxers. His hips move with your hand, directing your hand to his waistband.
“No, no,” you sing, your tone carrying a light warning. The weight of your palm lowers Caleb back into the bed. He sighs, eyes soft and shimmering with fake innocence. You smile at his performance.
“Stay.”
Your hands glide up his chain, looping a finger around the leash ring, guiding him further up the bed. His breath catches around the tug of the collar, obedience glistening against the need darkening his eyes.
The flick of your fingers shifts his fly to the side, easing him into your hand. Your breaths fall into rhythm with his, lips parted, pulse quickening as he hardens in your grip. He’s flushed as you pet him, so easy to please as he throbs against your fingertips. The friction stirs the heat pooling in his belly.
Slender fingers catch the edge of your panties as his hands sneak under your ass. The intention to resist lingers as your eyes meet, but the storm in his gaze intrigues you, yielding to the unspoken demand. The headboard creaks under your weight as he lifts your hips, his fingertips grazing down your legs as your panties follow. Hands move quickly to undress the other.
He presses closer, guiding your hands to his waist. The ridges of muscle shifted beneath your touch as your hand wandered, treading the path his veins led.
Your fingers wrap around him, slicking his cock between your folds. He throbs in your hand, begging to be used, shifting closer as his hips follow your grip.
“Master,”
You observed him, coating him with your arousal. His brows furrowed as he panted, chanting your title like a prayer. Caught between tension and pleasure.
“Master,”
His fingers press into your hips as he slips through your grip, the authority leaving your fingers as he narrows the gap between bodies. You stifle a moan, raising a hand to his chest. A pause-- his body stiffens. For a moment, he waits, watching you squirm. His lips part, worry left unspoken as you lift your hips. He’s left breathless the moment you’re connected, eyes closed as you feel all of him. His body hesitates to follow your warmth as you lie down, heart pounding underneath your palm.
“Can I.. keep going?”
You don’t respond. You don’t need to. The pressure against his chest dissipates as he leans in. Your hands move to his shoulders, an invitation quickly taken. The space between you disappears, the air thickening between shared breaths.
Cool silver kisses your chest as the metal dangles between you. You tug his collar, gritting your teeth to suppress your moans. The metal winding around your other hand, reeling him in. The pressure around his neck is suffocating, alluring. His brows furrow, not in pain, but in pleasure.
He leans into the pressure, mouth agape as he admires your pouty expression. He’d call you cute if he had the air to, the voice to. His adam’s apple bobs against your knuckles, the hum of his grunts ticking your fingertips. Your lips are close but unmoving, breaths mingling as he fucks you.
Your knuckles whiten around his collar as you hold his gaze. The leash clinks with a cold, metallic rhythm under your grip, retaining the power of your position. His mouth hangs open, panting shallow and ragged, veins strain beneath his skin as you hold him close. Sweat glistens at his brow as the last of his resistance coils low in his belly, then dissolves.
His hips retreat, trembling as euphoria washes over him. The bed sheets stick to his cock head as it spills hot streams of liquid. Your knuckles stay tight around the collar, the leather warm and damp beneath your grip. His eyes meet yours, timid and regretful. You don’t flinch. Instead, a smile curls at the corners of your mouth as he calls you.
“Forgive me, master—“
His voice strained as you yank his collar, forcing him forward. The chain sings its cold metal tune, echoing through the stillness like a warning bell. You purse your lips, cooing softly at his submission, your voice carrying words of caution.
~ flufftober day 1: anniversary (totally not posting this on day 2)
pairing: xavier x reader
The patter of the rain outside on the windows was soothing, and the atmosphere inside was even more comforting. The lamp in the corner of the living room was flicked on, bathing the space in warm yellow light.
Xavier sits across from you cross-legged, the sleeves of his signature white hoodie rolled up to his elbows and a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table in front of him. His brows furrow in concentration, and you can't help but smile, standing in the kitchen doorway.
"Of all the things you could have picked for us to do on our anniversary," you start, laughing to yourself, "you picked a thousand piece puzzle."
He doesn't look up, but you can see the faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It's calming."
"It's frustrating."
"Same thing. Well, sometimes."
You laugh, padding over to sit next to him, two cups of tea in your hands. You pass one to him and he presses a kiss to your cheek in appreciation.
"You know," you say, bumping his shoulder with your own playfully, "most couples go out. Champagne, fancy food, dressing up, all of that stuff."
Xavier pauses at your words, looking up and meeting your gaze. "Do you want that?"
You tilt your head, pretending to think. "Maybe next year. This is nice."
He looks at you for a moment longer, fondness in his expression before he goes back to the puzzle, picking up a piece and sliding it into place. You lean your head on his shoulder, letting out a content sigh. He smells faintly of citrus and your shampoo, and something uniquely him. Something that over the past year has brought you so much comfort.
"I didn't think we'd get here." You murmur, watching as he continues to fiddle with puzzle pieces. "A whole year."
His movements stop at your words, and his voice was soft when he speaks. "Me neither."
The confession hangs heavy in the air for a few moments, both of you thinking back to when you had first met. You didn't push him to say more though, and neither did he, both of you knowing that if the other person needed to speak, they would.
Xavier broke the silence first, reaching out and taking your hand, threading your fingers through his. "It's not that I didn't want to," he adds, resting his head atop yours. "I just… didn’t know if I could. Be like this, with someone."
You give his hand a squeeze, looking up at him. "But you are."
"And you stayed." He says, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I always will."
There was a long moment of silence. It wasn't awkward, just full. It was full of everything he couldn't say but wanted you to know. Xavier didn't really do grand declarations, but his presence tonight, sitting barefoot in your living room, doing a puzzle in the middle of a storm, said more than a hundred love letters ever could.
As if he remembers something, Xavier sits up, reaching into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulling out a small black box.
"Here, for you." He says, and you take the box, a bit confused. Inside, nestled in black fabric, is a silver necklace with a soft yellow star charm. You stare at it for a long moment, gently touching it as if you were afraid it might break.
"Xavier... you didn't have to get me anything." You say.
"I wanted you to have something that reminded you of today. Of us." He takes the necklace out of the box carefully, reaching around you to gently put it on you. He then pulls you into his arms, burying his face into your neck and pressing a soft kiss against your skin.
"Happy anniversary." He murmurs.
You close your eyes and smile, hugging him tightly. "Happy anniversary, Xavier."
a/n: does this count? lol. bad news my loves, i recently tested positive for covid so i may fall behind. I'll try my best not to skip anymore of the prompts but some may be delivered late. i'll take care of myself though, enjoy. ♡
Sleep enveloped him, the darkness settling for an immeasurable amount of time before the fuzz of another world bloomed into view. The only light in the room glows from the far side. A bedroom, dreamt many times before, bathed in the soft glow of a lamp with an antique shape.
His eyes wander to the empty bedside, still warm from its owner. His hands iron over the wrinkles exposed by the open blanket, her scent kisses his nose as he tilts his head towards the empty pillow.
“Did I wake you?”
A warm, familiar voice flutters in his heart. He flinches, feeling the weight between his legs, a lump under the comforter crawling to his chest. Her head emerges from under the blanket as she slides up his body, stopping under his, then rising atop. She slips under his shirt as she straddles his hips. His breath hitches, struggling to compose himself as her eyes search his face. He averts his gaze; fearful she’ll notice that he's not the Zayne she expects.
"Zaynie," she teases. Her hands skim his chest. His heart races under her touch, hesitant yet willing. He leans into her palm. Just a second. Just enough to pretend.
“Honey?” she calls.
His eyes are slow to meet hers. The faint light illuminating the space covers the intruder’s true identity. Her smile warms him; the trace of her fingertips sears into his skin. He basks in her attention like sunlight, a warmth rarely felt-- familiar but never meant for him.
Her hips nuzzle into his, stirring something in his stomach. Her eyes darted from his exposed skin to his face, testing. Butterflies tickle his chest as she leans forward. His eyes avoid hers, staring attentively at her lips as she speaks.
“You’re quiet tonight, are you still tired?” she asks, her hands leaving the inside of his shirt. He swallows hard, guilt and longing twisted tight in his throat. His arms instinctively wrap around her.
“No, no,” he mumbles, almost pleading. “Even if I’m tired,” he thinks, “don’t withdraw from me.”
Intimacy Zayne has only seen on TV or glimpsed in dreams, now unfolding in an illusion too perfect to question. He sheds himself of his clothing, and the dream blurs into reality as his hands drift across her skin. The warmth of her, her softness, a refuge from the truth that awaits him when the morning comes.
His lips find hers as the bed shifts, her back sinks into the mattress as he indulges in his greed. The guilt is evident in his grip, to occupy a body he doesn’t own, to hold a girl who only feels familiar. And still, he wants it. Wants her.
His touch is rough, but she enjoys it, hooking her leg around his arm as their hips meet. Pillows and plushies meet the floor, the sheets hang untucked as his hands search for something grounding. His face hovers close, inviting kisses and words Zayne has never received before. Her hands are restless against him, moving from his back, his chest, to his hair.
The headboard creaks under his grip, his body twitches as her hips move with his, inching him closer to release. He snuggles close as his pace slows, the warmth of her body humming against his. The numbness slowly takes over his senses as the dream threatens its end. The sounds of her stay; her moans, her begging. Her hips roll against him as his body stutters, unraveling as she continues to wrap around him, coating him with the love stirring in her velvet.
Zayne buries his face into her hair, storing the memory of her scent in his mind before she fades away. The pain of her nails engraving his back barely disturbs him. He holds her close with the strength he has left. Her warmth is still there; her breath at his ear, but the girl is already halfway gone, dissolving in his arms.
Confessions whispered are undelivered as light shines over his eyes. He stirs for a moment, brows furrowed as his eyes blink open. The air is cold despite the sun. The light creeps into his room, simple but neglected.
He tosses a pillow over his face, irritated and heartbroken. The trace of her fingertips still lingers on his skin. His face peeks from under the cushion, glancing at the jasmine blooming at his windowsill. The delicate blossoms hide behind tangled stems.
a/n: would not recommend eating beeswax. would rafayel care tho? probably not
A heat that fades the minute it reaches your skin, like ice slicked with oil, biting the flesh. Your nerves calm as the wax settles on the surface. The wick, white and unused, sits at the bottom of the crater created as his fire burns just above.
The muted scent reminiscent of honeycomb burns at the command of his fingertips. He holds the candle high, tipping the flame to spill its wax down your figure. His touch follows, kissing away the tension building in your body.
“I won’t burn you.” He whispers, his lips following the trail of wax solidifying on your skin. Your bodies intertwine slowly, like two halves steadily unfolding. The dew collecting on your body melts under his palm as he rubs in slow, circular motions down your body. Your skin glistens under the golden light illuminating the dim room, silk clinging to your skin as you squirm.
You reach for him, linking your legs around his waist, pressing him closer. The candle falls to his side, his heart flutters at the command of your bond. He leans in, pressing his face into your palm.
“I can feel you calling, I’m already right here,” he mutters, your fingers moving with his lips as he speaks.
“What do you want?”
His voice is low and thick with longing, stretching his desire to last the hours, to break your patience. The symbol on his chest glows, tingling against the thrum of his heart.
“You want me closer? Right here?” You feel his breath. He pins your hips down before you can lift them, your body begging him to come closer. His heart stirs once again, tugging a smirk to the corner of his lips.
“I’m only eating the honey.”
The candle returns to his hand. He lowers it over your body, and your skin glows as his flame hovers dangerously close. The honeycomb presses into your skin as it drips, tension creeps up your body as the heat nips sensitive skin.
“Should we compromise?”
He tilts the candle, dragging the fire down your leg and pouring liquid gold into your thigh. As you wince, the heat is quickly cooled by the drag of his tongue. Your hands find his hair as his mouth chases the gold running down your inner thigh.
His scalp is slick with sweat as you thread your fingers through it. Bright blush at the tip of his ears peeks through purple locks. In his embrace, his fingers speak for him. His message says I’m here, I know you, I want to feel all of you. His fingers trace slow paths, curling and uncurling, pressing into muscle and bone, offering you comfort and appease his craving.
a/n: hihi. fair warning, tomorrow is a skip! hated my draft since I couldn’t finish/couldn’t see it fitting the ll properly. I’ll be back day 6! also this took several days to write wtf
The haze is thick between mingling breaths. Caleb panting with his head against yours, rubbing his reddened cock against your back. His groping presses you into Zayne, who sinks further inside you. You’re drowning in the closeness, sandwiched between bodies desperately trying to merge with yours.
Sylus swallowed every breath as you begged for air. You still ache from where he undid you minutes ago, having you to himself for just a moment before Zayne took his place. Your mouth, ruined by the former’s incessant sucking, hangs open as Zayne’s momentum falters. His knuckles whiten as he digs into your side, fucking what’s left of Sylus into your cunt, chasing his own unraveling.
Meanwhile, Sylus frames your face in his hands, brushing his thumb over your swollen lips. You invite him in as he presses, greeting his finger with an eager tongue as you gasp. The rough pad of his thumb glides against the muscle, tickling the back of your throat.
“Are you done with me, kitten?” he purrs, tilting his head.
A smile creeps to his lips as his finger moves to your teeth, stroking and probing the inside. He rubs along the enamel, admiring the sharpness of your canines.
Zayne has gone stiff, melting into the mattress beneath him. His hands never leave you, stroking tenderly up your sides and down your arm. Once steady, he leans in, pressing kisses along your sternum. A hand from behind slips in between you.
Caleb, having amused himself long enough, impatiently dips under your ass and stirs the mess between your legs. His heavy head pushes Zayne’s softened shaft out to snuggle in between your folds. He waited patiently, busying himself to stay hard for you, waiting for his moment. The former two were too greedy, taking their time without a care. After an hour of delaying, his body begs for release. But he wants it with you. In you.
Caleb pulls you close as Zayne moves you down the bed. You lean on him, body molding gently to yours as Caleb’s fingers draw new marks on your hips. Sylus crawls forward, nuzzling into your face as you rest your chin on Zayne’s shoulder.
Caleb groans as you tense around him, tender flesh welcoming him with minimal effort. His rhythm is sporadic, tightroping between his release and making up for lost time. Zayne unknowingly hinders his efforts by tilting your hips up, seating you further. The hairs on your body stand as Caleb’s hips stutter, his hands kneading your waist as he buries his cock in your warmth.
Zayne and Sylus watch tenderly as you take him, stroking your arms and nuzzling praise into your skin. Chills ripple through your body from their petting, paired with the tension gathering in the pit of your stomach. Caleb leans forward, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, his climax creeping closer. Zayne aids him, holding you still as Caleb’s hips snap against your ass.
Your orgasm rushes through your body, trembling over Zayne as Caleb follows, collapsing onto your back.
The world faded, and you surrendered without realizing, body melting in the warmth of your lovers as your pulse slowed.
It was dark except for the faint spill of sunlight through the curtains, casting golden stripes across ruined sheets. You blink awake as slender fingers drift across your skin, slipping you into an embrace. Xavier’s kisses descend from your shoulder, down the center of your back. Rafayel follows, pecking the skin as you settle into his arms. The warmth of his hand gathers at the small of your back, his eyes dancing around the marks left on you. Your skin is still stuck with sweat, lips swollen and tainted with the taste of wine. He’s pleased.
“Did you have your fun, cutie?” he coos, peppering kisses around your face as you wake.
“Are you sore?”
Xavier kisses up your spine as he crawls forward. He nuzzles into your nape, slipping a hand between bodies. You flinch, still sensitive from before as a probing finger separates your folds. Your cunt still weeps with the warmth of three other lovers
“Does it hurt?” He whispers. “No room for one more?”.
It takes minimal effort to slip inside. Xavier doesn’t wait for an answer before examining further. Your nails sink into Rafayel’s arm, Xavier’s massaging sends sparks up your spine. Rafayel monitors your expression, his fingers tucked neatly behind your ears as his mouth gravitates to yours. Your mouth agape as his tongue blooms past your lips. Xavier removes his fingers while you’re distracted, lacing the sticky digits around his hardening cock. He shifts closer as he works himself up, slicking his shaft before pressing his cock head against you. You jolt forward as he sinks into you, his knuckles whitening around your hips. Rafayel lifts his gaze, glaring at the man behind you.
“Gently.” He scolds, voice muffled against your lips.
“I haven’t even started.” Xavier laughs, his face pressed to the back of your neck as he exhales. Xavier’s hands move to your waist, tracing your arch as you bow. You descend slowly, your lips dragging from Rafayel's lips and down his chest. His head rolls as you kiss him, cradling your head as you trek further down.
His hand leads the way, fondling himself as he untucks himself from his boxers. Your mouth waters as his cock springs out, pressing the meaty tip to your lips. You look at him through your lashes. Rafayel glances at Xavier, monitoring his pace.
Xavier’s eyes are shut, his pace slow and tender. He groans as your walls contract, running his hands down your back as his hips roll. Rafayel watches, his cock throbbing at the sight. You lick the bead welling up on his tip. He moans, pressing your head forward with the hand resting on your head.
You comply, stuffing him in your mouth. His hand fidgets with your hair as your head bobs, your tongue dragging up and down his shaft. His breath labored as you slick him with your spit, saliva pooling at the base as his cock gleams in the dim light.
The sun hangs high behind drawn curtains, pale streaks of light shifting up the wall as time creeps by. Xavier presses closer, biting back his impulses. The lewd sounds filling the air are distracting, or more, encouraging his arousal.
His touch is desperate, sinking into you with growing intensity. You choke on a moan, the urge to gag tugging on your throat. Rafayel assists, hands tangling in your hair as he directs you. He mutters to himself, cursing as you swallow him, the subtle suction as your cheeks hollow, your muffled moans humming around his cock. It’s driving him mad.
The bed shakes from the commotion. A bitterness sits on your tongue before your head is pulled back. Rafayel holds you up by your hair, body stiff as hot streams of liquid pump out of his twitching cock. As he freed himself, Xavier placed heavy hands around your waist.
The sheets tear from their corner of the mattress, balling in your fists as Xavier fucks you. You cry out as he abandons all restraint, overwhelmed by your pleasure overriding lingering pain.
Xavier stalls before pulling out, dropping your waist to steady himself against the bed. You collapse onto Rafayel’s lap as Xavier hovers above, painting your back with his orgasm.
The tug on your scalp fades as Rafayel runs his fingers through your hair. His hand moves up your neck and to your cheeks, lifting your head to face him. He kisses the bridge of your nose, swiping your tears from your eyes.
“You did so well, cutie.” His thumb drags across your lips, smearing the saliva gathered around your mouth. “Tired?”
You don’t have the voice to respond. Your eyelids flutter, struggling to stay open, but the warmth of their embrace pulls you in. Their arms wrap around you, fitting around your frame like they were meant to be there. Their breaths are steady, the rhythm of their hearts thrumming against your skin. Your thoughts drift, and sleep envelops you slowly, like a blanket. The last thing you feel is their thumb brushing across your skin, slow and absentminded, as your body surrenders to rest and your mind sinks beneath the quiet.
☄︎︎₊˚⊹ content: threesome, handjob, tug of war (xavier being greedy), MDNI.
a/n: take a shot every time I forget the e in lumiere…
Xavier swats the slow hands creeping up your sides, replacing them with his own rough caress. Lumiere then moves to your hips, shifting you away from Xavier as his lips reach your collarbone, climbing up your neck. Xavier intercepts, slipping his fingers around your neck, blocking his kisses. Your head falls to Xavier's shoulder as pulls you close.
Lumiere ignores his warnings. His lips drag up your jaw, finding their way to your ear, whispering ridicule of his jealous twin. It's hard to laugh, hard to breathe with Xavier’s hand around you, fucking the air out of your lungs. Lumiere’s touch is a soothing contrast, holding you steady as his twin clings to your warmth.
Your hands stutter around Lumiere. His hand caresses your wrist, aiding you as you stroke his hardened cock. It dips just below where you need him, where you prefer him. Xavier’s hand digs into your hips, bending you impossibly as his hips snap against your ass.
Your incoherence makes their heart flutter. Lumi’s cock throbs under your touch, his frustration growing from the lack of attention. He exchanges glances with Xavier who, in response, flashes a smirk at his discontent.
Annoyed, Lumiere’s hand substitutes Xavier’s, freeing your neck as his hand slips to your nape. His fingers rake into your hair as your gaze returns to him, tongue dragging against your lip in a tender kiss.
“Don’t get distracted.” He whispers, the kiss barely broken as his words land on your lips. “I’m here.”
From behind, Xavier presses against your back. His breath is uneven as he mocks Lumiere’s words, warming your skin as his hands slip up your torso.
“Baby, I’m here.” He murmurs. “I’m here too.”
Their eyes meet once again as Xavier nuzzles into your shoulder. He laughs breathlessly as his twin glares at him. Lumi presses a firm hand to Xavier’s chest, pushing him back. His hands slip under Xavier’s grip in one fluid motion, pulling your hips towards him as Xavier’s back meets the mattress. His cock pops out as he stumbles. Lumiere gives you no room to react before replacing him.
Your walls stretch just the same, a gasp leaves your lips as you grip his thigh. His hips meet yours slowly, spoiling you with kisses for the seconds he has you to himself. You sigh against his mouth, the coil tightening in your belly threatens to break. Xavier returns to your back. His hands slip between you and Lumiere, cupping your breasts as he rubs himself against you. Your body is sandwiched between two rivals as they fight for your attention.
Your other hand rests on Xavier's hips, their rhythms unsynchronized and greedy. You nip Lumi’s lip as Xavier’s hand lands on your forehead, throwing your head into the crook of his neck. Lumiere ignores him, resting his head against Xavier’s shoulder as his pace quickens. Xavier is too out of it to notice, his hips stuttering as he fondles you.
Your body trembles between them, fingers digging into their skin once the coil snaps. The euphoria ripples through you, leaving your skin beaded and burning. A hot stream of liquid sticks to your inner thigh as Xavier leans back, propping his body up against limp arms. Lumiere embraces you as you falter. His grip lightens as his hips slow, his tender hands caressing your spine. You rest against him, a familiar scent lingering under sweat and skin.
A deepspace anomaly and two of him. It bloomed out past your apartment window in the odd hours of the night. The stars kept their promise and granted your desires as they breached your universe.
The air is thick as you wake to the deep hum of sleeping bodies. Specks of light dance for you as you stare at the ceiling, their population seemingly doubled. You fall flat on your back under the weight of tangled arms. The dopplegangers stir from your movements, shifting closer to hinder your escape. You sigh, turning your head and facing each of them. The spatial anomaly has yet to be resolved but you don’t complain.
a/n: hi hi, here to remind that you’re free to request for me to lengthen a prompt. xav was rlly short but kinda fitting to start the month off, no? as i said, prompt will differ in length. will definitely go back and fully fledge out the ones that deserve it once the month is over. anyway! bye!
Crystal chandeliers cast a soft golden glow across marble floors and velvet-draped walls, where a curated collection of contemporary and classic artworks is on display. Waitstaff in pressed white serve seltzer and sparkling wine, weaving through clusters of elegantly dressed guests. Socialites and collectors sip cocktails and lean in close to hear the inspiration behind each piece, their laughter too rehearsed.
But not all in attendance wear their charm like a tailored tux. Near the edge of the ballroom, he stands alone, bored yet refined. There's an effortless gravity to him, a silent refusal to perform. People notice, yet no one approaches easily.
Those who dare are reporters with notepads ready, donors eager for a handshake-- their eagerness met with silence or unbothered replies. Dressed in dark, dazzling linen, jacket well-tailored, he sips his drink without tasting it, eyes locked not on his work, but across the ballroom.
His eyes follow the slit up your dress, glaring at the skin you expose as you glide through the crowd. The tide of high society pulls you into its current, probing curiously after you’ve entered the night, linking arms with Mr. Impossible. Patrons hang on your words, eavesdropping reporters laugh too loudly at your jokes, and offer compliments they hope are remembered. Your newness proves more radiant than the art around you.
He turns away.
A reporter approaches, mic outstretched, asking him about the symbolism in his latest painting. He brushes past without a word. Another guest tries to strike up a conversation, and he nods but doesn’t reply, jaw clenched. His gaze keeps slipping back to you, and to the smooth, laughing man standing beside you, his hand resting too familiarly on the small of your back.
The warmth at your back vanishes in an instant. A sharp, echoing smack snaps the moment like glass underfoot. The man beside you jolts, his easy composure dissolving as he recoils, eyes wide. His hand flinches away from yours, instinctively covering his chest. Around you, the soft murmur of conversation stutters. Rafayel stands beside you now, so close you catch the faint scent of sea salt lingering on his coat.
“Popular, aren’t you?” he says, his voice smooth, but the smile on his lips doesn't reach his eyes.
He turns slightly, acknowledging the circle of onlookers with a slow, regal nod. Their hands suspended mid air-- gestures caught between welcome and withdrawal. Their laughter dies, replaced with uncertain glances.
Rafayel leans close, the heat of him radiating into the space between you. “Let’s leave,” he murmurs.
He slips his fingers around your wrist, weaving through the tight knots of guests. You follow, half-floating, dodging clusters of silk and sequins, past blinking gallery lights and muddled conversations. He leads you through the left wing, where soft music thrums behind velvet drapes. As the curtains draw near, a voice is heard behind you.
“Running off so soon?”
The pull on your wrist halts; he stiffens like a scolded child. Slowly, he turns toward the voice. Thomas leans against the archway, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You haven’t even thanked your host,” he says, one brow raised in mock expectation. “Or smiled. Or mingled. Or, heaven forbid, made a donor feel important.”
He gestures lazily behind him. From the crowd, a woman steps forward. Her gown glitters like spilled ink as she approaches, and her manicured hand lands on Thomas' arm like an accessory.
“Rafayel, darling, they’re starting to ask for you.”
Rafayel exhales. Then, over his shoulder to you, he whispers.
“Wait for me.”
You don’t have time to nod. His grip loosens, falls away. In the next breath, he’s swept back into the tide, his name echoing through the space like a bell. You're left standing there, the ghost of his hand still tingling against your skin.
Time slides by in pieces, the murmur of voices swells. Tangled in different ends of the gala, he calls, most likely promising a reunion that will most likely come interrupted.
“A new piece is hanging upstairs, come see.”
His words are casual, but there’s something in the way he says them-- a secret tucked inside an invitation.
You follow his promise up the staircase, your feet sinking into the plush carpet, coiling upward like a velvet tongue. The murmur of the gallery fades with each step, muffled by the thick walls and heavy drapery. The air is cooler here, touched with the scent of old wood and cleaner.
At the top, the hall stretches out, hushed and unoccupied. The silence feels curated, like stepping backstage mid-performance. The corridor is lined with soft gray paneling. A scattering of paintings in ornate frames, their colors muted in the low light. The room is abruptly severed by a rope. A brushed metal plaque dangles from it, engraved with Staff Only in tidy, obvious letters.
You peer down the other end of the hall.
“Are they storing your paintings over here?” you murmur into the phone, not sure if he’s still listening.
“Come see,” he whispers.
You glance at the sign again. “It’s staff only. Won’t I get stopped without you?”
His reply comes low and familiar. “Be brave,” he says, voice dipping into something intimate. “Come here.”
You hesitate before slipping past the rope. The silence deepens as you cross the threshold. A few staff members stand farther down the corridor, adjusting lighting or checking a placard, but no one stops you. A pair of staff members glance up from where they’re adjusting a pedestal down the hall. One raises an eyebrow, the other barely looks away. If the sign is meant as a warning, it’s an empty one.
The walls close in as the lighting dims. You press the phone closer to your ear, but he’s gone silent now. You walk on, the silence of the forbidden wing almost haunting.
“You’re cold.”
His voice filters through your phone again, softer, more amused than instructive. You pause, eyes furrowed as you glance around the empty corridor. The ceiling vaulted high. Towering windows stretched all the way to the floor, glass panes painted with moonlight. The night outside glimmers silver, reflected across the marble.
“Warm.”
Thick red linen gathered at the edges of the windows like theater drapes. They hang heavy and decadent, some drawn back in symmetrical pleats, others still closed farther down the hall.
“Warmer.”
The voice in your ear feels nearer now, as if he’s no longer on the other end of a line. Standing just out of sight, waiting around the next turn. The air thickens, tinged with something faintly spiced.
You stop. You pass a curtain drawn shut, its hem sways slightly as if it had just been touched. The line is still connected, but he’s gone quiet. No sound, no breath. The sudden absence sits louder than his voice did. You glance over your shoulder, lips parting.
“Rafayel?” you call.
A hand grabs your wrist.
Too startled to scream, you gasp as you're pulled behind the curtain. The fabric swallows you whole, red linen brushing your skin as the world narrows into shadow and velvet.
You're pressed gently back against the cold glass of the window, your pulse thumping in your throat. Rafayel stands in front of you, his hand still around your wrist, the other braced against the glass beside your head.
Outside, the city stretches wide and luminous, a spill of lights under the endless dark. The moon hangs low and full, casting its glow through the windowpane. He looks different like this. Softer, untouched. The moonlight dusts his hair, the light of the gala below painting him in pale gold. His coat is discarded, and his shirt is half unbuttoned. The soft linen of his pants brushes your legs as he steps closer. His eyes never leave yours, smiling faintly at your stunned expression.
“Did I scare you?” He teases.
You swat at his chest, but your hand lingers longer than needed . He laughs, a warm sound muffled by your hair. His heart flutters under your palm as he leans in. The cool glass at your back kisses your exposed skin; the heat of him in front of you makes it hard to remember why you should push away.
“You’re so soft,” he whispers. “Always so warm.”
He dips his head to your shoulder, arms slipping around your waist until the warmth of him spreads through you.
“So pretty.” His breath drags across your neck. “Should I keep going?”
He repositions your hand on his chest, then slides it beneath his shirt, pressing you closer. You press your palm flat against his skin as you try to create space.
“We’re in public, Mr. Qi,” you hiss.
He frowns. He pulls back for a moment to turn away from you. The curtains rip open, gold light spilling from beyond. He steps out and into the hall, turning back to you with his hands raised.
“Where’s the public?”
You narrow your eyes. “You lured me up here for what?”
He steps back in, drawing the curtains closed until the world disappears entirely.
“I don’t like watching you be polite,” he murmurs, his forehead now against yours. His breath brushes your lips. “After being separated all night, I can’t have what’s mine?”
He curls around you like a shield, lowering his head to the crook of your neck. His thumb traces lazy circles along your arm. Tempted, your hand moves to his shoulder, tracing a line down the open collar of his shirt. His skin is warm, his heartbeat louder under your hand. Your lips brush the corner of his jaw. Inviting, enticing.
“It’s wrong to do that here.” He smiles, just a little, but there’s tension in his touch. “Didn’t you know that, cutie?”
You don’t answer. You just lean into him, letting your mouth find his in a kiss. Soft and slow, like the two of you have all the time in the world. His lips move against yours with aching patience, the kind that speaks of the hours missed, of the words left unheard in crowded rooms.
Your hand slips into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as he exhales against your lips.
His hands migrate, the continuous feel of fabric testing his restraint. He leans closer in search of your skin, tucking a finger under the slit that starts below your hip. Your hands rest on his arms as he lifts your skirt. The fabric rides up your torso as his hand slides between your legs. Your panties fall just above your knees as his fingers slip between your folds.
He dips into your velvet, gathering your wetness at his fingertips. His tongue slips past your lips as you sigh, the taste of wine tainting your mouth.
Your hands leave his hair as he moves to your bud, stroking slow circles with lubricated fingers. His heart beats against yours in the dark pocket of silence. The gala stirs on behind the curtain, but it no longer matters. His lips follow yours as you lean your head against the window. Your legs tremble as his fingers quicken, your hips following the rhythm of his petting.
“Close?” He smiles against your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth as soft moans escape you.
“No, no we can’t have that. That won’t be fair, will it cutie?
Despite his words, his other hand slides to your side, encouraging your hips as you fuck yourself against his fingers. At this moment, his reputation doesn’t weigh on him. Who cares if you’re seen? When in this haven, he wants nothing but his cock to replace his fingers. His body begs to be touched, to be closer to you, hearing you sing your desires unrestrained.
His breath, warm and uneven. A wildness stirs in his eyes, watching you lose yourself. Your back knocks against the glass, a heavy hand pinning you still. You whine as his fingers slowly slip from your aching bud. Amused, his hand slips up your back again, splaying gently between your shoulder blades. The heat of his palm seeps through the fabric of your dress, anchoring you to him.
“Wait for me at home, I'll play with you properly.”
a/n: hi strangers, I’m back for kinktober! (maybe) let’s see how long I last, hmm.. I did my best writing while I was gone to get ahead but alas. I’ll also post a schedule/lists my plan for each Li later today. anywho, I’ll leave the details for another day, hehe. MDNI.
The room was quiet, dimly lit by the light filtering through half-drawn curtains, casting soft shadows across scattered, forgotten clothes. The window glass is cool beneath your fingers, doodling stars around fogged confessions, watching droplets run from his many I-love-yous
The gentle rise and fall of his chest carries you like a slow, quiet tide. Wrapped in the hush of his breath and the soft press of his skin, his heartbeat is a muffled drum beneath your ear, warm and steady. You remember stumbling through bustling bodies, hands clasped together, wading through the weekend crowds. He didn’t expect to see you outside of Linkon, and you didn’t expect to run into him in the middle of a mission. Xavier led you through the streets, desperate to get away, just for a moment.
His lips were laced with something sweet, addictive-- a taste you followed through the quiet hotel hall. He waited patiently for the door to shut before backing you against the wall. His hands undo your uniform from memory, finding every zipper necessary to reach your skin. Your hands fumbled around his body, fighting to undress the other first, untucking and tugging whatever fabric you could grab.
You stifle a laugh against his chest, recalling your desperation. Rubbing against his sides, your body reignites at the memory of him. The weight of his hands is still on your sides, holding you, rocking you in place. Your ears, still warm from his breath, crave the sound of his praise.
With your bodies still entwined, you shift just a little, nuzzling your hips into his. His body responds, twitching as you climb up to his face. Your lips drag against his skin as you call him quietly, poking his cheek to see if he’s awake.
A low rumble escapes him as you press gentle, tempting kisses up his jaw. He’s yet to remove himself from you, sheltering himself within the warmth of your velvet. Still slick with your love, his cock threatens to slip as you move. He frowns.
He lifts his hips, chasing your warmth with his mouth agape. You comply despite the ache, pulsating against the slow stretch of him sinking into you.
The bed shifts as your back meets the mattress again. He lowers himself into your embrace, melting into you as your bodies reunite. His kisses start slow and tender, lips tingling with the taste of him.
Your shared desires are hollowed by the hours that slipped past, reluctant to move even as Xavier stirs the knot budding in your belly. The tension rising beneath your skin melts as his hips slow, satisfied but still craving your softness. There’s not enough in either of you to reach another high. Instead, you enjoy what’s left of the night, allowing your bodies to collide over and over.
The night dragged endlessly, heavy with want, longing, and the quiet hum of distant dreams. Signs from below blink in a slow, steady rhythm. Their light dimmed by the dawn creeping from behind the city’s skyline. Xavier breaks away for just a second, drawing the curtain closed on the morning that threatens to separate you once more.
༉‧₊ two prompt for each love lead
༉‧₊ prompts will differ in length. you are welcome to request longer versions of your favorites when the month is over
This list will be updated throughout the month. happy october!
༉‧₊˚. Prompt 1. Cock Warming
The room was quiet, dimly lit by the light filtering through half-drawn curtains, casting soft shadows across scattered, forgotten clothes. The window glass is cool beneath your fingers, doodling stars around fogged confessions, watching droplets run from his many I-love-yous
༉‧₊˚. Prompt 2. Semi Public
Near the edge of the ballroom, he stands alone, bored yet refined. There's an effortless gravity to him, a silent refusal to perform. His eyes follow the slit up your dress, glaring at the skin you expose as you glide through the crowd. Your newness proves more radiant than the art around you.
༉‧₊˚. Prompt 3. Selfcest
Xavier swats the slow hands creeping up your sides, replacing them with his own rough caress. Lumiere then moves to your hips, shifting you away from Xavier as his lips reach your collarbone, climbing up your neck. Xavier intercepts, slipping his fingers around your neck, blocking his kisses. Your head falls to Xavier's shoulder as pulls you close.
༉‧₊˚. Prompt 4. Cum Dumpster
The haze is thick between mingling breaths. Caleb panting with his head against yours, rubbing his reddened cock against your back. His groping presses you into Zayne, who sinks further inside you. You’re drowning in the closeness, sandwiched between bodies desperately trying to merge with yours.
༉‧₊˚. Prompt 5. Wax Play
A heat that fades the minute it reaches your skin, like ice slicked with oil, biting the flesh. Your nerves calm as the wax settles on the surface. The wick, white and unused, sits at the bottom of the crater created as his fire burns just above.
༉‧₊˚. Prompt 6. Somnophilia
Sleep enveloped him, the darkness settling for an immeasurable amount of time before the fuzz of another world bloomed into view. The only light in the room glows from the far side. A bedroom, dreamt many times before, bathed in the soft glow of a lamp with an antique shape.
༉‧₊˚. Prompt 7. Collar
His hand strokes the metal chain, fingers brushing the links with the soft scrape of metal against skin, easing the tug around his neck as the chain drags across the floor.
༉‧₊˚. Prompt 8. Knife Play
Sylus settles into his chair, shoulders sinking into the deep upholstery. He watches across the table for the flicker of your hand, the subtle shift of your weight, the things you do when you think he isn’t looking. A faint smile tugs at his mouth, logging your tells, always attuned.
least likely to be able to wait for the wedding night?
“ZAYNE!!” I scream as I bend the bars of my cage.
— “ tired on your bachelorette night?”
pairing: zayne x reader
content: fluff(?), minor dry humping
a/n: a man that yearns his wife 🙂↕️ im sure any distance from other Li before the big day would set fire to their self control tho, he just came to mind first.
You hadn't seen Zayne properly in weeks. Work and wedding planning had devoured your free time, and he kept himself busy tending to patients to lessen the chance of interruptions on the honeymoon.
"It passes time," he'd say casually.
But time had been slipping through your fingers like sand. No glimpse of his face after long hours at your desk. No late-night attempts to hear his voice after endless calls with florists and venues. And now, just as your leave began, a new hurdle emerged: his parents, lovely as they were, had raised a wall of tradition between you.
"No peeking at the bride. It brings good luck."
They'd said with smiles too wide to argue with. Maybe they just enjoyed watching you suffer. His mother still laughs about how she waved him away the last time you tried to sneak a moment. The festivities so far had been everything promised--joyful but exhausting. You tried to savor these final days, but truthfully? You were ready to collapse into the arms of your groom.
Your groom.
The words warmed your heart beneath the satin as it hung over your frame. You held the gown against your chest, studying the fabric in the mirror: snow-white with delicate florals scattered across like frost etching lace. It had arrived earlier than expected, and though you were told to keep it tucked away in its box until the big day, you couldn't resist. To leave a dress this beautiful untouched is nearly impossible. It moved effortlessly against you in the mirror, whispering promises of what's to come.
A knock disrupted your thoughts. You stare toward the door, clinging to the gown
What now?
Did another guest cancel? A vendor’s freak accident? With a sigh, you carefully sit your dress into a chair. The knocking came again, more urgent this time.
"Coming," you called, dragging your feet toward the noise. As you crack open the door, dark, windswept hair appears through the gap. Zayne widened the opening with his hands, visibly flushed and breathless as though he'd run the whole way there.
"Zayne?" you gasped, heart leaping to your throat.
His voice was low, sheepish. "I-"
"Not yet! My dress is out!" you squeaked, spinning on your heel. You darted across the room, satin swishing around your ankles as you scrambled to fold the gown back into its box.
By the time you straightened, he was already inside.
He stood there, glowing in a crisp white shirt and slacks, eyes tender and tempted.
"What are you doing here?" you asked, half-laughing.
He closed the door gently behind him and stepped closer, gaze locked with yours.
"I missed you," he said simply.
His hands found your shoulders, fingers brushing over your bare skin as if needing the reminder that you were real. You crossed your arms, trying to look stern, but a smile tugged at your lips.
"The wedding is in two days," you reminded.
He dipped down, pressing a kiss to your temple, slow and lingering. “I can’t wait that long."
You laughed nervously as he drew closer. His arms wrapped around you, holding you like he might never get the chance again. You placed a hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat stutter in rhythm of your own.
"Isn’t your bachelor party today?" you asked.
He didn’t answer. His gaze flicking down to your lips before he leans in to kiss you.
The kiss was hungry. His bottled restraint, finally uncorked, tasted of longing and sparkling wine, unraveling all the things unsaid since the last quiet moment together.
You clutched at his shirt, feeling the shift of muscle beneath, the heat of him soaking your skin. Your other hand found the curve of his neck, thumb grazing just under his ear. The world spun under his touch.
He backed you gently through the suite, never breaking contact, until the backs of your knees found the edge of the bed. Your lips parted as you sank into the bed. He followed, breath mingling with yours as he hovered over you. Fingers moved to his collar, undoing buttons in unnamed urgency.
Until.
Vrrrr. Vrrr.
The sound cut through the moment like a blade. "Ignore it," your heart pleaded. "Let it ring."
A tempting notion. Especially with his touch tracing lines over your waist, heat blooming wherever he lingered.
The vibrations on the nearby table grew louder, insistent.
"Don't answer it," he murmured, lips brushing the sensitive curve of your neck.
But you knew better. The wedding was too close. Too many details still unfinished. You exhaled, reluctant, and brushed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He sighed into your skin as you reached for the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi, is this the bride?"
"Yes... who is this?"
"Uh, the groomsmen, ma’am," came the unsure reply, words careful and sheepish. You could hear murmuring in the background. "I got this number from Mrs. Li for emergencies. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything, but is Zayne with you?"
The background noise grew louder: silverware clinking, chairs scraping, chatter bubbling in a crowded hall.
"That bastard ran off before our reservation, and we have no idea where else he’d be." The man chuckled. Then, louder, another voice shouted: "Zayne Li, you’re late for dinner!"
Laughter rippled through the group on the other end. You turned to Zayne, who hides his guilty grin in your shoulder, hands still warming the skin beneath your shirt. You hesitated, thumb hovering near the speaker.
Telling the truth meant meeting the wrath of Mrs. Li, who had poured her heart into your shared vision, spent countless hours smoothing over vendors and timelines, and asked only one thing in return: tradition. No peeking before the big day.
"Hello?" the groomsman prompted.
You cleared your throat, lying like a teenager caught past curfew. "No, I haven’t seen him, but I wouldn’t doubt that he’s on his way."
"Right..." the groomsman replied, clearly unconvinced. Snickers echoed between the men in the background. Zayne's chuckles muffled against your skin.
"Alright, well. We’ll meet you at the hotel."
The call faded from your focus as Zayne’s lips grazed your skin again. His mouth finds your collarbone, his kisses warm and lingering as his fingers slip into your palm, nudging the phone out of your grasp.
"We’ll try and retrieve him if we can," the voice continues, unaware there’s no one left on the line. His words lost in the haze thickening between your bodies.
Your shorts slipped from your legs in a hurried motion as he pressed closer. Moans hushed between kisses, hips grinding together as his clothed cock hardens against your core.
"We don’t have much time," Zayne whispered, breath hot and mingling with yours. One hand cradled the back of your knee, lifting it around his waist. You exhaled softly against his lips, fumbling with the button of his pants.
A final plea from the phone, now lying forgotten on the floor.
pairing: xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus, caleb x reader
premise: mage!mc, born a weapon and feared by the crown. who’s the love interest now?
a/n: nobody move this might be niche. I’ve been fond of royalty-esque reincarnation manhwas lately and… sigh. tag me in royalty aus u find please pleaseeee 🥲
ps. dividers from @omi-resources
♔ Xavier Crowned Prince and Grand Duke
Obedient to his father, the king, he moved through the palace like a shadow of his father's will, following orders with calm detachment, never once looking toward the throne as something he wanted to claim.
You, an adoptive daughter of unknown origin, were nothing like the nobles bred for courtly obedience. In a palace built on masks and deception, your honesty was dangerously captivating. But the throne would never allow him to pursue you. They knew of your bloodline, your magic, and the power running dormant beneath your skin.
You were meant to be used. To be a pawn in the crown's next era of control, but he couldn't let that happen. He planned to abdicate: to cast off the crown, flee the palace, and build a life with you beyond the borders. And you waited, heart pounding, eyes fixed on the horizon where he promised he'd meet you. But he never came. In the final hour, forces loyal to the throne intervened. And you were left alone, waiting for a future that had already been stolen.
♞ Zayne, the Duke of the North
Zayne is no stranger to precision, discipline, and control. His home, perched at the edge of the realm, pulses with intellect and ambition. Residing in a city as cold as his reputation, an unadorned yet striking, known for its sprawling libraries, towering laboratories, and the finest pastries in the kingdom. The crown adores him. He is His Majesty's favorite, not just for his talents, but for his unwavering loyalty and relentless pursuit of excellence.
Many whisper that Zayne is naive, that his eagerness to be "used" by the crown shows a lack of ambition. But Zayne knows exactly what he's doing. He has worked tirelessly to be seen-- positioning himself as the ideal candidate for a political match with you, the kingdom's most powerful asset.
While his distant demeanor and cool words leave you cautious, you remain unaware of the silent efforts he makes to shield you from the darker manipulations of the court. Zayne doesn't show affection in warmth or smiles. But in strategies, in sacrifices, in protecting you from shadows you don't yet see. He's playing the long game, hoping that one day the crown, and you, will choose him.
♙ Rafayel, the Marquess of Whitesand
A creature of myth dressed in noble finery. A man said to have risen from the sea with his city, still dripping in salt and song. The land he governs is rich with pearl-dusted shores and gilded opera houses, a haven of music, art, and opulence that gleams brighter than the crown itself. The people of Whitesand are private and proud, their beauty and creativity matched only by the rumors that haunt them. Despite the tales, His Majesty entrusted him with the kingdom's fragile border of land and water. A gesture of deep trust, though some call him no more than the crown's pet, a siren's descendant dressed in silk.
Rafayel hosts lavish gatherings under starlit skies, full of dancers, composers, and masked nobility, but you quickly realize those events serve more than just prestige. They’re bait, meant to catch your gaze. From the beginning, Rafayel acted as though you were already his-- a familiarity that unsettled you. And yet, over time, his odd charm gave way to a familiar warmth, revealing a loyal friend beneath his mystery.
Still, there's something not quite of this world about him. He speaks wistfully of places you've never heard of, describes underwater realms as if he'd walked them, and tempts you toward the sea with words as captivating as whale-song. It's more than enchantment. The strange magic pulsing in your chest is the key to something long lost within him.
♜ Sylus, Duke of Nocturne
An enigma that rules over a land that lies in eternal twilight. Nocturne is a kingdom of shadow and innovation, thriving on chaos refined into progress. Monsters roam freely, machines hum with forbidden life, and the boundary between brilliance and madness is blurred by his order. Where others saw danger, Sylus saw opportunity. He built an empire out of castaway minds. Illegal? Perhaps. But profitable beyond measure.
When you stumbled into his dark kingdom to run away from the crown, he was the first to find you. Or rather, sense you. Voice silk and old-fashioned, his flirtations sharp enough to weaponize. Your magic called to something barely contained inside him. He hides it well, but you've seen flickers of it in his gaze.
Despite the danger, you're drawn to him. He flirts outrageously. You roll your eyes. He toys with words. You trade jabs. The banter between you dances on a sharp edge. He insists you stay, claiming your presence fascinates him. But beneath the amusement is something darker. Sylus doesn't just want your attention, he wants you. All of you. Your power, your presence, your trust. He is a predator in satin gloves, and though he restrains the urge to devour what glows inside you, you can feel it.
♞ Caleb, Duke of Great Haven
Forged in ambition's flame and shaped by purpose, he was plucked from obscurity and placed into a noble house desperate for political ascendancy. You were raised beside him under mirrored circumstances: another child adopted for potential,
Over the years, Caleb rose swiftly through the ranks of nobility. his brilliance on the battlefield and silver tongue earned him a marquis's honor and, eventually, a dukedom. His victories made him a legend, and his charm won His Majesty's favor. Now, he rules a sprawling stretch of farmland, a kingdom of fruitful fields and humble, hardworking souls who adore him.
But beneath the glory and peace, Caleb remains a soldier. Aware of the Crown's intent to exploit your unique power, he watches the court with quiet rage. He speaks little of it, but you see it in his eyes-the possessiveness, the fear. He wants to lock you away, not out of cruelty, but to keep you safe. To keep you his.
