On the edge . ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .
synopsis: edging them bc i want to see them beg thank you !
content: SMUT (mdni)
zayne . ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .
He got home late again.
You heard the door open and close quietly, the telltale sound of Zayne’s boots being eased off by the front door. It was past midnight — his shift had clearly run long. You weren’t angry. Not really. But you'd spent the evening alone, wearing the silk set he liked, and now your need sat just beneath your skin like heat rising from a banked fire.
You stayed curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, feigning disinterest when he stepped into the room. His coat was slung over one arm, his shirt sleeves pushed up, forearms bare and dusted with flour from some emergency nutrition break at the hospital. His hair was a little messy — damp at the temples, like he'd run water through it in frustration.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth like velvet pulled taut. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
You didn’t respond. Just looked up at him slowly, and tilted your head.
He blinked. “...Are you okay?”
You stood without a word and walked over. He smelled like antiseptic and his cologne, sharp and warm. You slid your hands up beneath his shirt, fingers brushing the taut lines of his stomach. He stilled.
“Missed you,” you said simply.
His brow knit. “I know. I’m sorry. Things ran longer than expected—”
You cut him off with a kiss. Not a sweet one. A slow, intentional press of mouth to mouth, your hands slipping down to his waistband. He groaned quietly against your lips, but when you started sinking to your knees, he caught your arm.
“Wait—what are you…?”
“Shhh,” you whispered, and smiled up at him. “Let me.”
He hesitated. You rarely did this, not like this, not without him orchestrating every move. He always took care of you first — insistent, focused — to the point where he’d deflect the moment your hands even flirted with his belt. But tonight, something in your gaze must’ve made him yield. His hand dropped away.
“All right,” he said quietly. “But only because you look like you're about to combust.”
You laughed softly and undid his fly.
He hissed in a breath when you freed him, already half-hard from your kiss alone. You curled your fingers around him, slow and warm, and gave the first teasing stroke. He braced one hand against the wall behind him, chest rising subtly beneath his shirt.
“Darling…” he murmured, breath catching.
You took your time, drawing pleasure from his every reaction. He didn’t moan — not Zayne. But he made these low, delicious sounds in his throat, and occasionally muttered soft curses under his breath. You watched him carefully, timing each stroke to build him up slowly, too slowly, backing off every time he started to roll his hips or tip his head back.
His eyes opened, sharp and narrowed.
“…You’re teasing me,” he said flatly.
You smiled innocently, thumb dragging over the leaking tip. “Maybe.”
He exhaled through his nose. “You’ve never done this before.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” he said, without hesitation. “I Just… didn’t expect to be punished right after my shift.”
“I missed you.” You pressed a kiss just above his hip. “This is what you get for being gone so long.”
His knuckles flexed against the wall. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
You kept going. Slower this time, gentler, even more patient — your mouth brushing the head of his cock, but not taking him in, not yet. He hissed through his teeth, shoulders tense, control starting to fray around the edges.
“Darling,” he rasped. “You don’t have to—fuck—”
“Say it,” you teased. “Say you missed me.”
“I did.” His voice cracked with a note of real heat. “I missed you every minute. I’ll prove it—after.”
“Promise?”
He nodded, eyes blown wide, chest heaving. “I’ll return the favor. Thoroughly.”
You finally took him into your mouth.
The curse he let out was nearly a growl — deep and wrecked — his fingers tightening at his sides. You kept the same rhythm with your hand while your mouth worked the rest of him, letting him fall apart slowly, savoring every twitch and shudder. He didn’t beg, didn’t whimper. But he shook slightly by the end, jaw clenched, voice frayed.
He came with a low, wrecked sound, spilling over your hand and your lips, breath stuttering like he hadn’t meant to lose it that hard.
You looked up through your lashes, licking your thumb clean.
Zayne looked down at you with something like reverence and hunger all wrapped into one.
“…Get on the couch,” he said calmly, even as his voice shook. “I’m not letting you sleep until you forget your own name.”
xavier. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .
You don’t even know why it bothered you.
It wasn’t him.
Xavier was polite. Distant. Soft-spoken. He barely even looked at her.
But the girl wouldn’t stop touching his sleeve, leaning into his space, laughing like she’d earned something. And he — sweet, oblivious Xavier — just nodded along, clearly not catching a thing.
So now, here you are.
Straddling him. Riding him. Slow.
Xavier is spread out beneath you, flushed pink all the way down his chest, arms tense where he’s gripping the sheets instead of you, because you told him not to touch. Not yet.
He’d let you do anything, and it shows — the way his hips jerk every time you roll down just enough to tighten around him. His breath stutters. His lips part, eyes fluttering half-shut, then snapping open to find yours again.
“Starlight,” he pants, “you’re going slow on purpose.”
You tilt your head. “Is that a problem?”
His throat bobs. “No,” he whispers. “Just… didn’t know I did something wrong.”
You lean in, mouth brushing against the shell of his ear. “You didn’t.”
“Then—?”
“You let her touch you,” you say, soft. Controlled. “She thought she had a chance.”
There’s a flicker of realization in his face. Then regret. Then—
“Oh.” His voice is barely there. “I didn’t notice. I swear, I didn’t—”
“I know,” you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You never do.”
He exhales like he’s relieved — only to inhale sharp when you grind down again, slow and deep, his cock twitching inside you. His whole body tenses.
“Fuck—”
His hands are trembling again. He wants to hold you. Needs to. But he doesn’t. He’s being so good. Letting you use him. Letting you have him.
You rock your hips again, same pace, same angle. Deliberate. Controlled.
“I’m not mad,” you whisper, voice like honey. “Just making sure you remember who you belong to.”
“I do,” he says quickly, breathless. “I do. I never forgot—my star, please, let me—”
You clench around him. His whole body shudders.
“Not yet.”
His eyes squeeze shut. A whimper leaves him — high and desperate, muffled by the back of his hand where he’s biting down to keep quiet. His thighs are shaking.
“I—” He gasps, blinking up at you again. “I love you. You know that, right? I don’t look at anyone else. I only want you. I only ever—”
You kiss him — slow, deep, possessive — and when you pull away, your hand wraps around the back of his neck, holding him there.
“Show me.”
And finally, you give him what he wants.
You move faster. He moans loud, needy, broken — his hands fly to your hips and you let him grab you now, let him hold you as he cums hard, trembling under you, eyes glassy with it.
When it’s over, he pulls you into his chest without hesitation, still panting.
“I really didn’t notice her,” he whispers.
You laugh softly into his throat. “I know.”
sylus. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .
He hesitates. Still.
Even with his shirt undone, skin flushed beneath your mouth, even with your hands at his belt, undoing the buckle slowly — he hesitates.
“Sweetie,” he murmurs, voice low, deep, almost chiding. “You don’t need to do that.”
Your lips brush his stomach, just above the waistband of his pants. He shudders.
“I want to,” you whisper, tugging his pants lower. “You always take care of me. Let me return the favor.”
He swallows hard, like he’s chewing down whatever protest is still trying to rise in him. You watch the muscles in his abdomen twitch as you drag your fingers along the edge of his waistband, teasing. Slow. Like he does to you.
His cock is already hard — has been since you first straddled his lap and whispered what you wanted between lazy kisses and lingering touches. The tip is flushed, leaking already. He’s beautiful like this. Open.
You look up at him. “Let me, Sylus. Please,”
And finally — finally — he nods. Voice hoarse.
“…Okay. You can have me.”
You ease him onto the bed, nudging his thighs apart as you kneel between them. You kiss the inside of his knee, then his thigh. You take your time. He smells like heat and something you could get drunk on.
“Don’t tease, kitten,” he says with a faint smile, though his voice is already shaking. “I might start thinking you’re trying to turn the tables.”
You grin against his skin. “Who, me?”
When your tongue finally traces along the underside of his cock, he gasps. Sharp. Real. His hips jump. One hand fists in the sheets.
You don’t take him into your mouth yet. Not fully.
You kiss him there. Lick. Trace.
And when you look up, his head is tipped back, one hand hovering near your hair, the other clenched in the blanket like he’s already close.
You start sucking him slowly, lips stretched around him, hands gripping his hips to hold him still. He moans — a quiet, choked-off sound like he’s trying not to scare you.
“Oh, kitten,” he groans. “Fuck—your mouth…”
You work him deeper. Just a little. Let him feel the heat, the wet, the rhythm. Then you pull back. Lick the tip. Blow a breath across the head.
His hips jerk.
“Sweetie.” It’s a warning. Or maybe a plea.
“You okay?” you ask sweetly, resting your cheek against his thigh.
He huffs a breathless laugh. “What are you doing to me?”
“Taking my time.” You wrap your hand around him, start stroking again, your lips brushing just the head with every pass. “You’ve made me beg so many times, Sylus. Let’s see how pretty you sound.”
His head lifts. His eyes find yours. They’re burning now — heat and challenge and the faintest shimmer of want.
“Oh?” he breathes. “That’s what this is?”
You give him one long, slow lick up the underside. He twitches. His breath catches. You take him into your mouth again, just to the halfway point, and swirl your tongue around the tip before pulling off again.
His thighs flex. He groans through gritted teeth.
“You little tease,” he pants. “I thought you wanted to make me feel good.”
“I do,” you murmur, kissing his stomach. “I want to ruin you for anyone else.”
That gets him.
He moans again — head falling back against the pillows, arm flung over his face, breath wrecked. His hips are twitching now, trying not to buck, and he’s begging without realizing it.
“Please,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Please, kitten—just a little more, I’m so close, please—”
You stroke him faster now, mouth working the head again, eyes locked on his face as it breaks. He’s panting, trembling, his muscles twitching under your hands.
“I can’t—” he gasps. “I’m gonna—fuck, I can’t hold it—”
You pull off. Again. Just before he tips.
He cries out, a sound so raw and desperate it punches through your chest.
“Sylus,” you whisper, climbing up his body to kiss the edge of his jaw. “You gonna cum for me?”
His voice is shattered. “Yes. Please. Let me—please, sweetie, let me—”
You stroke him fast now, hand slick from your mouth, and it doesn’t take long — maybe five seconds — before his whole body snaps, hips arching up as he cums in thick, hot pulses across his own stomach, a moan ripping from his throat like you tore it from his soul.
You watch every second of it. Watch his face, the way it twists in pleasure, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open like he’s afraid to breathe.
And when it’s done — when he’s twitching, panting, flushed and trembling — you lean down and lick it off him.
Slowly. Lazily.
“Fuck,” he groans, still dazed. “You’re going to kill me.”
You rest your cheek on his chest, sighing. “Mmm...not yet,”
caleb. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .
You had found the med reports by accident.
Tucked beneath calibration files on his tablet — meant to be hidden, meant to be forgotten — evidence of just how close he’d come to losing a lung, of how many bones had splintered clean through muscle. He hadn’t told you. Hadn’t said anything when he came back, bruises half-faded, smile intact, voice soft like nothing had happened.
So you decided not to say anything either.
You wait until the lights are low and the quiet of your shared bedroom is safe and soft, your body folded over his in bed — kissing him slow, letting your weight sink onto his lap while your fingers dip beneath the hem of his sweats. Caleb, already pliant from your attention, sighs into your mouth when you wrap your hand around him.
“Pips,” he murmurs, voice hazy, already thick with want. “Missed you. You—mmn—been thinkin’ about you all day.”
Your lips brush the shell of his ear. “All day, huh?”
“‘Course,” he breathes. “You're all I think about.”
But you don’t stroke him, not yet. You just hold him there — hard, heavy in your grip — and let the moment stretch. His hips shift subtly under you, seeking friction.
“Somethin’ wrong?” he asks, brows drawing together. “Did I…?”
You tighten your hand slightly, just enough to feel him twitch. “You gonna tell me about the four broken ribs, Caleb?”
His breath catches.
“I saw your file,” you say, quieter this time. “Saw what you didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” he says quickly, guilt flooding his voice. “Pips, I—I swear I’m okay. I just thought—if I made it back to you, that’s all that mattered.”
You finally stroke him, once — a slow, upward drag of your palm — and he lets out a helpless noise.
“That why you kept it from me?” you ask, voice saccharine. “Thought I’d be too fragile to handle it?”
“No, baby, no—never. I just… it was stupid, I know it was stupid, I just didn’t want you scared.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I know, I know—shit—” His hands clench at the sheets. “You’re right. I fucked up. I should’ve told you.”
You start moving your hand then — long, languid strokes, alternating with tighter squeezes that make him groan under his breath. His hips jerk up, but you lift slightly, denying him any real friction. He looks up at you with that frayed, remorseful gaze that makes your chest ache.
“You’re punishing me,” he says, almost like he likes it. “I deserve it. Keep going. Do whatever you want to me.”
“Oh, I intend to.”
You kiss along his throat, down to his collarbone, while your hand works him slowly, relentlessly. Every time he gets close, you stop. You tease the head of him with your thumb. You let him whine.
“Please,” he whispers. “Please, pips, I’m sorry. I’ll tell you everything next time, anything you wanna know. Just—baby, please, let me cum—”
You hush him gently, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re not even close yet. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
He lets out a broken breath, biting his lip. His abs tighten when you give him a firmer stroke, and he chokes on a moan.
“You like this, don’t you?” you murmur, lips brushing his cheek. “Being made to wait. Having to beg.”
“I—” He swallows hard. “I like when you touch me. I’ll take it however you want. Just wanna be good for you. Let me be good, pips. Please.”
“Then be still.”
He shudders, his knuckles white where they grip the bedsheets, trying not to buck. You tease him again, just the tip now, swirling your thumb in slow circles as his eyes flutter shut.
“Say it again,” you whisper, lips at his ear.
“That I’ll be good?” he breathes.
“Yes.”
“I’ll be good for you, baby. I swear it. I’ll make it up to you. Anything. Just… please—don’t stop.”
You smile softly against his jaw. “You’ll get what you want. Eventually.”
And you keep going. Keep him pinned and wrecked and whispering your name like a prayer, until his voice is raw and his body trembling, aching for release — and even then, you make him ask for it one more time.
rafayel. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .
It was supposed to be a date.
Or at least, that’s how he framed it when he invited you over: “Come by the studio, cutie. I’ll clear my schedule. Just you, me, wine, maybe a little jazz in the background… I'll even cook.”
You’d said yes, excited. You’d dressed nice. You’d brought his favorite dessert. You even refrained from teasing him when you noticed the paint under his nails that he definitely said he’d washed off earlier.
But five hours later, he still hadn’t left the canvas.
He tried. Really. He kissed you hello with paint still wet on his fingers, poured you a glass of wine with that crooked grin, and gestured dramatically at the little charcuterie spread he’d made. “Feast, beloved. Nourish thyself while I immortalize the human form,” he’d said, gesturing vaguely toward a canvas already full of half-finished strokes.
You humored him.
For a while.
You sipped your wine and curled up on the couch. You watched the brush in his hand move with graceful certainty. You even complimented the piece — some half-formed tempest of shadow and skin that probably meant something very deep, knowing him.
But the minutes turned to hours, and the affection he’d promised turned into distracted hums and muttered curses and words like “just a little longer” and “hold that thought, cutie” and “fuck, where did I put the viridian—”
So you got up. Slowly. Deliberately. You stood behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades.
“Rafayel.”
A distracted, “Mm?”
“You promised.”
He paused. Just briefly. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he wanted to give in. But then he sighed — a little too apologetic, a little too sincere — and said, “I know, cutie. I just… I’m right there. Give me ten more minutes?”
You didn’t answer.
You just smiled against his back — a smile he couldn’t see — and then let your hands drift lower, toying with the hem of his shirt.
Ten minutes later, he was flat on his back.
His head tips back against the pillows, dusky hair fanned out like a spilled halo, cheeks flushed a soft crimson. The curve of his mouth is caught somewhere between a smirk and a whimper — the look of a man trying very hard not to completely lose his mind.
You're straddling him, bare, slow, and in control. He’s deep inside, twitching against the vice of your heat, and you're not moving. Not really. Just enough to make him feel everything. Just enough to keep him desperate.
“Cutie…” he groans, voice strained and silky. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
You hum, dragging your nails down his chest. “Obviously.”
“Sadistic,” he pants. “Criminal. I should paint you like this, riding me with that look on your face—God, I think I’d go blind from the brilliance.”
You roll your hips once, slow and shallow. His breath catches. He bucks—instinctively, helplessly—but you press your hands to his chest and push him down.
“Don’t you dare.”
He shudders. “Okay. Okay, okay—fuck—just—cutie, you can’t just leave me like this. My body is going to catch fire. I’m Lemurian, you know what that means, my internal temperature—”
You cut him off with another slow grind. He gasps — broken, needy, sharp. His hands clutch at the sheets beside him because you haven’t let him touch you. Not once.
“Please.” The word slips out before he can stop it.
You look down at him — flushed, panting, wet lashes fluttering against sweat-slick skin. Every muscle under you is tight. Straining. The prideful, witty painter is gone — reduced to a trembling wreck.
“Please, what?” you murmur, leaning forward until your mouth brushes the shell of his ear. “Say it. Nicely.”
He lets out a shaky, desperate laugh — but it breaks in the middle. “Please let me cum, please, cutie, I’ll be good, I promise. Just—just let me—” He grits his teeth, his hips jerk again, and you don’t let up this time.
You ride him slow. Torturously slow. Watching him unravel.
“You want to finish?” you whisper, breath warm against his throat.
He nods wildly. “Yes—yes, please—”
“Then wait.”
The sound he makes isn’t human. His head drops back, throat exposed, lips parted around a moan that turns to something like a sob. You can feel how close he is — every muscle in his abdomen twitching, his cock straining inside you, hips trembling under your hands.
“Please,” he tries again, “I’ll paint you a thousand times, I’ll give you all my attention from now on, just—”
You finally slam your hips down. Hard. And again.
His cry is filthy. Unhinged. His back arches off the bed and he’s losing it, mouth moving around broken pleas, until—
“Now,” you say. “Cum for me.”
And he does — with a moan so loud it echoes, hands scrambling to hold you as he finally, finally falls apart. His whole body shakes beneath you, long after the climax hits, as if every nerve in him is still catching up.
When he opens his eyes again, dazed and glowing with sweat, he just looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.
“…I think I saw God,” he whispers hoarsely. “She looks a lot like you.”
a/n: i have writers block and im ovulating. i can't come up with a plot so its horny hours on this blog for now. enjoy <3
