please heed all of the authors' content warnings & check out their other amazing works too! show them some love; be kind!
.°•𝔽𝕝𝕦𝕗𝕗/ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕥ᯓ༊·˚
never will I let you go by @blessdunrest (mdni)
sylus x readers late night swim by @catbolt
best laid plans by @deepspacenova
sweetie by @deepspacenova
Crescendo by @dizzydaisychains
To See You Like This by @hopeyoufindalovelikethis
The Sound of Staying by @iraot
Cat-fe by @lorelei-larai
Little Flame by @maddamoiselle
Capture my heart and frame it, won't you? by @memephi
cherry wine by @mythblossoms
Your trash, my treasure. by @peascribbles
Love Letters, Sylus by @rcvcgers
I see you by @terriblesoup
.°•ℂ𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕜ᯓ༊·˚
how to accidentally catch feelings while baby-sitting a man-child by @shaiyasstuff
Broke Sylus??!!? by @thesylenttreatment01
.°•𝔸𝕟𝕘𝕤𝕥ᯓ༊·˚
the weight of the wind by @abyssyby
to be devoured, to be held by @abyssyby
Sylus - Five Years Later by @aleksatia
A Gentle Touch by @always-just-red
Under the wings of a dragon by @colonelkaboom
Blooming Daturas by @glitch-but-ya
through the fire by @shaiyasstuff (series; sylusxreaderxzayne)
into the flames... by @souliloqui
black velvet by @sysjuicebox
.°•𝕄𝔻ℕ𝕀 𝕊𝕞𝕦𝕥ᯓ༊·˚
YOUR LIPS, MY LIPS by @atxchiphxbix (mdni)
Power Play by @deepspacenova (mdni; sylusxcaleb)
Ma Meilleure Ennemie by @dijayeah (mdni)
sweet dreams by @fiendsgf (mdni)
runner's high by @humanjarvis (mdni)
A Practical Demonstration by @janumun (mdni)
third tempo by @knightjpg (mdni)
The Mate in the Mountains by @kissandtellus (mdni)
Dragon Tamer by @leighsartworks216 (mdni)
streetracer!sylus x streetracer!reader by @luvinbloom (mdni)
avoiding sylus' kisses prank...gone wrong by @wetforsylus (mdni)
calling him 'husband' during sex by @wetforsylus (mdni)
in your hand. from my heart by @sylure (mdni)
Sensuous Little Thing. by @sylure (mdni; suggestive)
The Marionette's Dance. by @sylure (mdni)
frenetic by @sysyjuicebox (mdni)
sylus when he can't stop kitten licking you... by @thewrldx (mdni)
.°•Miscᯓ༊·˚
coat by @blessdunrest
Take Your Time, Miss Deer by @borkunlimited (series; suggestive)
a soul cast in shadow by @deepspacenova
Error 404: (Self!Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) by @ittybittyfanblog (series; suggestive)
Only You, Darling (Only You, Babe) by @ittybittyfanblog
OUT OF BOUNDS by @novthirty (series ongoing)
blackjack by @peachylynnie (series ongoing)
Elysium by @starmocha (mdni)
Rinse, repeat. by @terriblesoup (series)
Silence is a Virtue by @thechaoticarchivist
ginny's note: this is definitely the biggest list yet 😭 a HUGE shoutout to @/blessdunrest, @/deepspacenova, and my other amazing moots who gave me so many wonderful recommendations!! this list would not be possible without you all 🫂💕
as always, if you have any recs and/or authors to share, pls let me know! i'll have to make a part two since the number of links maxed out on this post, but that is a-okay 🙂↕️ (just give me time LOL)
Aftercare with L&DS men: how they’d look after you?
ft. Sylus, Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel and Caleb.
summary: pretty self-explanatory.
rating: suggestive
a/n: reposting some of my content here from twitter, as i have a backlog of stuff needed to upload on tumblr since... april lol. also if you'd like to be added to a tag list for these threads or any of my other writing, please leave a comment!
Sylus: You had sunk into the penthouse sheets with the city breathing against the glass, pulse still skipping while your clothes were all over the place—the bed, the floor, god knows, at this point maybe under the bed too. He had not moved quickly at first, but when he did, it felt like a decision already made.
✧ — He had wiped you down with wet wipes he kept exactly for this, slow and precise, eyes tracking every flinch like data he intended to memorize. His voice had followed each stroke, low with praise that felt like a secret meant only for you. “Good girl, c’mon, breathe for me.” He had paused at the inside of your plush thigh, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to watch your body soften again beneath his calloused hand.
✧ — He had pressed a glass of water to your lips, thumb smoothing along your throat as he tilted it just enough to make you swallow without having you get up fully. He counted your sips mentally, gaze fixed, amused when you tried to set the glass aside too early, as if he would allow such shortcuts tonight after all that he had put you through. When you pouted, he only tipped the glass back toward your mouth again, murmuring, “One more, kitten. Don’t test me on something this simple.”
✧ — After that was done, he had slid the small, soaked towel he had tucked under you earlier out with neat efficiency, tossing it into the laundry basket with a flick of his wrist as he noted how wet it was.
✧ — Taking his time, he had checked your wrists and hips with deliberate care, fingers ghosting over the places he knew he had used, cataloguing every mark and bruise. Each time you winced, his mouth found the spot, kissing it as if reclassifying it from territory to treasure. When you whispered that you were fine, he only laughed under his breath, the sound curling low at the base of your spine. “You’re better than fine. But I’ll decide when you’re done being looked after.” He had wrapped you in one of his expensive shirts after, buttoning it himself with unhurried patience, his knuckles brushing your skin as if daring you to tell him to stop.
✧ — To wind down completely, he had put vinyl on at low volume, the crackle filling the room like static electricity, and lay beside you on his back. You climbed into his side instinctively, his hand stroking your hair until your breathing matched his. “I’ll massage the rest of the soreness out of you tomorrow after the shower.” His tone made it sound less like a favor and more like an inevitability, as if even your recovery belonged to him. The declaration had made you giddy enough, but when you tucked your head against the slope of his neck and shoulder, his fingers tightened fractionally in your hair as his skin prickled a little, reminded of your touch earlier.
Xavier: You had collapsed against him on the living room couch, muscles jelly, the lights in his apartment dim and kind as the last tremor left your legs. He had smiled like he had been granted a miracle and tried not to let you see how much it rattled him.
✧ — He had gathered you into his lap, hands steady even if his chest still rose too fast, thumb tracing thoughtless shapes against the back of your neck. When he finally moved, it was only to grab water and a protein bar. He broke it into pieces, feeding you between playful kisses until you mumbled that he was ridiculous. His laugh was quiet against your mouth. “Ridiculous, maybe. But I intend to keep you upright tomorrow.”
✧ — He had pressed the glass to your lips, insisting that you don’t drink enough, then watching every swallow like proof (maybe aside from, uh, other things you’ve swallowed earlier), thumb resting at your jaw as if to guide each one. When you tried to set it aside early, his brow lifted, amused. “Half, at least. Consider it my price for the next kiss.”
✧ — He had coaxed you toward the bathroom after you were able to move a little more, not giving you the option to argue. “You’ll rest better after. Trust me.” He stepped in with you, adjusting the temperature and washing you with deliberate care, his hands gentler than his words had been an hour before. When you leaned against the tile, too tired to move, he tilted your chin up and rinsed your hair himself, his focus absolute. “Let me handle it, you’ve done enough for one night, yeah?” He hid a smug smirk at the fact that you smelled like him now.
✧ — Afterward, he had wrapped you in a large towel, drying the drops that slipped down your shoulders before letting you tug him back to bed when you fussed that he was overbearing.
✧ — Xavier had stretched out beside you, one arm loose behind his head, the other tracing through your damp hair until your breathing settled against his pale chest, indicating you fell asleep. The tune he hummed was soft, imperfect, something remembered in pieces, his lips brushing your crown as he whispered, “So much for trying to keep me up all night, huh? Fell asleep before me, classic.”
Zayne: You had sprawled on his bed while the city noise receded, muscles spent, mind empty in a way that felt like relief. He had already switched modes, the feral softened into method, the doctor awake under the lover.
✧ — He had laid a towel beneath your hips before you’d even caught your breath, already cleaning you with unscented wipes, movements precise but never detached. His voice had been steady, almost clinical, as he asked about sharpness, overstimulation, and whether any pain lingered in places you hadn’t noticed yet. You murmured answers, and each one was met with a quiet hum, catalogued in that sharp mind of his.
✧ — He had whisked the towel out from under you with neat efficiency, folding it into a square and setting it aside like a surgeon clearing a tray. When he turned back, his palm pressed cool against the curve of your thigh, Evol thrumming under his skin until the flushed ache began to settle. The faintest smirk touched his mouth when you sighed at the relief. “Better, sweetheart?”
✧ — He had checked your pulse at your wrist, then at your neck. His brow eased fractionally when your pulse fell back into range, satisfaction softening into something warmer. He pressed his lips briefly to your temple, murmuring, “Exactly where I want you, means I didn’t overwork you too much tonight.”
✧ — He had drawn a bath to a precise temperature, steam curling low, salts dissolving into the water with a faint shimmer. His sleeves were rolled, forearms bare as he knelt by the tub, easing you in with a hand at your spine. His fingers had worked the knots from your calves, Evol cooling the worst of the strain until the ache unspooled and you leaned against the porcelain with a quiet moan. His eyes gleamed at that, but his hands never strayed.
✧ — After all that was done, he had carried you back to bed in your pjs, ignoring your insistence that you could walk. You’d clung to his broad shoulders anyway, your protest undercut by the way you nestled closer when he set you down. “Stubborn and soft,” he had murmured against your hair, almost amused, “my favorite combination.”
Rafayel: You had floated on the edge of sleep with sea air curling through the open doors of the balcony, skin salted, thighs sore, heart too full. He had lounged like he had all the time in the world, and you were his favorite way to spend it.
✧ — He had carried you to a bath that already steamed, the water laced with oils that smelled of sun and citrus. Sliding in behind you, his big hands had moved like tides, gentle as he washed your hair and kissed the slope of your shoulder between strokes. Every motion was unhurried, as if he meant to stretch the night into eternity.
✧ — When you whispered an apology for the marks across his skin, he had laughed, low and wicked, before pressing his mouth to your collarbone and sucking a new bruise into the hollow there. “Prettiness never needs apologies, cutie, but if you insist, I will mark you back.” The grin he gave you afterward was trouble disguised as devotion. It was a good hour you spent in the bath, and you even had the audacity to whine about the water cooling down before he used his Evol to heat it up to a nice temperature again. “Spoiled brat.” He murmured, not really meaning it.
✧ — He had brought slices of chilled fruit and a glass of water to your lips later, thumbs stroking your cheeks while you chewed. He made a game out of every piece, coaxing you to smile around the straw, pretending to withhold the next bite until you pouted. Each laugh he stole from you seemed to please him more than the taste of anything else.
✧ — He had massaged your thighs with slow, sure pressure once you were settled in bed, sheets freshly changed, chasing down every knot his roughness had left behind. When you hissed at the tenderness, he bent close, voice lazy against your ear. “I’ll pay interest on every ache, miss bodyguard. Name your price later.” His thumbs had pressed deeper, coaxing the soreness into something warm and pliant until you melted under his touch.
✧ — When all was said and done, the man had the audacity as he sprawled half over you like a living blanket, making you groan, “Raf, too heavy.” A huff, leaving your swollen lips before you’d hear him laughing at your dramatic reaction. “Are you saying you dislike me being your personal barnacle now?’
Caleb: You had sprawled across the kitchen counter first and had been carried to the couch like a sack of potatoes, legs useless, work shirt missing half its buttons because his impatience had not been subtle. He had looked smug and soft at once, sweat still cooling at his temple.
✧ — The violet-eyed man had spooned you, muttering a gruff apology for getting carried away while kissing your forehead hard enough to make the words feel more like a brag. His arms had locked around you in that heavy, immovable way that made you feel pinned and safe at the same time.
✧ — When you whined that he was too hot against your back, he sighed like you were impossible and got up only long enough to grab water. He downed his own in one gulp before pressing a glass into your hand, refusing to let go until you drank. “Drink up, pips. I’ve seen your water intake during training, it’s shameful.”
✧ — Cleaning came next, his big hands surprisingly careful as he used wet wipes and gravity (aka his evol) itself to help shift what mess clung stubbornly. Every time your breath caught, his eyes flicked up quickly, searching your face as if he could check for hurt before moving on.
✧ — He had pulled you into the shower whether you wanted it or not, grumbling that you would only make a bigger mess without him. He washed your hair slowly, fingers strong but gentle, and when you stepped out, he wrapped you in a fresh towel, making sure you had the soft hair towel he preferred for you. Sitting you down, he brushed through the tangles until your shoulders relaxed under his touch. “Haven’t done your hair in a while,” he said, like it was your fault, though the quiet pride in his voice betrayed him. He even braided it neatly, lips curving at how you leaned into the brush like a sleepy cat.
✧ — Once he was satisfied you were looked after, he carried you to bed like it was second nature, sheets already turned down for you. Tucking you beneath the blanket, he settled in behind you, his chest firm at your back, his arm heavy across your waist. The heat pack he prepared for you, stayed warm against your spine, and the words “I got you” rumbled against your ear until your body believed him.
i had to bunny. the temptation was too good hehe. continuation of this amazing work by @comatosebunny09
cw: fem! reader, kitty shenanigans, fluff, reader is boss's right hand
“He’s doing it again.”
“What?”
“You know that thing he does when he doesn’t want to admit he misses you.”
“You mean pretending to read a report when he’s actually browsing the photo album he shares with you?”
Your laughter is contagious, eliciting twin snorts in the dark.
“Shhhh, quiet, Luke! You’re too loud.”
The doors to the closet rattle, quaking from shadows pressing against hands desperately keeping monsters at bay.
Kieran curses as he hears wood splintering under his touch, “Just please, miniboss, come here soon.”
“Boys.”
A squeak and the line peters off to silence.
You stare at your phone, blinking owlishly at the fading caller ID. A shaft of sunlight hits the edge of the screen, refracting its brilliance to an object laying innocently on your dining table. Soft, feathery, reminiscent of a time when Sylus glowered at his misfortune and made his displeasure keenly known. A displeasure that quickly transformed into your shared pleasure. A pleasure you wouldn’t mind repeating if only he obliged once more...
The memory of slitted eyes darting unwillingly towards a toy, then you, then grousing about blasted feline instincts sends you into another fit of joy. And before you can stop yourself, you’re already donning your heels, the clack of your stilettos signaling your pending arrival.
You shoot a quick text, hoping to assuage the punishment you know Sylus has in store.
Go easy on them, bossman.
Where are you?
Patience, child.
You’re scheming again, aren’t you.
A kitten never tells 🤪
Of course, you don’t answer his calls.
Sylus grumbles into his coffee mug, frowning at the remnants of espresso staining the rim as if it can summon you. Luke hovers like an overbearing mother, quickly replacing the empty cup with a new one. Kieran sports a new crack in his mask, the result of an impromptu boxing match. It seems someone’s been slacking off on their training. Training he said, as he knocked the twins down over and over again like wet rag dolls ping-ponging through a dryer cycle.
Never have Luke and Kieran been so relieved to see you. They scuttle away from Sylus’s office like ants fleeing from a spill, your giggle drawing a sterner frown on his face.
Sylus doesn’t like that grin one bit.
It’s the same one you had when you pulled the atrocity called a cat toy from behind your back and teased him during the chase. It’s the same one you had when you reached to scratch his ears and called him cute. It’s the same one that reminds him of the stupid idiot who dared to taunt death with “there isn’t a cure” and your jab to all of his previous misgivings, “Wouldn’t it be funny if sex were the cure all along?”
You edge the divide of whimsy and disaster with each step you take, tracing the lines of his jaw with a manicured fingernail. “A little birdie told me you missed me.” He hates how your words bloom into song. Already his composure is slipping, already his hand is lacing through yours, already his cheek is chasing your warmth.
He’s a man unmoored through your touch. An ember catching flame as your fingers dip under his collar, quickly losing focus, drowning in the sea of you, you, you—until he feels it.
Something you quickly slot behind his ears, pinching his hair uncomfortably.
Something that suspiciously does not belong to him.
Something that definitely is not a reminder of his hindered state.
He growls, stalling your wrist from escape.
And he swears he’s going to need to imbue another type of training soon, one that demands respect instead of whatever this ridiculousness is. He tears off the headband, a well-made replica of his caracal ears. It’s almost impressive how accurate the details are, with its pointed tips and….why are they moving?
You snicker as his lips curl back in disgust.
“So, I was thinking—”
“No.”
But with a little prodding, you know he’s soon to cave, “Then I suppose I’ll head back to Lux, not like there’s a lack of other things to do—”
You smile as his chin finds its home on your shoulder, “Don’t you dare.”
Victory.
He grumbles the rest of the night, twitchy ears and all, glued to your bosom like a stubborn leech. Let me have my sedative, he purrs underneath the covers.
Good kitty, you croon under moonlight.
Neither of you notices the sighs exhaling in relief outside Sylus’s bedroom door.
Nor the text that pings your phone much later, a notification for an inbound package.
Maybe you could interest him in adding a tail next time.
ft. Sylus, Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel and Caleb.
summary: pretty self-explanatory.
rating: n$fw-ish
a/n: reposting some of my content here from twitter, as i have a backlog of stuff needed to upload on tumblr since... april lol. also if you'd like to be added to a tag list for these threads or any of my other writing, please leave a comment!
Sylus: The property in Linkon City was supposed to be impressive. A top-floor flat with floor-to-ceiling windows and skyline views, the kind of place you pretended not to be excited about just to tease him, mostly. But for the past twenty minutes, the only thing Sylus noticed was the way that moron of a broker kept drifting closer to you, always finding some excuse to brush against your arm or lean in to point out features you could see perfectly well from across the room. It was obvious, even if you were trying to ignore it.
✧ — Sylus didn’t say a word at first. He stood at your back, letting you take the lead, hands clasped in front of him like he had all the time in the world. But his carmine eyes never left the broker, tracking every smile and every too-friendly glance. The man was charming in that overeager Linkon City way, and it grated on the leader of Onychinus more than he cared to admit. “If you have any questions, feel free to reach out directly,” the broker said, handing you his card with a little wink. Sylus watched you tuck it into your pocket, expression unreadable.
✧ — “We’ll be in touch,” he cut in, his tone polite but final, stepping in just close enough that his shadow cut across both of you. The broker faltered, stammered something about scheduling, but Sylus had already turned, guiding you out with a hand at your lower back. The touch looked casual but felt more like a warning to the man left behind. “That was unnecessary,” you whispered once the door shut, though you didn’t shrug off his hand. “I can handle someone being polite.”
✧ — The elevator doors slid shut behind you. Sylus waited a moment before he spoke, letting the silence draw tight between you like the line of a snare. “Didn’t realize house-hunting came with free entertainment,” he said, voice low and measured, but there was an edge to it that told you he was more than just a little pissed. “Is that what they call customer service these days?” You exhaled a small laugh, more out of nerves than humor, the sound coming out more like a scoff. “I thought he was just trying too hard to make a sale. That’s what brokers do.” You replied.
✧ — He didn’t smile, wasn’t impressed. Instead, he stepped closer, pressing you gently against the mirrored wall. His large palm slid down your arm, slow and possessive, thumb brushing your wrist where the broker’s fingers had lingered a second too long for his liking. “You like the place?” he asked, ruby gaze fixed on your glossy mouth, though you could tell he was thinking about anything but real estate right now. “Because I’d rather buy the whole damn building than see someone else try to sell you on anything this aggressively, especially himself.”
✧ — The sharp, serious look he gave you then was equal parts challenge and promise, the kind that made your pulse quicken even when you knew he was just being petty. “Sylus,” you murmured, trying for a warning, though it softened into something closer to invitation. And he took it as one, because hell, he kissed you once, slow and deep, like he was reminding you exactly who you belonged to. “Next time, kitten,” he breathed against your lips, “let me handle the negotiations. I’m much better at closing deals, especially when the prize is already mine.” The elevator door opened as you both stepped out.
Xavier: He had never minded sharing a workspace with you. In truth, he preferred it, because proximity meant control, and control meant safety. You were easier to guard when you were close, easier to read, easier to account for. But lately, there had been an intruder in that rhythm. A new agent, careless in his youth, circling your desk with the kind of confidence only inexperience allowed. He lingered with cups of coffee he claimed were coincidental, remembered your blend as though that entitled him to your attention, laughed too loudly at his own remarks about the way you moved in the field. You dismissed most of it with polite half-smiles, but Xavier did not dismiss anything.
✧ — It was not the gestures themselves that unsettled him but the small unconscious shifts you made in return. Leaning a fraction to the left when the man stood too close. Tilting the tablet to shorten the space between your hands and his. They were defensive moves, not encouragement, but they left Xavier restless all the same. When the man finally walked away, the silver-haired man moved into the vacant space with the same inevitability as a tide reclaiming the shore. He placed a file down on your desk, voice deliberately mild. “Persistent,” he observed, as if it were a flaw in an enemy’s formation. You looked up, amused, and said what he refused to acknowledge aloud. “You’re jealous.” His silence was its own admission.
✧ — Hours later, in the low light of the vault, he found you again. You were bent over the scanner panel, intent on the flicker of faulty readings, and did not notice the quiet sound of his boots against the floor until his soft voice reached you. “He is not worth your time,” he said, calm and certain, the way he might announce a verdict. “And he will not try again.” You turned toward him at that, brows lifted, a faint note of curiosity in your expression. “You talked to him?” “No.” The word was simple, but his azure gaze was not. It trailed slowly down your throat, lingered at the quickening pulse there. “I do not need to. I am not subtle when I mean to keep something.” The last words came lower, darker, meant only for you. “And tonight, I will have you forgetting his name while my fingers are making you cry.” The air seemed to thicken as you drew a shallow breath, but Xavier was already walking past, as if nothing at all had been spoken.
✧ — The day stretched long after that. He did not come back to your desk, did not offer another word, and yet his presence pressed against you from across every room you walked into. By the time you checked your locker at the end of the shift, your nerves were wound tight enough to snap. The drink waiting inside was cold, the condensation already slick against your fingers. The fancy cafe label was half peeled, edges damp from the heat of his hand. There was no note or any other sort of explanation. Just the quiet certainty that he had been there, close enough to touch, and had chosen restraint instead.
✧ — You almost managed to breathe easy when you reached the exit. Almost being the keyword. The corridor was quiet, emptied of the rush of hunters, when Xavier passed behind you. He did not pause, did not speak, only let his long fingers trace the small of your back, a touch so brief it might have been imagined. You stopped in place, pulse stuttering, but did not look after him. You did not need to. “We are going home, I intend to make good on that promise I made earlier.” He murmured, breath ghosting by the shell of your ear from behind.
Zayne: Jealousy was inefficient. That was the line he repeated in his head, though it did little to quiet the static in his chest as he stood at your side during the symposium reception. The chandeliered hall was crowded with the murmur of voices and the clink of expensive crystal, but all he heard was the cadence of Dr. Ilmar’s compliments. A surgeon of some renown, polished, confident, lingering too close as though the entire room had narrowed to you. He spoke of your research, of your “rare combination of insight and charm,” a phrase delivered with an admiring smile that lingered one second too long. When he passed you a drink you had not asked for, fingers brushing yours, Zayne’s own hands remained steady on his glass. Outwardly, nothing changed. Inwardly, the calculation had already begun.
✧ — The silence beside you was impossible to ignore. It pressed at your shoulder like a second presence, cold and unwavering just like his evol, and though you tried to steer the conversation toward polite conclusions, Dr. Ilmar circled back each time, his tone edging toward invitation. A visiting program, a mentorship, perhaps even relocation for a season. The offer came too smoothly, too prepared. That was when Zayne spoke. “She is under contract,” he said, voice even, pitched so low it almost folded into the ambient noise. He did not look at the man, nor at you, simply brought the glass to his lips as if reciting a clinical fact. “And she already works under someone with considerably higher standards.” The words cut without emphasis, precise as an incision, and it took a beat before the weight of them registered.
✧ — You excused yourself then, fingers tugging at his sleeve until you found quiet in one of the side corridors. “Really?” you asked, still holding onto his arm. “That was the passive-aggressive thing you always deny doing?” He met your gaze with the same calm he had shown in the hall, though his sage eyes were sharp and dark. “It was neither passive nor aggressive. It was factual. I will not stand there while a man twice your age dresses a proposition in the language of mentorship.” You frowned, folding your arms. “That was never implied.” He tilted his head, the faintest tightening at the edge of his jaw. “It was about to be. I recognize when someone is circling. I am not impulsive, but I am not blind.”
✧ — The ride back to his apartment was long and quiet, the city lights blurring across the glass like distant stars. He kept his hands folded, gaze forward, his silence the kind that filled the air instead of emptying it. It was only when you stepped inside and shut the door behind you that he finally moved. His jacket was folded across a chair, his cuffs methodically undone, each button slipped free with deliberate care. “If you intend to expand your network,” he said evenly, “I will write your recommendations myself. I will arrange your access to every lab, every archive you require. But I will not tolerate discussions of guest flats or quarters away from me, not with a man who watched your mouth when you spoke and let his hand rest on you as if he had the right.” He spoke with the detachment of a physician dictating notes, but you saw the tremor at the corner of his mouth, the contained fury in the way his shoulders stayed rigid.
✧ — You stepped closer, tilting your chin until his eyes finally met yours. “That’s jealousy,” you said softly, though you knew he would never concede the word. He stilled, cuff still half-undone between his fingers. “It is control,” he answered, low and certain. “You belong to me. And I do not appreciate when anyone forgets that.” His narrowed gaze swept over you then, and for the first time all night, the restraint cracked. The silence deepened, stretched taut like a wire about to snap. When he finally spoke again, it was quieter, harsher, each syllable cut into the air. “And I will not allow you to forget either.” He leaned in to kiss you, with passion that burned away at the ice in his tone.
Rafayel: He arrived without announcement, as he often did, his presence carrying the ease of someone who assumed every room would eventually tilt toward him. The gallery smelled faintly of varnish and fresh canvas, the kind of scent that clung to the back of the throat, and when he stepped inside, his eyes moved first to your hands. You were holding a small painting, colors still rich from drying oil, your likeness captured in soft strokes that softened the curve of your jaw and brightened the light in your eyes. It was romantic in a way only youth could dare, unguarded and idealized, and the young man who had painted it stood before you as though he had just laid something bare. Pride glimmered in his expression while surprise flickered in yours. Rafayel took in all of it, tilted his head, and let his lips curve faintly. “If I had known we were trading portraits,” he drawled, “I would have brought you something worth framing.”
✧ — The man laughed lightly, missing the edge, but you didn’t. You began to speak, some hurried explanation, and Rafayel silenced it with a hum, leaning back against the edge of a worktable as though the room were already his stage. “No, no, I understand. He sees you here every day, caught in the dust and the light, so he translates that devotion into brushstrokes. Poetic, really.” He let his gaze rest on the painter, eyes glinting with something unreadable, before adding, “Good eye.” The words landed as a compliment, and the boy seemed to glow beneath it. Yet the weight of Rafayel’s attention was not on him at all. It was fixed squarely on you, lazy and heavy, like a tide that could at any moment pull you under.
✧ — When the space emptied at last, silence pressing down with the scent of turpentine and canvas, you turned to him. “That was cruel,” you said. His brows lifted in mock offense, a smile curling sharp at the edges. “Cruel? I encouraged him. I told him he had taste. I didn’t tell him he will never see you in that dress again.” You let out a disbelieving laugh, though the sound was thin. “So you admit it. God, Raf, you’re jealous.” He stepped closer, shadows stretching with him, until the words hung between you like bait. “Jealous?” he repeated. His hand came up, fingers brushing against your jaw, tilting your chin just enough that you could not look away. “No, cutie. I am territorial. That is very much different.”
✧ — He took the painting from your hands with careful fingers, studied it for the briefest of moments, then set it down face-first on the table. His voice lowered, losing its velvet humor. “He saw the surface,” Rafayel murmured. “A face, serene and untouchable. The version of you anyone could imagine. But I have seen what no brush will ever capture. How your breath stutters when you beg. How your eyes glaze when you are undone. Those are the portraits I keep.” His hand had slipped to your waist by then, heat steady against you, and when you whispered, “You’re impossible,” the laugh that followed from him was softer, but his words were not. “And you,” he said, eyes glittering, “are mine exactly because you put up with the impossible.”
✧ — The painting remained where he placed it, face-down, the next morning. He neither discarded it nor displayed it, as if to leave the boy his harmless fantasy. But through the night, it had not been the only thing turned over. You had been pressed face-down across the sheets, hips lifted, his hands locked on your waist while he drove into you until your voice broke and your tears bled into the pillow. Every thrust erased another brushstroke, every slap of skin a reminder that no soft canvas could capture the way you clenched around him when he kept you there, begging, undone. Let the boy paint his borrowed light. Rafayel had already bent the original under his body, ruined you in ways no gallery wall would dare to display.
Caleb: It began with a look, the kind he rarely gave in public. Arms crossed, wide shoulders set, his sharp jaw tense enough that the muscles shifted visibly when he swallowed back his words. You were on the mats with the new recruits, running them through drills, and Caleb had been content to stand aside, observing in silence. Until the boy offered you a water bottle mid-session, grin cocky, voice pitched just loud enough for others to hear. As if that had ever been protocol. You waved it away, a polite shake of your head, but Caleb’s violet eyes did not leave the scene. He had seen that kind of grin before, the type that tested limits simply to see where they bent. In his experience, it usually ended with a broken nose.
✧ — He gave it time. He always gave you space first, trusting that you could handle what the world placed in front of you, because you always did. But after dismissal, when most of the recruits had filed out, the boy lingered behind. “You should let me show you that reversal again,” he said, casual as if you owed him the chance, “just you and me.” Caleb was already moving before you could reply. “She has a partner,” he said evenly, voice pitched low, and the room shifted on the strength of it. The recruit turned, startled, but Caleb’s gaze was steady, unblinking. “And she does not need help from someone who drops his guard every thirty seconds. Hit the showers.” It was not a suggestion. The boy faltered, his bravado slipping, and slunk away. Caleb stood in silence a moment longer, hands loose now at his sides, before turning and walking out.
✧ — You found him later on the back steps, the coast stretching wide and pale in the distance. He sat with his elbows braced against his knees, staring at the water as though it held an answer. You lowered yourself beside him, the wood warm beneath your palms, and said quietly, “You didn’t have to do that. I had it under control.” His exhale was rough, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. “I know. But watching him talk to you like that made my skin crawl.” You bumped your shoulder against his arm, trying to lighten the weight in his tone. “You jealous, Colonel?” That made him look at you at last, eyes shadowed but unflinching. “Yes,” he said plainly. “Jealous, territorial, protective—pick the word. I have lost too many people already. I am not about to sit back and watch someone else try to take one.”
✧ — You leaned against him, shoulder properly pressed to his side, and the sharpness in him seemed to soften. “You have me,” you said, and though the words were simple, they landed with the force of a promise. His hand found yours, fingers curling in, grounding himself through the contact, and he lowered his mouth to press a kiss to your temple. “Good,” he murmured. “Because if he tries again, I’ll put him through the mat and call it training.” The edge in his voice was softened by the warmth of his breath against your skin, but you knew he meant every word.
✧ — Later, in the privacy of his quarters, the restraint snapped. He kissed you like he had been holding back all night, a low growl catching in his throat as he pressed you against the wall. His hand slid hard around your hip, guiding you until your body arched into his, and when he spoke it was rough, barely controlled. “You’re mine. Say it.” The words broke against your mouth, swallowed by the way he kissed you again, deeper, until your lungs burned. Clothes fell away with little ceremony, his jealousy no longer buried beneath calm but turned into heat and possession. On the edge of the bed, with your legs hooked around his waist and his hand tangled in your hair, you gave him the only answer he needed. He made good on every promise, relentless in reminding you exactly who you belonged to, until your voice was gone and your body was marked with him. Only then did his grip ease, only then did he hold you close, breath steadying as though he had finally reclaimed what was his.
Pulling a “I didn’t finish last night“ prank on L&DS men
ft. Sylus, Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel and Caleb.
summary: pretty self-explanatory.
rating: n$fw-ish
a/n: reposting some of my content here from twitter, as i have a backlog of stuff needed to upload on tumblr since... april lol. also if you'd like to be added to a tag list for these threads or any of my other writing, please leave a comment!
Sylus: You said it casually as you stretched beside him in bed, voice sweet and unbothered, like you hadn’t just dropped a live grenade into the middle of his morning. “I didn’t finish last night,” you mumbled, rubbing at your neck like it was a passing thought. You didn’t even look at him when you said it, which made it worse.
✧ — He went still mid-sip, coffee pausing at his lips before he set the cup of americano down without a sound. His carmine eyes stayed on you, sharp and unreadable, until that slow, dangerous smile started to curl at the corners of his mouth. “Is that so?” he asked, voice low and patient, like he was already walking himself through the punishment you were clearly about to receive.
✧ — A flick of his crimson gaze toward the mirrored wall told you he was already replaying the footage, rewinding every second of last night’s symphony of overstimulation. “Interesting,” he said under his breath, almost to himself, slightly mocking. “Because I remember you crying, trembling, clawing at my shoulders like your body had completely shut down.”
✧ — His large hand reached out, slow and certain, long fingers closing around your ankle as he dragged you across the bed with little effort, pulling you back toward him until his breath was warm against your skin. “If you’re lying, I’ll make sure you’re too fucked out to speak by the time I’m done. If you’re not,” he murmured, tilting his head with mock thoughtfulness, “Well then… I suppose I’ll just have to spend the rest of the day correcting my performance by overstimulating you.”
✧ — You tried to laugh it off, but that sharp look in his eyes told you he wasn’t in a teasing mood anymore. His tone dropped, damp breath grazing your neck as he leaned in close. “Say that again. Go on, one more time, kitten. Let’s see if you’re still capable of unfinished business once I’m through with you.”
Xavier: You said it while slipping his shirt off the floor, still bare underneath, letting the hem ride up just enough to make sure he noticed. “I didn’t finish last night,” you muttered, soft and offhand, like it wasn’t meant to hit him square in the chest.
✧ — The silver-haired man went still, sitting at the edge of the bed with his hands braced on his beefy thighs, breath halting for a second before he turned to look at you properly. His azure gaze sharpened, then darkened. “You didn’t?” he repeated slowly, as if testing you, trying to understand how something like that was even possible given the marks littering your body.
✧ — “That’s not acceptable,” he murmured a moment later, standing with quiet purpose. “You should have said something, princess.” He stepped in close, one warm hand cupping your jaw while the other gripped your waist like it belonged there, voice barely restrained. “I gave you everything. Every drop of focus, every pulse of my power. If you’re telling me you didn’t finish, then I didn’t do my job.”
✧ — You started to smirk, but he kissed it off your mouth in a way that was deep and claiming, tongue slick, hands already sliding up your thighs like he was about to take you right there against the dresser. “You don’t get to walk around saying shit like that, baby,” he muttered between kisses, voice rougher now, the way it always got when his instincts took over. “Not unless you’re ready for me to keep you up for the next three days.”
✧ — When you finally told him it was a prank, he just stared at you, chest rising and falling, knuckles glowing faintly from restrained Evol. “Cute,” he said, voice low and dry, before guiding you onto the bed with frightening gentleness. “Now lie back and stay still. If you want to play games, I’ll show you what it feels like not to cum.”
Zayne: You’d waited until he was already pulling on his shirt, cool and composed like always, before casually dropping it while sipping from your glass of water. “By the way… I didn’t finish last night.” You didn’t look at him when you said it, just let the words hang between you, soft and casual, like it wasn’t a direct provocation.
✧ — Zayne paused mid-button, silent, his hands still as he processed the information. When he finally looked at you, his expression gave nothing away, not even a twitch nor a raised brow. Just that unreadable sage stare that usually meant he was running diagnostics on how best to dismantle a situation.
✧ — “Is that so?” he said finally, stepping closer with a calm that felt clinical. You didn’t get the usual flustered reaction, no shocked apology, not even a nervous overcorrection. Just his cool fingers trailing along your arm, his voice dropping into something low and flat. “Then I must have miscalculated, and you know how I hate being wrong.”
✧ — He pushed you gently back onto the bed, slow and methodical, spreading your plush thighs with a touch that was too deliberate to be soft. “Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmured as he kissed the inside of your knee, his tone overly sweet, near mocking, “exactly where I failed you. I’ll correct it. Thoroughly.” His fingers were already teasing you open again, two knuckles deep before you could gasp out a proper answer. He was studying your face like a case file, like every noise you made was a data point.
✧ — When you finally confessed it was a prank, he just hummed and didn’t stop. He kissed up your stomach, slow and patient, lips brushing over bruises he left the night before. “You shouldn’t lie to your doctor,” he said softly, breath hot against your skin. “Now stay still. I won’t stop until you forget how to fake it.”
Rafayel: You tossed the line over your shoulder while brushing your damp hair in front of the mirror, casual and offhand like you were talking about the weather. “I didn’t finish last night.” You didn’t expect him to take it seriously, but hell, you should have known better.
✧ — From the bed, he stilled mid-stretch, one arm behind his head and the other lazily draped over his abdomen, muscles taut. His signature smirk faded slowly, replaced by something darker, quieter. “Come again, cutie?” he asked, sitting up, voice low enough to ripple straight through your spine. “You’re telling me you were in my mouth, shaking like a prayer, clawing at the sheets, and you didn’t finish?”
✧ — He stood without waiting for an answer, sauntering over with bare feet on cool tile, heat radiating off his body like his flame Evol was already stirring. “That’s interesting,” he muttered, reaching out to tug the brush from your hand and set it aside. “Because I remember you choking on my fingers, whimpering like the ocean owed you mercy, and then going limp when I told you not to cum without permission.”
✧ — His hand slid beneath your borrowed shirt, palm flat against your stomach, pushing you back against the vanity. “If you’re lying, you’re about to regret playing with me like that. And if you’re telling the truth,” he murmured against your throat, teeth grazing your skin, “then you’re not leaving this room until you come on my tongue and learn how to beg properly.”
✧ — You tried to laugh it off, yet he didn’t laugh, no, instead Rafayel just sank to his knees in front of you with a wicked grin, kissed the inside of your thigh, and said, “Let’s make sure, cutie. I’ll even help you keep count this time, yeah?”
Caleb: You said it as he was zipping up his jacket, smug in nothing but your panties and a blanket tossed around your shoulders. “By the way... I didn’t finish last night.” You didn’t look at him, just said it casually like it wouldn’t ruin his entire mental state before breakfast.
✧ — Caleb froze instantly, hands still at his zipper, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he turned to face you, violet eyes darkening. “What do you mean you didn’t?” The way he said it was quiet, but underneath that was a current of something volatile. “Are you serious, or are you trying to mess with my head right now, pips?”
✧ — You shrugged, playful. He wasn’t all about that, not even close. The jacket was dropped, his boots kicked off with unnecessary force, and within seconds he was across the room with that look in his eyes. The one that used to mean you were in trouble as kids, except now it meant you weren’t leaving the apartment until he erased any memory of disappointment from your body.
✧ — He grabbed your jaw with his warm hand, the other one flexing at his side. “I gave you everything,” he growled, voice low and rough. “My fingers, my mouth, my cock. I was holding you down while you were screaming for me to stop, and now you’re telling me it wasn’t enough, y/n?”
✧ — You tried to admit it was a prank, but it was already too late. He was hauling the blanket off you, dragging you underneath him onto the couch like it was a goddamn military operation. “Too late,” he muttered against your neck, biting hard. “You wanted to be ruined properly? You’ll get it. I’m not letting you walk out of here still unsatisfied, pipsqueak.”
How would L&DS men react to seeing you in their shirt?
ft. Sylus, Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel and Caleb.
summary: pretty self-explanatory.
rating: sfw
a/n: reposting some of my content here from twitter, as i have a backlog of stuff needed to upload on tumblr since... april lol.
Sylus: You had shuffled around his penthouse, wearing nothing but his crisp onyx dress shirt, expensive buttons haphazardly done, the hem brushing mid-thigh. You’d been hunting for coffee, praying the leader of the N109 zone was still asleep. Sylus, of course, had never missed a tell.
✧ — A quiet creak of the kitchen drawer had him materialising behind you. “Kitten, is my wardrobe feeding strays now?” he had murmured, voice velvet-rough from sleep, a smirk on his lips as his carmine eyes took in the sight.
✧ — He had circled once, assessing the way the fabric swallowed your frame. Crimson eye had glowed faintly, equal parts possessive and amused. “Buttoned wrong,” he’d tutted, undoing each clasp with languid precision, long fingers ghosting warm skin just to watch you shiver.
✧ — When you’d grumbled about needing caffeine, he had trapped the counter at your hips, leaning in enough to let his hot breath brush your cheek. “If you insist on stealing from me, at least finish the ensemble.” A flick of his wrist had produced a silk tie, and he’d looped it loosely around your neck like a brand as he tugged playfully just to hear you chuckle.
✧ — Coffee forgotten, he had lifted you onto the marble. Sylus’s lips had traced the shirt’s open edge, voice a low purr: “Seeing you wrapped in my clothes… what a dangerous image, sweetie.” He pulled you into a kiss, something hard already pressing against your thigh as you let out a whimper.
✧ — The moment you let your guard down enough, he’d swept you over his shoulder with effortless strength, using only one arm. “Meeting can wait. My attire is making demands I can’t ignore.” Your protest was swallowed as he walked down the hall; his laugh echoing rich.
Xavier: You had slipped into one of his shirts after a long night shift at work. It was soft ivory cotton, sleeves far too long, the collar slipping off one shoulder as you padded barefoot across the apartment. You hadn’t expected him to stir, but Xavier had never truly slept deeply when you were near.
✧ — He had appeared behind you, silver hair messy, voice still heavy with sleep. “You’re stealing again,” he had murmured, azure eyes tracing where the hem brushed your thighs. “Not very righteous of you, princess.”
✧ — He’d stepped closer, fingers brushing your waist through the fabric. “You have no idea what you look like in this,” he’d said, barely above a whisper.
✧ — When you’d turned to tease him, he’d caught your wrist gently, pulling you flush to him. “If you wanted me distracted all day, you could’ve just said so, y’know.” His voice had darkened, just enough to curl heat low in your stomach.
✧ — He had kissed you then, slow and deep, tongue licking at your bottom lip, until the edge of the kitchen counter pressed into your hips and the shirt had ridden up your plush thighs just enough to test his restraint as he bucked his hips into you, a bulge already brushing your panties.
✧ — And when you’d gasped his name into the fabric at your shoulder, he had smiled like you were the only thing in the galaxy worth worshipping. “Keep it,” he’d breathed, hands already sliding under the hem again. “Looks better on you anyway.”
Zayne: You had slipped into one of his dark shirts without asking. It was crisp, freshly pressed, clearly something he had intended for work, not your half-naked wandering through his apartment. The fabric clung to you in ways it wasn’t designed to, draping over your thighs like a silent invitation. You hadn’t expected him to still be awake when you padded back into the bedroom. But he was.
✧ — He looked up from the edge of the bed, cufflinks set aside, sleeves rolled high on his forearms. His gaze dropped, slowly, first to the shirt, then to your bare legs. “Did you even try to wear something underneath that?” he asked, voice calm but flat in that way that always meant you were already in trouble.
✧ — You had shrugged, letting his name roll off your tongue like it might soften him enough to let you get away with it, but it didn’t.
✧ — The next moment, he had crossed the room and tugged you gently in by the front of the shirt. “You always do this,” he murmured against your lips. “Slip into my clothes, and pretend you don’t know what it does to me.” His hands slid down your hips and under the fabric, fingers cool and practiced as they skimmed bare skin.
✧ — “Tell me you planned to sleep like this, sweetheart,” he said. His voice was quieter now, rougher. “So I can ruin the habit.” You had barely managed a sound before he lifted you onto the dresser, kissing you slow and deep until your legs trembled and the edge bit into your spine as you moaned into his mouth.
✧ — However, there was nothing rushed about him. Zayne touched you like he was memorizing vitals, mapping every breath, knowing exactly where to push, how deep, how long. You had gasped his name again, barely coherent, and he had just smiled and kissed the sound away.
✧ “You want to keep the shirt?” he asked once you were breathless, flushed, barely able to meet his sage green eyes. “Fine.” His mouth brushed your ear. “But only I get to see you in it.”
Rafayel: You had woken in his sheets, sore in all the right places, skin kissed raw with bites and marks. One of his fancy-ass shirts hung loose around your frame, smelling like salt and heat and him. You’d wandered out onto the sun-warmed balcony barefoot, hoping the sea breeze might help you recover; unfortunately, it didn’t.
✧ — “Now that,” he drawled from behind, “is the sort of view that makes even the ocean jealous.” His voice was still thick from sleep, but the grin in it was unmistakable. “Look at you. Marked up, stealing my shirt like it won’t get peeled off again, tsk.” Rafayel clicked his tongue.
✧ — He then crossed the threshold lazily, bare-chested, glint of scales catching the early light. “You trying to summon something again, cutie? Walking out here in my clothes, still dripping from last night, and think I won’t answer?”
✧ — His needy hands had found your waist, thumbs grazing the bruises blooming just beneath the hem. “You smell like me,” he murmured, hot tongue teasing the shell of your ear, “but not nearly enough.”
✧ — When you leaned back into him, breath catching, he chuckled darkly. “You want the sea god round two?” One hand was already sliding between your thighs, fingers teasing, shameless. “I thought you’d be too sore to handle it. But if you insist on offering yourself like this…”
✧ — He spun you to face him, mouth already trailing kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, stopping only where the shirt hung too low to tease. “Keep it,” he said, already backing you toward the railing. “But don’t expect to walk straight by noon.”
✧ — And when you tried to answer, he’d hushed you with a kiss that tasted like salt and flame, breath hot as his hands beneath the fabric. The tide crashed harder below, almost like it knew.
Caleb: You had woken up draped in one of his pilot shirts, sleeves rolled, collar loose, the fabric still warm from where it had hung on his frame the night before when he finally came back home. The soft cotton barely hit your thighs. You’d stretched, still aching in the best way, before wandering into the kitchen.
✧ — “You trying to kill me this early, pips?” His voice came from behind, low and rasping, just as you opened the fridge. “Because if you are, hmmm… mission accomplished.”
✧ — You turned to find him leaning against the doorway in nothing but low-slung sweats, beefy arm flexing as he pushed off to close the distance. His violet eyes were already on your legs. “Didn’t even bother with underwear, huh? Of course you didn’t.” He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval.
✧ — He stepped in close, letting the chill of his metal hand brush your inner thigh. “You know what that does to me,” he said, the other hand coming up to fist the shirt at your lower back. “Wearing my uniform like you’re trying to be good. After how loud you were last night?”
✧ — You tried to speak. He kissed you instead, rough, desperate, pulling you against him so fast it knocked the fridge door shut. “Gravity's a bitch,” he muttered against your mouth, voice rough. “You pull me in like this, you better be ready for the consequences, pip-squeak.”
✧ — He had you up on the counter in seconds, tugging the shirt higher as his lips dragged down your throat. “This shirt’s ruined now. You know that, right?” Fingers pushed inside you before you could answer, and the smirk on his face was pure heat. “Guess I’ll keep it as a souvenir while I wear it to work later today.”
How would L&DS men react after making you cry by accident during a fight?
ft. Sylus, Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel and Caleb.
summary: pretty self-explanatory.
rating: sfw
a/n: reposting some of my content here from twitter, as i have a backlog of stuff needed to upload on tumblr since... april lol.
Sylus: The fight had escalated faster than either of you expected, your voice rising with frustration while his stayed low, precise, like every word was part of a plan you hadn’t been let in on, just like always. You were tired, aching, trying to get through to him, but he wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t flinch, just stood there with his arms crossed as if you weren’t even worth the argument. And then he said it, flat and cool, like it didn’t cost him anything to throw it at you. “Then maybe you were never built for this.”
✧ — You went quiet, not immediately, of course, nor dramatically, just... quiet, like the words had knocked the air out of your lungs and you were too proud to show it. You turned away before your face could betray you, blinking hard as you swallowed down the sting in your throat. But Sylus saw it. He saw the shake in your hand as you reached for your jacket, the way your shoulders pulled in like you were bracing for impact. That silence you left in the room hit him harder than any slap ever could.
✧ — “Don’t,” he said, and it wasn’t a warning this time, instead, it was lower than that, something closer. “Don’t walk away from me like that.” He crossed the room slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, as if even he didn’t trust what he might do to fix it. “Look at me. Come on, kitten. Just... look at me.”
✧ — You refused, at first, jaw set stubborn, but he was already close enough to touch. His hand reached out anyway, warm fingertips brushing your cheek, and when he felt it—when he felt the wetness there that hadn’t come from anger—his whole body stilled in stunned silence. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Just let his hand settle gently along your jaw, holding your face like something precious he hadn’t realized he was about to drop. “That’s not what I meant,” he finally said, barely above a whisper with the softest of sighs, and you could tell by the way his thumb brushed the tear away that he hated the fact you thought he did.
✧ — When you tried to step back, he didn’t let you. He just leaned in close enough for your breath to catch, his forehead pressing to yours as if grounding himself through the contact. “You want to punish me? Fine, do it. But don’t cry because of me, not like that, and for the love of god, not over some bullshit I said to protect my ego without thinking twice.” His voice cracked a little, so quiet it felt so unlike the strong man you knew. “You cry when I have you shaking, when your legs don’t work, when my hands are all over you, and it’s too much, but god, not like this. Never like this. So please, just this once, let me apologize properly.” He kissed your forehead, then your temple, and both of your eyelids, as if kissing the stray tears away.
Xavier: You weren’t yelling at him; perhaps that’s what made it worse. You were trying to explain, calmly, clearly, as if you had rehearsed it in your head a dozen times before actually saying it aloud. He wasn’t meeting you halfway. His arms were crossed, jaw clenched, and when he finally did speak, it came out colder than it needed to be. “You don’t get to question my choices when you don’t even understand the weight of them.”
✧ — It hit harder than it should have. Not because he raised his voice, he didn’t, Xavier never did. It wasn’t even because of what he said, exactly, but how he said it—detached, like you were a stranger asking too much of him. Your lips parted, ready to argue, to match him with your own venom, but the words died halfway up your throat. You blinked once, then again, and when your vision blurred at the edges, you turned away, pretending to fix your sleeve just long enough to wipe the tears from your cheeks without letting him see.
✧ — But he saw, of course, he saw, because that was just the way Xsvier operated. The second your voice cracked trying to excuse yourself, Xavier’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. “Wait,” he said quickly, a quiet kind of panic settling into his tone. “Please don’t—don’t leave like that.” His voice faltered, barely above a whisper, as he stepped toward you. “Did I... did I say something wrong?”
✧ — You didn’t answer, you didn’t have to. He reached for your arm, hesitated, then touched you like you were glass already cracked down the middle. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, softer now, azure eyes wide with that helpless kind of fear he never showed in battle but always carried when it came to you. “I was trying to protect you, not shut you out. I thought if I kept it to myself, you wouldn’t have to carry any of it. I didn’t think—” He cut himself off with a shaky breath, hand slipping from your wrist to your hand instead, threading your fingers together like he was anchoring himself, realizing how majorly he had fucked up.
✧ — He leaned his forehead to yours, breath warm and ragged against your cheek, and when he spoke again, it was lower, almost broken in the way it was whispered against your skin. “You’re the only thing that makes the weight bearable. Please don’t cry because of me, princess. I’ll explain everything. I’ll fix it. Just... stay. Let me try again, properly, without hurting you this time.” He pulled you into an embrace, his other hand trembling slightly at your nape.
Zayne: The fight hadn’t started ugly, it rarely did with him. His tone was calm, his words were measured, and even when you raised your voice, he didn’t. That was the thing about Zayne—he never shouted, never snapped, just spoke with surgical precision, his words sharp enough to cut without ever needing to be loud. And maybe that was why it hurt more when he finally said it, voice flat, sage eyes unreadable. “I don’t have time to soothe every emotional reaction you have.”
✧ — You went quiet at that, and it didn’t show immediately, not on the surface, but something inside you wilted a little. You nodded once, tight and mechanical, like you were folding yourself inward just to keep from breaking in front of him. You didn’t respond, just turned your back to him, pretending to check your phone, even though your hands were shaking. You felt like a child who was being scolded in some type of way. The silence that followed was heavier than anything you’d said, and when your breath caught with a soft, involuntary hitch, he heard it.
✧ — Zayne froze at the sound, hands stilling by his side, like his entire nervous system had just short-circuited. He looked at you, properly this time, and the sight of you wiping your face with the sleeve of your shirt, shoulders drawn up like you were trying not to be seen, hit him in a way nothing else ever had. He didn’t speak right away; instead, he just stepped forward, carefully, as if one wrong movement would completely shatter the intimate space you had spent so much time cultivating between you.
✧ — “That was... uncalled for,” he said finally, voice lower now, stripped of its usual control as it became softer. The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed out deeply, more so at himself. “And cruel. I didn’t mean it like that.” He reached out but stopped just short of touching you, as if afraid his hands didn’t deserve the privilege anymore. “I’ve trained myself to compartmentalize everything, even you, sometimes. That’s not an excuse. It’s the reason, alas a it’s a shitty one.”
✧ — When you finally looked at him, tear-streaked and quiet, he stepped in closer, cupping your cheek with a touch so soft it almost didn’t register. “So let me rephrase that, y/n,” he said, his thumb brushing the corner of your eye as gently as one would cradle a piece of the most expensive porcelain. “Your reactions matter more to me than anything. And if I ever make you cry again, it’ll be because I have you trembling in my lap, not walking away from me like I don’t care.” His mouth brushed your temple before he added, quietly, “Let me fix it. Not later, right now, beloved.”
Rafayel: You’d been going back and forth for ten minutes straight, tension rising with every word. He wasn’t yelling, not really, but he was getting sharper, mouth faster, tone lighter in that deliberately careless way he always used when he was deflecting. “So what? You’re mad again? You gonna give me the silent treatment this time or throw something dramatic like last week?” he said, laughing like the whole thing was a game.
✧ — You didn’t respond, but your arms folded tighter across your chest, eyes glossy as you tried to keep breathing evenly, and your mouth opened like you might say something, but simply nothing coherent came out. The words were just a shaky inhale and a quiet, “I can’t do this right now.” That was all from you, no shouting, no storming out like you usually did when it got too much. Perhaps that’s why this time around, you turned your back on him, one hand swiping quickly at your face. However, Rafayel was not one to ignore his muse’s body language; hell, he memorized your micro-expressions, so seeing you cry? It was unacceptable as the weight of what he’d done hit him all at once.
✧ — His smile disappeared instantly. “Wait,” he said, the word coming out too fast, too startled. “No, no, hey, don’t do that, cutie.” He was already moving toward you, the teasing edge completely gone, warm, large hands hovering like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you yet. “I didn’t mean that. Shit, I didn’t mean any of that, my muse.”
✧ — You didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him, and that silence was enough to crack him open from the inside. “You’re crying?” he asked, voice suddenly hoarse. “Fuck, no, you don’t cry. You yell. You roll your eyes and tell me I’m impossible and steal the covers and storm out of rooms. You don’t cry like that because of a stupid man like me who can’t keep his mouth shut.”
✧ — He stepped in anyway, wrapped his arms around you from behind, burying his face in your shoulder like he was trying to disappear into the moment. “I talk too much when I’m scared. You know that. I say shit I don’t mean because I don’t know what to do with the part of me that would burn the whole world down if I thought I was losing you.” His voice broke a little, mouth pressed against your skin as he peppered wet kisses alongside your shoulder, his own eyes slightly watery, but he’d never let you see that. “Please don’t ever think I’d rather win a fight than keep you.”
Caleb: The argument had been brewing all day. He’d been cold, distant, snapping short replies ever since he came back home, and when you finally called him out, he didn’t hold back. “You have no idea what I’m dealing with, so stop acting like you’re entitled to know everything,” he spat, voice sharp enough to slice straight through you. He didn’t mean for it to hit like that. But it did.
✧ — You didn’t respond right away. You just blinked, once, and then again, your jaw tightening as you looked away from him, trying so hard to keep your composure. He could see it — the tremble at the corner of your mouth, the way your breath hitched as you folded your arms tighter, like you were holding yourself together with sheer will. And then you turned your back and said nothing at all, and that silence landed harder than any fight he’d ever been in.
✧ — “Wait,” Caleb said, instantly, and fuck, the word came out too fast, too strained. “Don’t walk away, pips.” His voice cracked on the edge of panic as he moved toward you, hand reaching out before he even knew what to say. “Shit. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean any of that, you know me better than that.”
✧ — When you flinched from his touch, his heart dropped straight to the floor. “No, no, don’t do that. Don’t look at me like I’m someone you have to protect yourself from.” His breath was shallow now, his hand flexing uselessly at his side like he didn’t trust it to hold you, like it didn’t deserve to. “I was trying to protect you, y/n. That’s what all of this is. It’s always about keeping you safe. I didn’t think I could hurt you like this.”
✧ — He stepped in closer, this time with both hands raised, palms open, voice raw. “Please don’t cry because of me,” he whispered. “You’re the only thing that makes all of this shit worth surviving. Tell me how to fix it. I’ll do it. Anything. Right now. Just… don’t shut me out. Not over this. Not over me being a fucking idiot.” His eyes were slightly watery, trembling hands ghosting over your forearms before you threw yourself into his embrace, both of you hugging each other tightly.
ft. Sylus, Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel and Caleb.
summary: pretty self-explanatory.
a/n: reposting some of my content here from twitter, as i have a backlog of stuff needed to upload on tumblr since... april lol.
Sylus: It slipped out in the middle of an errand, nothing dramatic. You were attempting (keyword here) to pay for a bag of red bean buns from a vendor and gestured toward him lazily. “My husband likes the ones with extra filling,” you said, tone casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t even register the words at first, too busy fumbling for the credit card. But he did.
✧ — The silver-haired man didn’t respond immediately. Just went silent beside you, carmine gaze fixed not on the vendor, but on you, like he was trying to determine whether you’d said it on purpose. “Husband, huh,” he repeated softly under his breath, almost tasting the word like it was foreign. He accepted the bag from the stunned vendor and slid the black card across without looking, his attention entirely locked on you now.
✧ — You gave him a confused look, and that’s when he smiled at you. It was the kind of smile that meant you were either about to be kissed breathless in public or bent over the next flat surface in private. “Interesting,” he murmured as he stepped in close, voice low enough to make the poor vendor pretend to count change that wasn’t there because he paid with a card. “If I knew you were so eager to brand me, kitten, I would’ve put a ring on your finger the first night I had you screaming in my bed.”
✧ — He walked you out of the stall with a hand possessively low on your back, as if escorting something already his, and once you were alone, he leaned in, breath brushing your ear. “Say it again, later when we are in bed and you are on your knees. I want to see what you look like when you mean it.”
✧ — You rolled your eyes, tried to brush him off with a laugh, but he caught your wrist mid-motion and pressed your knuckles to his lips, those crimson eyes glowing with something hungry. “If I’m your husband now, kitten, then let me start acting like one.”
Xavier: The word left your mouth while the two of you were cleaning up after dinner, hands still damp from the sink, your hair pulled back with a clip he hadn’t stopped looking at all night. He handed you a plate and you took it without thinking, brushing your arm against his in that small, familiar way. “Thank you, husband,” you said softly, slightly teasing, already reaching for the next dish.
✧ — The word hit him like a slow current, one that pulled him under rather than crashed into him. Xavier went quiet behind you, motionless, water still running in the sink. It took him a moment to move again, and when he did, it was to gently take the plate from your hands and set it down on the counter like something more important had just entered the room.
✧ — “You called me your husband,” he said, not teasing or smug, just stunned. His voice was soft, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away, and when you looked up at him, you saw the slight flush in his cheeks, the subtle way his throat worked around a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Did you mean that, princess?” he asked, and there was something raw in it, something that made your chest tighten and your own cheeks flush.
✧ — You tried to laugh, to wave it off, but he stepped closer before you could get the words out. “Don’t take it back,” he said, and this time his voice was firmer, lower. “Even if you didn’t mean to say it… I’ve never wanted anything more than to hear you say that again.” It was rare you saw him this affected, as he was clearly flustered but also very intent on making you say it again.
✧ — Perhaps that’s why he just stood there, azure eyes locked to yours, as if trying to memorize the exact second the word had left your mouth. And when he finally touched you, fingers brushing your cheek, lips barely grazing your temple, it wasn’t possessive. It was reverent. “If I were your husband,” he whispered, mouth at your skin, “you wouldn’t lift a single finger for the rest of the night.”
Zayne: It happened in the middle of a post-op debriefing. You were sitting on the edge of an examination bed, your hunter’s uniform still rumpled from combat, a fine line of blood dried on your collarbone where a wanderer’s claw had grazed you. He was standing between your legs, gloved hands steady as he adjusted the scanner at your sternum. You were tired, sore, and high on adrenaline, and when he muttered something under his breath about how reckless you were, you rolled your eyes and said it flat. “You’re starting to sound like you are my husband or something.”
✧ — The scanner beeped once, and then stopped. Zayne didn’t move, but his hands stilled at your sides, sage eyes trained not on your injury, but on your lips, as if he needed to confirm that you’d said what he thought you said. For a long second, the room felt like it was holding its breath with him. You felt it in the silence, in the faint whir of the diagnostic monitor that kept blinking uselessly in the background.
✧ — “That’s an interesting choice of words,” he said finally, voice low and unreadable, the edge of it cold in a way that didn’t feel like rejection (because with him, it never did). He removed the scanner with precision and peeled his gloves off one long finger at a time, not once taking his sharp gaze off you. “Was that intentional, or are you having a delayed reaction to painkillers?”
✧ — You shrugged, trying to play it off, but he didn’t move away. Nope, instead, he stepped in closer, cool fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face up just slightly. “Careful,” he said, quiet and clinical. “If you call me your husband again in this room, I might start believing it. And if I believe it, I will take full advantage of the privileges that come with the role.”
✧ — You expected him to kiss you, given how he liked to deliver his jokes in a complete deadpan, but he didn’t. No, what he did instead was just look at you in that steady, calculating way, like he was building a future around the word you’d just slipped loose. “Next time you’re on my table, try not to get yourself hurt,” he said after a beat, tossing the gloves into the disposal. “I’d rather not have to explain to the board why my wife keeps bleeding all over hospital property nearly every time she comes in here.”
Rafayel: It slipped out mid-chaos, which, to be fair, was the natural state of anything involving him. You were half-chasing him across the beach after he flicked seafoam at you during a supposedly peaceful painting session, your sandals abandoned in the sand and your hair sticking to your cheeks. “You’re such a menace, Raf,” you shouted, laughing, throwing a pebble in his direction as he dodged and grinned at you like he had the tides wrapped around his little finger. “I swear, my husband is insufferable.”
✧ — At that, he immediately froze like he’d just been struck. Not dramatically, not in mock offense, no, he uhhh, actually froze. The kind of stillness you weren’t used to seeing from him as it looked almost eerie on someone like Rafayel, as he looked at you with wide, sunset-colored eyes that didn’t immediately blink. “What did you just call me?” he asked, voice not teasing this time, not even a little. A smirk appeared on his face as he eyed you, overly smug.
✧ — You opened your mouth to backtrack, maybe laugh it off, but it was too late. He was already moving, water licking up his ankles as he crossed the sand with that loose, easy gait that always spelled trouble. “No, no, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping as he reached for your wrist. “You don’t get to throw a word like that at me and then run. Husband?” He repeated it slowly, savoring the syllables, like it tasted sweeter than any name you’d ever called him before.
✧ — He tugged you in closer, your body flush against his as his wet fingertips traced the small of your back, dipping under the waistband of your wrap skirt. “You just called me your husband in front of the sea. Do you know what that means where I’m from?” he whispered into your ear, voice thick with something far older than flirtation. “You’ve basically married me in Lemurian covenant law, cutie. No ceremony needed.”
✧ — You tried to shove him off, but he just grinned and picked you up instead, water splashing up around your knees as he carried you toward the ocean like he was about to seal the deal with salt and fire. “You said it,” he teased, breath hot against your neck. “Now be a good little newlywed and kiss your sea-god husband properly.”
Caleb: It slipped out while the two of you were sparring. You had him pinned, only briefly, your knee against his hip and your knuckles pressed to the center of his muscular pale chest. He was breathing hard beneath you, smirking like he wasn’t secretly annoyed you’d gotten the upper hand. “Tap out, husband,” you teased, voice smug, the word rolling off your tongue before you could think twice. Oh, you should’ve known better than that.
✧ — His violet eyes flicked up to your face, something flickering behind them that you couldn’t place. It wasn’t shock, nor amusement, no, it was something way heavier. “Say that again,” he said, low and hoarse, like the word had knocked something loose in him while he slightly panted under you. You raised a brow, expecting him to shove you off or throw out a cocky comeback, but he just lay there for a second too long, staring like you’d cracked open his chest and touched something raw.
✧ — You shifted to get up, but he grabbed your wrist before you could move, rolling the two of you until your back hit the mat with a breathless thud. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to hear you call me that?” he asked, voice tight, his hand braced against the floor beside your head. “And you just say it like that? In the middle of a spar? When I’m already trying not to fuck you into the floor of this training room?”
✧ — You laughed, tried to twist out from under him, but he caught your thigh and shoved it higher around his waist, his breath hitting your sweaty cheek. “Call me that again,” he whispered, his lips grazing your ear now, barely holding himself back. “Say it while you’re underneath me. Say it when I’m inside you. Say it when I’m giving you everything, and maybe I won’t completely lose my mind trying to replay your voice calling me that.”
✧ — He pressed his forehead to yours for a moment, trying to breathe, trying to calm the pounding in his chest. “You can’t just drop that word on me like it doesn’t mean anything, pipsqueak,” he said finally, voice rough. “Because if you say it again, I’ll start making plans that involve a ring and a white dress.”
ft. Sylus, Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel and Caleb.
summary: pretty self-explanatory.
word count: ~6k words.
a/n: i have so many threads to repost here from twitter but enjoy my most recent one, i have a backlog of stuff needed to upload on tumblr since... april lol.
Sylus: Thigh-fucking + mutual edging.
✧ — Your thighs trembled around him, slick and flushed, clamped tight on either side of his cock until every slow drag through the wet heat of you felt like punishment. The leader of Onychinus had you on your side with his firm chest pressed to your back, one muscular arm heavy around your waist, his large body curled over yours as he rocked his narrow hips in a rhythm so measured it was almost cruel. He had not fucked you, teasing you, only sliding between your thighs as if he had every right to treat you like this, but he was suffering just as much. Maybe you were both masochistic? It was hard to tell at this point.
You were so wet that the sound of it clung to the air of his lavish bedroom, sticky and obscene, your clear slick smeared along his dick until every sinful glide caught against your swollen clit. The blunt tip of his cock nudged there, and your whole body twitched. You felt every ridge of him, not just the swollen head but the ladder of cool metal that lined his length, a row of piercings that caught perfectly against your clit with each pass. The sensation was brutal, too much and not enough, every graze a spark that made your breath stumble. He felt it, the shaky catch in your breath, the way your legs flexed tighter as if you could draw him in without him ever pushing inside.
A low groan tore out of his chest and rumbled against your spine as he pulled back and pushed forward again, rutting until the fat head nestled into the swell of your abused pussy, so close to where you needed him that it made both of you curse under your breath. Your mess coated him from base to tip, dripping over his cock and down his sack until he was slick with you entirely.
“Look at this mess, kitten,” he rasped, his voice wrecked against the back of your neck. “All from your pussy. Do you feel how you ruin me?”
“Sylus, please, I can’t take it anymore, we’ve been at it for the last twenty minutes…” You sobbed out, wanting to cum so badly, yet he allowed for no such thing.
“If you wanted this to end, you would’ve flipped me over and ridden my cock already, yet you are taking this. I think you like it, sweetie.” He rasped and then chuckled darkly against your ear as his hand wrapped tight around the base of his cock, guiding himself with more purpose as he slid between your thighs again, slower this time, his carmine eyes fixed on the way his thick cock disappeared inside the clutch of your body before the tan head peeked through, flushed and wet, smearing your slick over your skin even more obscenly as tacky strings adorned his cock. You shuddered against him, lips parting in a sound caught between a sob and a moan as you couldn’t deny what he said. Once again, it was made clear: you were both pathetically masochistic.
“I haven’t even been inside you,” he whispered, words dragging goosebumps down your sweat-slicked back. “And I’m already this desperate for you.”
He pressed his thumb along the underside of his pierced cock, right beneath the head, rubbing slow circles into the spot that made his hips twitch harshly. Your whimper broke in the space between you, and he groaned, rutting forward again until the tip caught your clit with a sharp pulse that had you clenching around nothing, poor hole dripping.
“God, pretty girl,” he murmured, his voice gone soft with hunger, “your pussy is dripping for me, and I have not even fucked you yet. Are you going to come just from me using your thighs like this? And here I thought you liked using me, not the other way around…”
Your hands fisted in the expensive sheets, knuckles white as you shook your head, but your body betrayed you, rocking back against him without permission. His arm crushed you tighter to his chest, locking you down.
“Do not even try,” he said, low and dangerous in your ear. “You were the one who whined, challenging me to see which one of us would cave first.”
“Shut it, Sy.” You whimpered, sweat beading at your temple, yet all he did was smirk at your nape.. He slid forward again, slower this time, the fat tip grinding against your clit and staying there, pressing down until your whole body jolted. His breath caught, his cock twitched, and he pushed harder for one long second before pulling back again.
His hand was slick now, wet from you and from himself, stroking the swollen head as he fucked your thighs like they were meant to hold him there all the time. Every ridged metallic pass dragged across your swollen clit, and then he had the audacity to rub his tip right beneath your swollen bundle of nerves.
“Fuck, kitten,” he groaned, kissing the curve of your shoulder. “You feel that? You feel how close I am? I could come like this, all over your pretty thighs, and you would take it.”
You clenched around him as he was nestled all up in your slit, thighs locking tighter, your pussy dripping so much that he hissed through his teeth as you both were nearly feral at this point.
“Should I,” he whispered, his voice breaking with need, “should I come just like this, without ever being inside your pussy, without ever feeling you squeeze me the way I know you will?”
He allowed his cock to graze your hole just slightly, catching on it before sliding over it as you whined from frustration, unable to resist the urge anymore.
“Fuck me, Sylus, I can’t take it anymore, please.” You caved in first.
Xavier: Mirror play + toys.
✧ — The silver-haired man positioned you in front of the mirror like he had rehearsed it a hundred times in his mind, every motion deliberate and slow, the kind of care that made you feel like it was a lesson in disguise because you should’ve known better than calling him Lumiere in bed. His large gloved hand pressed firm but gently at the back of your neck, guiding you forward until your knees brushed the edge of the ottoman and your bare thighs parted against the upholstery. The glass threw back the sight of your body already flushed, chest rising too fast, lips parted as if you were confessing something without words.
“Sit,” the sapphire-eyed hunter told you, his voice low and rough enough to make you shiver. His mouth brushed against the edge of your ear as if the order itself was a kiss.
You obeyed, sinking onto the soft surface, every inch of you exposed to the mirror. He knelt behind you, one leg folded under, the other braced wide for balance, at least for now, that is. In his hand, the polished toy caught the light, chrome and violet curved with purpose, and your pussy clenched just at the sight of it because you knew what was coming.
“Eyes on yourself,” he murmured, his lips grazing along your jaw. “Not me.”
The first pass of the toy against your slit was cool and steady, the slick glide teasing your entrance with a patience that hurt worse than anything else. You sucked in a breath too sharp, body flinching before you could stop it as your thighs tensed, wanting to close.
“There it is,” Xavier whispered, his focus fixed entirely on your reflection. “That little flinch I was looking for, you give yourself every single time, princess.”
He pushed inside with unhurried control, the toy stretching you open, and his gloved hand slid down to your inner thigh, pressing until you stayed spread for the mirror. You saw yourself tense, watched the way your eyes betrayed you, caught the tremor running through your muscles as he started the slow rhythm, and you moaned out pathetically. He used shallow thrusts that were deliberate, just like his thumb that was brushing your clit, only enough to spark a jolt that faded before you could fully enjoy it.
“Oh? You are trembling already?” he asked, voice turning almost velvety and sharp, yet sickingly sweet at the same time. “Your pussy is soaking, and I have barely touched you. You want too much too quickly, don’t you, y/n?”
Your lip caught between your teeth, and you shook your head as if to deny it, but when you tried to speak, the words stumbled. “Please, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he cut you off, his mouth against your ear again, his hand sliding higher until it wrapped around your breast and squeezed just enough to make you arch. “You will. Do not hide it, and look at yourself. Look at that fucked-out mouth, and the way your eyes go glassy imagining it’s my cock all up in you. That is what I want to see.”
The toy stilled inside you, and you almost sobbed, your hole gripping around it in desperate pulses. He left it there, unmoving, the cruel pause making your hips twitch forward against nothing. His lips ghosted along the shell of your ear, his voice the only thing that moved. “Breathe and count. You will come only when I give you permission.”
Behind you, he shifted to kneel on his long legs, and you felt the heavy press of him, the thick strain of his cock against your lower back where his trousers did nothing to hide it. He ground against you slowly, letting you feel the shape of his length.
“Do you feel that?” he said softly, almost a growl, “how hard you make me. I could bend you over and fuck this needy little pussy until you screamed, but I like this better. I like watching you fall apart without me even inside you, because that’s your punishment for today, princess.”
Your voice shook as you tried to answer, tried to plead. “I want you. Please, Xavier, I want your cock, I’m sorry for earlier….”
“You will get what I decide,” he told you, tone soft enough to sound like praise. His thumb flicked across your nipple as the toy began to move again, deeper this time, filling you with steady thrusts that made your reflection jolt forward. You moaned, loud and raw, and his faint smile in the glass made your stomach twist with both humiliation and hunger.
“Perfect,” Xavier murmured, eyes locked on the way your hips chased the rhythm. “Look at yourself and see how you drip for me over a piece of silicone.”
The words broke something loose, and you whimpered openly, thighs trembling, fingers digging into the ottoman as if you could ground yourself through it. The toy stilled again, and you nearly cried at the loss, a ragged sound spilling from your throat before you could stop it.
“No,” he said, almost tender, his hand rising to wrap lightly around your throat, holding you in place. “Not yet. You are going to give me every bit of a show, sweetheart. I want to see how far you will fall before I let you have what you want.” His breath was scorching against your nape. “And you will thank me for it when I finally let you cum.”
You swallowed hard under his grip, the mirror showing your own desperation back to you, the shine of your slicked pussy, the twitch of your thighs, his dark azure gaze fixed on nothing but your ruin.
“Now again,” he whispered, his cock grinding against your spine, his voice low and certain. “From the start. Show me how you beg, maybe this time I will exchange the toy for my dick.”
Zayne: Temperature play + thigh-riding.
✧ — You would not stop touching him while he worked. First, it was your toes nudging his calf under the oak desk, then your fingers slipping under his work shirt to poke at the neat line of his abs as he signed off on post-op charts, then your mouth at his jaw while he tried to dictate a note. Zayne finished the sentence anyway, set the pen down with a soft click, and looked at you over the rim of his glasses like the doctor he was when a patient thought they knew better.
“You are not letting me work,” he said, voice even. “Do I need to teach you patience, y/n?”
You smiled, up for a dare, and he tugged his tie loose with a long sigh. He opened his palm above the sweating glass on the coaster and let his Evol bloom. Cold gathered in his hand, frost sketching itself out of the air, water beading and hardening in a slow, deliberate spiral until a clear cube sat in his palm, perfect edges.
“Open,” he said.
Your mouth opened automatically, and he set the ice on your tongue, then tapped your chin to close. The chill glowed through your mouth, and you made a hungry little noise he pretended not to enjoy. He hooked his chair with his foot and drew it back, then guided you into his lap and settled you across his right thigh, skirt pushed high, black slacks sharp with a crease that lined up exactly with your clit. Your panties were already damp. Your pussy felt too full of need to be empty like this.
“Since you will not let me sign in peace, you will ride my thigh without losing count.” He adjusted his glasses with two fingers and then touched the ice-cold tips of those same fingers to the inside of your wrist, where your pulse jumped. “You will tell me how many strokes you take. If you lose the number, you start again.”
You tried to grind for free, and he stopped your hips with one large hand, a calm pressure that overruled every bratty impulse. The other hand traced from your wrist to the hollow of your throat, fingertips cool with Evol, and paused there until the sting bordered on ache. He followed with his mouth to warm it, breath soft, tongue slow, temperature swinging you from numb to need.
“Count,” he murmured against your skin.
“One,” you managed, because the first roll along the seam of his pants found your clit and made your brain misfire. “Two.”
“Good girl,” he said, and moved his knee a fraction so you lost the exact angle you wanted. You whined, and he ignored you. The ice clicked against your teeth when you gasped. Melt slicked your tongue. He caught your mouth and kissed you with the cube inside, tongues sliding against icy corners, cold flashing between your lips as he stole the cube and gave it back, breath mingling, a shared shiver passed back and forth until your nipples peaked hard against your blouse, and he made a pleased sound into your mouth that had no business sounding that controlled.
“Hands here,” he said after the kiss, guiding your wrists behind your back. He held both in one cool hand and used the other to push your top up. He slid his fingers under your bra, fingertips chilled by Evol, and pinched your nipple until you arched and keened. He soothed with his tongue, warm and slow, then cooled you again with a light touch that made your tit feel painfully bright. “Say the words you avoided while I worked.”
“Please,” you said, breathless. “Please let me grind.”
“Ask for what you are actually doing.”
“Please let me rub my pussy on your thigh,” you said, cheeks hot, mouth cold from the ice cube that disintegrated at the back of your throat, nipples aching under his tongue.
“There we are.” He eased the angle in your favor, the muscle under you flexing in a precise pulse. “Three.”
You moved once more, and the fabric brushed over your clit, rough and perfect, the seam riding through the damp patch you were making, your panties sticking lewdly to your pussy. He kept you exactly where he wanted you with a steady hand at your hip. The other hand alternated heat and cold at your chest, fingertips chilled, mouth warm, a rhythm designed to override thought. He shifted his grip and let two knuckles drag just above your clit through the fabric, cold skimming sensitive skin, and your thighs shook.
“Four,” you said, voice unsteady. “Five…six.”
He kissed you again briefly, hoping you’d lose the rhythm. When you tried to chase more friction, he closed his hand over your knee and stilled you completely.
“What are you?” he murmured, too calm for someone who was straining against his slacks, cock twitching at the sight of your flushed expression.
“A brat,” you said, annoyed and desperate. “Your brat.”
“And now a polite one,” he said.
“Seven,” you mumbled, beyond flustered.
You rocked again, and he touched the inside of your knee, then the tendon at your ankle, then the dip just above your pubic bone, small shocks followed by warm breath and kisses that uncorked heat at your throat. Your nipple throbbed where he had last pinched. Your clit pulsed where the fabric of your underwear scraped. Your pussy clenched around nothing, and you wanted to cry from how empty you were.
“Eight, nine,” you panted. “Ten.” Your eyes were teary.
His hand slid under the elastic of your panties and lifted the fabric off your clit so the crease of his slacks could kiss you directly. You went soft and wild at once, back curving, a helpless sound breaking from your throat. He watched your face like the most interesting thing in the room. His glasses had slipped a little over the bridge of his perfect nose. His sage eyes were steady, cataloging your reactions for later use.
“Use your words,” he reminded.
“Please let me come,” you said instead of counting. “Please let me make a mess on your pants. Please let me be good.”
“You will be good.” His palm landed once on the curve of your ass, firm enough to make your skin heat and your cunt answer.
You whimpered, and he flexed his beefy thigh in small, controlled pulses timed to your breath. He pressed his cool thumb just above your clit, not moving, only holding you at the exact edge where everything concentrated. He spoke plainly in your ear, as if dictating a note for the record. “You are going to come on my slacks, and you are going to soak my leg while my cock waits like a gentleman. You are going to thank me for teaching you how to behave right after.”
“Please,” you said, because language had narrowed to that. “Please, sir.”
“Was it twelve or thirteen now?” he asked.
“I…” You rubbed open on his thigh with a sound that did not belong in a home office. Your hips jerked, your thighs trembled, your pussy flooded hot over the rough wool, a stain blooming dark along the crease he had lined up for you, and he held you through it with a steady hand at your belly and a soft voice in your ear that told you to breathe. His breath warmed the place at your throat he had chilled first, sealing the lesson.
“Zayne, fuck, I am close—”
“Count, or you can forget about cumming on my thigh, let alone my cock tonight, y/n.”
“Sixteen…” Your voice was strained as tears clung to your lashes.
Rafayel: Shibari + oil massage.
✧ —The studio lights had been turned low, just bright enough to catch the sheen on your skin and the soft lustre of the silk ties he had chosen. Sea-blue, the kind that looked almost black until light found it. The purple-haired man had you on his chaise, the one he pretended was only for sketching, thighs bound in an elegant shibari lattice that pinned your knees apart and framed you like a study he meant to finish slowly. The knots sat precisely along the outer thighs, the lines angling inward to hold you open, functional first and beautiful because he could not help himself; you were his muse, after all.
He warmed the oil in his palms and rubbed them together until the scent rose, clean and faintly citrus with a whisper of salt that always clung to him, as if the ocean refused to leave his pale skin. When his hands came down on your thigh, the first stroke stole the breath from your chest on instinct. He pressed in with the heel of his hand, then smoothed outward with his fingers, long glides that found the tension and coaxed it to soften. You felt the knots tighten slightly with every shift, silk reminding you that your openness was not a suggestion tonight.
“Rafayel,” you said, voice catching on the second syllable because he had slid higher, oil glossing the soft insides of your legs, his thumbs slipping close and then retreating like the tide. “You are taking your time...” It was almost a whine in protest, given how long he had taken to tie you up to begin with.
“Good,” he murmured, and the wicked little smile in his voice made your stomach pull tight. “You will remember it better that way, cutie.” He bent to kiss your knee, then the place just above where the silk crossed, and you watched his mouth leave a faint shine the oil could not hide. “Tell me if any knot pinches.”
“They do not,” you said. “They make me feel like I am about to be painted.”
He hummed, pleased, and took another measure of oil. This time, his fingers found the place you needed him most, yet he did not enter you. Rafayel traced the base of your pussy instead, a slow circle that never quite reached your clit, then a patient stroke that parted your slick slit and stopped at the threshold. The restraint worked through your whole body. Your hips tried to chase the pressure, and the silk corrected you with a gentle refusal, the chaise creaking in sympathy while he pretended not to notice.
“Your body is speaking already,” he said, voice low and conversational, the way he talked when he was working. “It says please, more, and make me.”
“Then listen to it,” you whined again before biting down a soft, “please.”
His laugh was quiet and fond. “Proper vocabulary, cutie. I like full sentences. You know that, yeah?” He lifted his left hand to circle your clit with the barest brush of an oiled fingertip, feather-light, so little pressure you whimpered and your breath stuttered, making your thighs quiver against the ties. He withdrew that fingertip and slid two fingers lower, nearly to your entrance again, teasing there until you trembled, then withholding again until your ring of muscles fluttered around nothing.
“You are cruel, Raf,” you said, and there was no heat in it. You sounded wrecked, and he liked that too much, sunset-colored eyes going dark with it.
“I am exact,” he said, and reached for the brush absentmindedly (nothing about his placement of items was absentminded).
He had set it on the side table with his other instruments, a thick-handled paintbrush used for priming canvases, clean and dry. He showed you the handle and let you see the smooth length of it, the harmless necessity of it, the way his artist’s hands could make a tool into a promise. He kissed you at the corner of your mouth while his hand guided the rounded end to your entrance, and he waited, every muscle in his body leashed in patience, until you tilted your hips up to meet it.
“Please,” you said again, smaller, softer. At this point, you’d even take that.
“Better,” he said. “Open for me.”
The first press took you with an aching ease that felt indecent, the handle thick enough to fill you and smooth enough to slide. He stopped after the first inch and watched your face, then fed you another, and another, until your mouth fell open and the silk hummed under your thighs with the effort it took not to push back against him. He set the brush in place and did not move it. He kept it perfectly still inside you.
You made a sound that was not a word, but more so a grumble of disappointment. He kissed your throat and smiled against the pulse he found there, and only then brought his fingers back to your clit. As always, no rush, and the barest of the fucking rhythm. The slowest circles meant to tease, not to finish, meant to make you aware of how stuffed and helpless you were around the inanimate object he had given you. He seemed to take notes on the way you exhaled, on the way your thighs tried to close and could not, on the way your toes curled against the chaise like you were bracing for weather.
“Rafayel—” you said, and it was almost a sob.
“Full sentence,” he reminded, sweet as honey and just as merciless. His fingertip tightened its circle and loosened again, coaxing, pausing, returning, each time finding you more electric under his touch as your pussy fluttered around the brush handle. “Tell me what you want and use my name correctly.”
You swallowed and tried to breathe through the tremor rolling up from your belly, the brush inside you turning your own clench into something that pressed back. He made a soft approving noise, then flattened his elegant fingers for one long glide that took you right to the edge and left you staring at the ceiling with tears caught in your lashes.
“Please, master,” you said, the word catching like a hook at the back of your throat as you squeezed your eyes shut to plead him some more. “Please let me come.”
He stopped moving his fingers around your swollen pussy, seeing the clear slick dangle between two digits like thick honey. The brush stayed heavy and still inside you, and Rafayel tilted his head, studying the way you shook.
“Again,” he said, tone commanding and clipped, less teasing than you were used to hearing. “With my name in it.”
“Please, Rafayel,” you said, the words breaking apart into a plea that sounded like surrender. “Please let me come, I cannot hold it anymore, you’ve been tying me up for forty minutes and now this.”
“Oh?” he hummed the single word out. “Lost your patience all of a sudden?”
You managed a glare at him, and if you could’ve, you would’ve pushed his mouth onto you, alas, your hands were also fucking tied up at the wrists, thanks to this Lemurian bastard.
“Jus’ kiddin, lemme taste my handiwork.” His tone lightened up immediately as if he had read your mind, some of his teasing personality slipping back into him as he dragged his long tongue over your slit, and your eyes rolled back as his large hands fell to the plush of your thighs. “Ah, I think you need to produce me a little more flavor, pretty girl. Think your pussy can do that, hm? I will let you cum if you make enough to paint my tongue.”
Caleb: Sensory deprivation + inappropriate use of Evol.
✧ — Silk slid over your eyes, and the world went completely dark. He held your chin in a steady yet gentle grip while the room was being rearranged for and around you. The air changed when his Evol sharpened, a cool ribbon coiling your wrists and lifting them above your head without a single finger laid on you, another invisible band easing your knees apart until you felt displayed and safe in the same breath.
“Color,” he asked, calm as an order given on a flight deck.
“Green.”
“That is what I want to hear,” he said, and the approval bloomed warm at the back of your abdomen. “Let’s start then, pips.”
Gravity did the rest, tightening across your hips when you tried to test him, softening at your ribs when your breath stuttered lightly. The bed dipped, and heat gathered near your thighs. You felt his mouth before you heard him say another word, a breath of warmth where you ached, followed by the faint metallic tap of a tongue barbell against his teeth that made your pulse trip as if your body recognized the sound on instinct.
“Open for me,” he said, voice low and unhurried as he allowed his Evol to ease around your thighs just as you did as you were told, and then the invisible force tightened again. “Good girl, stay just like that.” His gloved hand was gliding over the smooth surface of your plush thigh, violet eyes sharp and narrowed as he took in your helpless state, making him gulp as his thumb brushed the crease between your inner thigh and pussy.
He leaned closer to you, and the first touch was nothing more than his lips to the inside of your knee, unhurried and soft, a patient seal of heat that told you he had all the time in the world to ruin you tonight. He kissed higher, charting a slow path with the flat of his tongue, the stud a cool punctuation that made you jump before the restraint settled you back like a puppet on invisible strings. He smirked against your skin when you stilled, a quiet curve of mouth you felt more than heard.
“That is better,” Caleb murmured. “Your body knows when to listen; guess all this training wasn’t for nothing.”
Still, just because you listened obediently, it did little to earn you his favor. He did not put his fingers inside you. He did not even test the edge with them. He used only his mouth, only his breath, only the smooth, relentless press of his tongue and the cruel little clink of steel that kept reminding you he was there, he was hungry, he was tongue-fucking you open, but it was never enough to get you off.
It frustrated you to no end as your hips tried to move and the field said no, protective as a hand on the small of your back, firm as a command.
“Do not run from my command,” he huffed, and then he became mean about being gentle. He sealed his mouth over your clitt and kept the pressure steady, nothing frantic, nothing sloppy, just a devastating pace that built and built until your lungs forgot how to behave.
When you begged without words, he lifted a fraction and waited, the restraint easing just enough to let the need bloom larger. “Use your voice,” The brunet said, his breath warm against the ache he refused to soothe. “Tell me what you want. Complete sentences, and no fucking whining, y/n.”
“Please keep going,” you said, careful yet desperate at the same time. “Please do not stop. Please let me finish when you want me to. I will be good.”
“There she is, a good girl that I like,” Caleb praised, and the said praise went through you like a fuse. “Good thing I know just exactly what to do with a good girl.”
He went back in, slower, deeper, the stud tracing a patient circle over your swollen clit that made your thighs tremble so hard the field had to cradle your knees to keep you from clenching down against nothing. Every time your body tried to climb over the edge from the sheer frustration and neediness due to all of the edging he was putting you through, he drew back with a quick exhale and a slick pass of tongue against the crevice of your thigh that made your vision swim behind the blindfold. He carved his initials into your pussy, filthy in a way that made him wonder if you caught on or not.
Maybe it was his way of branding you, like a writer using invisible ink to leave his mark, permanent but also not. His mouth pulled away entirely, leaving you wet and trembling, every nerve in your body strung high as he shifted closer, the heat of his broad chest brushing against your thighs as if to remind you of the small distance he still refused to close, but he retracted back to where he was just as fast. His Evol cinched tighter around your wrists, tugging just enough to keep your back arched, and then you felt the press of his gloved hand sliding up over your ribs until his palm covered your breast. His thumb rolled over your nipple, slow and cruel, while his mouth hovered just above your pussy, close enough for his breath to ghost across the slick folds without touching.
“You are so desperate you would let me do anything to you right now,” Caleb murmured, his voice as unhurried as ever. He pinched your nipple harder, twisting until you gasped, and the sound drew a grin across his face. “That is the sound I want. Not whining, not broken little whimpers. That.”
His fingers left your breast only to slap against your pussy with a sharp, wet sound that made your thighs jolt against the invisible restraints. The sting cut through the haze of pleasure, shocking enough to draw another moan out of you, raw and unguarded. He did it again, slower this time, dragging his gloved fingertips through your mess before landing another stinging pat against your swollen clit.
“Perfect,” he breathed, the word almost reverent as he dipped his fingers lower to circle your entrance, never pressing in. “Your pussy is soaking, and I have not given you a single thing actually worth coming for. Do you see how easy it is to deal with you once you get desperate for just about anything?”
“Caleb—” your voice broke as you tried to answer something more proper than just his name, maybe you would’ve even begged, alas, your brain was already as good as offline. Still, he rewarded you only with another pass of his tongue across your clit, the cold brush of his piercing punctuating every lap until your hips fought against the restraint again. His other hand came down to your breast, sucking your nipple into his mouth, tongue curling around the stiff peak before his teeth grazed it lightly. The contrast of not knowing his next move made you shake harder, every nerve lit from two different places, every ounce of you screaming for more.
He released your nipple with a slick pop, spit glistening over the skin as his thumb rubbed the tender spot he had just bitten. “Say it again, and ask me like you mean it, y/n.”
“Please,” you whispered, your voice wrecked. “Please make me come, Caleb. Please let me.”
He smirked, his long leather-clad fingers smacking your pussy one last time to hear the wet crack of it. “Not yet,” he said, tone rough with restraint, violet eyes gleaming in the low light. “When I let you come, pips, you are going to remember who gave it to you.”
And then he buried his mouth back against you, steady and relentless, tongue pressing the stud in slow circles while his hands pinned your body down as if you were nothing more than prey caught beneath him. Every move told you the same truth: he would break you apart only when he was ready.
You should do another miromabby fic where Mira gets double penetrated 🥺 the first miromabby smut fic was soooooo good 🤌🏻🥵
Haha, thank you so much, I am glad you liked the fic! Maybe when I'll have more time (being an adult sucks lol) I will see if that can be fulfilled. Thanks for supporting my work!<3
