[fromeirlys]

Welcome ·:¨༺🜏🌐🜏༻¨:·

MDNI ‼️  BOTS, BLANK BLOGS, AGELESS BLOGS DNI ‼️

Eirlys. 25. Black and Indigenous Visayan. She/her, they/theirs. Fictoqueer. Zayne's freaky water girl. Need Zayne’s dick in my throat. Mostly writes NSFW. Daydreaming about Zayne in my frutiger aero world. 🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮

Visit My Museum! ˙✧🖼˖°📷༘ ⋆˚

Exhibit A - Romance & Astronomy: Love and Deepspace ˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗ (Last update: june 8th)

Exhibit B - Pirates And A Legendary Treasure･ : One Piece🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*

[fromeirlys]

Was on twt looking for nsfw refs to draw zayne and mc in, and saw this guy fucking a toy pssy. He came a lot, and it was like those guys in the animes, but the groan he let out kind of sounded like Foreseer’s, when mc broke the ice crystal in his chest during ‘Promise Everlasting’ 😫

[fromeirlys]

Wishing zayne was real so he could break this cycle of loneliness I keep getting stuck in.

[fromeirlys]

Priest!Zayne awakens a beast within me 💔

[fromeirlys]

Fuck Yeah, MILFS! (19+) - 2/25

MDNI

Pairing! Zayne x older!reader; reader is afab, but there isn’t usages of she/her pronouns here (that I’m aware of) Warnings! Smut, dubcon, age gap (zayne’s 24, reader’s early-mid 40s), student-master dynamic (past,) student-professor dynamic (present), lightly implied reverse lore (zayne’s not MoF, but reader takes on a similar role), zayne acts innocent, reader takes in zayne when he’s a child but nothing inappropriate happens, doggystyle, mating press, drunk sex (reader’s drunk in both,) mention of stalking (on zayne’s part in the present), breast worship if you squint, car sex!!, zayne may or may not have a breeding kink ><, creampie, cam recording (zayne’s lwk freaky!! Say thank you to Caleb!!), if I’m missing anything else, don’t hesitate to lmk, and as always, proceed with caution!! A/N! 6/7 -> I’m finally beating my drafts!! (i say this as I stare at the 67 drafts sitting on here…) i pierced my lip yesterday, so I’ve been hiding from my family lwk LOL W/C! 10k

You sipped a cup of wine under the night sky. The cool breeze blew over you and brought some shivers, making you hug your cloth tighter. A knock at the door makes you turn your head and put your glass down. You walk over, patting quietly against the wooden floor boards, and open it just a bit.

A boy no older than 8 stood there with a blank expression.

"Can I help you?" You blinked.

He didn't say anything and just stared at you.

You looked him down and up; he's wearing high class clothing, but you've never seen him around here.

"Are you looking for your parents?" 

Still no answer.

Maybe this was a distraction.

You quickly around and inspect the room. Nothing's out of the ordinary. You turn your head back around and grab his arm, pulling him inside and closing the door.

"Stay here." You whisper then walk away.

He watches you quietly disappear and stands rigid by the door, taking his shoes off casually.

You search around the smaller room and in the closet, but don't find anything or anyone. You walk out the room again and see the boy still there. Kneeling down in front of him, you sigh and look at him.

"Is there a reason you're here?" You ask softly.

He still doesn't respond.

"I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong…" you trail off, looking back at the window.

He doesn't stare anywhere else, only looks at you and you can feel the awkwardness slowly thickening.

"Okay, you'll stay here for tonight, but in the morning, we're going into town to find your parents." You stand up and carefully take his arm, guiding him to that bedroom.

He looks around and sees the bed, nearly larger than his, near the window. 

"You'll sleep in here for tonight, but you better not touch anything." Your hand firmly grasps his chin, making him look up at you.

His green eyes— wide as saucers— stare up at you as he nods. "Good. Now get to bed."

He quickly crawls in and lays under the blanket, peeking at you from over the fabric. You look at him for a moment longer then turn and step out, closing the door quietly.

~

A fight broke out in town one evening. Some losers robbed an elderly man from inside his store, and laughed as they ran away from the shop.

But they didn't get far. 

You were heading home when you saw the the old man stumbling out of the shop with his cane. People walked by, and looked at the frantic man, seeing him pointing at the group of teenagers that ran away.

"Th-they stole things from my shop! I-I tried to fight back, but… " he trailed off, indicating the bruises on his body.

The crowd of people gathered around him, asking him if he was okay or if he needed anything, but you didn't stay to chat. You quietly followed after the small group, and kept in the shadows. Those kids were stupid enough to stay in public with the goods they took and were walking near a busy area. 

You snuck behind the group and took them out one by one, knocking them out cold until only 5 of them were left. When one noticed some members were missing, the others became alert and turned around to see you standing there.

One whistled at you as they approached, crowding you like predators ready to attack, but they didn't know they were the prey.

You don't speak as they eye you down and up, hurling inappropriate words at your figure and age. You stared blankly as one got closer, before your fist darted forward and dug into his face, knocking him out in one blow.

"You fucking bitch! We're gonna kill you!" One said as he ran toward you with a knife. 

You quickly dodged and roundhouse kicked him in the jaw, sending him flying into a group of trash cans. Two other ones went running towards you, and you ducked in between them, letting them hit each other. You grabbed their arms and looped them together, throwing your leg high enough to kick the tall one in the eye. 

People from the surrounding area slowly come forward, watching you fight the group of thieves. A family of three passes by, and the mother shakes her head.

"That's what's wrong with this world. There's so much fighting, and not enough peace." She tuts, holding her son's hand tighter. "Let's go, Zaynie."

She whispers, dragging the 5-year-old away. His eyes sparkle as he catches a glimpse of you spinning and kicking the people away, and he wants to do that one day.

You crouch down and sweep your leg behind you, knocking them off their feet, then stealthily grab one of their knives and throw it behind you, watching the blade sink into the thigh of the person you threw into the trash cans. He yells out and falls to his knees, cupping the wound and trying to pull the weapon out.

You stand up and look around, finding the goods they stole and picking the items up.

"Next time you decide to steal, make sure you don't get caught." You spat on the ground and walked away with the old man's products.

You got back to his store and handed the items to him, brushing off his gratitude, and the others around were smiling and clapping that he was happy again.

It had been 3 years since Zayne first saw you fighting. He lost interest in fencing, wanting to do what you were doing, but his parents were harshly against it.

"All that fighting nonsense is for lowlifes. Fencing has elegance, and that is what this family is, Zayne." His father once told him.

He kept his composure and bowed his sad sadly, feeling his mom rub his back and whisper words of comfort in his hair. He made a silent vow to search after you for guidance.

He wanted to be like you.

"Zayne, honey, how are your studies coming along?" He heard his mother ask one morning.

He turned his head to look at her and bowed a bit. "They're alright."

She smiled and kissed his forehead, stroking his hair. "Don't forget you have your fencing lessons tomorrow afternoon."

He nodded and watched her leave before averting his eyes back to the drawing he made of you fighting.

~

You were supposed to take him to town to find his parents, but the moment you reminded him, he… freaked out, to put it loosely.

You walked into the room and saw him staring at a photo of your late fiancé. 

"What are you doing?" he turned around.

You look down and see the photo in his hand.

"Where'd you get that?" You rushed over and took it from him.

He just stared at you and blinked. You looked at him, annoyed, then reminded yourself he's still a child and forced yourself to let it go.

"…I made breakfast, so you're gonna eat, then we're gonna go to town and find your parents." You move to leave, but he runs in front of you, and you almost trip over him.

"?!" You look down at him, gripping the doorframe.

He looks at you with knitted eyebrows as if you suggested the worst thing ever.

"What?!" He doesn't say anything.

"You don't want to go?" He nods.

"Well, what about your parents?" You cross your arms. "You can't stay here, you know? I don't do this babysitting thing."

His hands rise and grab your right one, holding it in his small hands. You look at him, even more confused, as he drags you out of the room. He guides you to your patio, and you look outside to see the rain, but that's clearly not what he's looking at.

You see his finger pointing at the beaten dummy.

"You want to play with it? It's not a toy," he side-eyes you like he knows that.

He pushes your patio door open and moves to pull the object in. You rush forward and pull it in for him, closing the door after.

"You want to… learn how to hit it…?" You try to guess what he wants.

He nods.

"… so what-" you cut yourself off and look at the stiff mannequin.

He still stares at you, and you think for a moment. You crouch down to his level.

"Are you going to tell me why you came here?" He says nothing and does nothing, making you sigh.

"I just don't know why me? Do I know your folks?" He shakes his head.

You blink and look away, feeling a bit irritated. He taps your shoulder, and you look down at him.

His hand is open and flat, fingers together as he hits the bag. His leg raises and kicks a high point of it before looking back at you.

"You've watched me do this?" He nods.

"So… you want me to teach you how to fight?" He shakes his head.

"You just want me to teach you… stuff?" He nods again.

"… So you did all this for some tips and tricks?" You cross your arms, and he looks down shyly.

You sigh and stare back outside.

"I'm sorry." He whispers, and you almost get whiplash when you look at him.

"…Did something happen at home for you to come to me?" He doesn't move or respond.

So it's that then…

"If I teach you all this stuff and let you stay here… will you tell me what happened?" You notice the hesitation, the reluctance.

But he looks at you with determination and gives a firm nod.

.

You spent several years “babysitting” this "orphan" while also teaching him martial arts. Well, he's not really an orphan; you find out from the flyers scattered around that he belongs to the Li family, and they're well-known doctors nationwide. 

The strange thing was that, whenever you tried to mention family, he never said– well, wrote– a word. He stuck to his lessons and chores you gave him, then read a book from your shelf or went for a walk. He rarely spoke, and usually wrote one-word or one-sentence responses. You didn't mind the quietness, as you had been used to it, but it did freak you out sometimes when he appeared behind you.

Another thing you realized was that he never told you his name, and was startled when you called him it.

"Zayne?" Your voice rang out one afternoon, and his neck almost snapped from how fast his head turned.

Before then, you never had something to address him by, so you always called him boy or smart one. Eventually, you forgot about his situation, which he also never brought up. You were concerned that he'd be mute for the rest of his life, which might be difficult for the townsfolk because they prefer talking and weren't exactly friendly to those who didn't talk.

You currently stood in the kitchen, working quietly on his birthday cake. He mentioned some flavors he liked and didn't like a couple of years ago when he was on break from lessons, and you took note of it for future reference. You finished adding the last macaron and added a dollop of whipped cream on top of the cake, then put the pastry on it.

You back away and admire the piece, but a part of you feels like he might not like it. You usually bought the cakes in the past, but wanted to try something different this time. Your fingers slide under the cardboard and lift the cake, putting it in the fridge so it doesn't melt.

~

You woke Zayne up a couple of hours later and told him to freshen up.

"There are no lessons today. Because it's your birthday. So we'll do whatever you want today," you smiled softly.

He dressed in casual-formal clothing and sat at the table while you took the cake out of the fridge. He looked at the plates and utensils, with the table covered in a blue and white cloth. His head turns and sees you bringing a cake to the table, carefully putting it in front of him, with the numbers 2 and 4 staring back at him.

"Happy birthday, Zayne," you spoke softly, making him look up at you.

"It's beautiful," he whispers, not looking at the cake, but at you.

"I wanted to try to make it this year, so thank you!" And he's glad you did.

The wrinkles near your eyes and the subtle change in tone of your voice make his heart leap with joy and excitement. He blinks, then looks down at the cake, watching you light the numbers. You quietly sing to him, and he just stares at the delicious treat.

"Make a wish," you lean forward on the table, smiling.

He looks at you for a minute longer with an abnormally beating heart then looks back at the candles and blows them out. You clap and cheer, leaning over and hugging him.

"Happy birthday, dear." The pet name slips out before you can even stop it.

Butterflies flutter in his stomach, and he quietly thanks you.

"So, what did you wish for?" You jokingly ask.

"Isn't it tradition to not say, so it comes true?"

You pinch his cheek lightly, "it is, but I was tryna see if you'd slip up and say it."

He carefully cuts two slices of cake and puts a small plate with one in front of you. He eats a small piece of his slice as his mind forms questions about a certain… thing he's been wanting to ask you. The silence thickens as the minutes go by with you two eating before he decides to speak.

"Would you like to know?" He looks up at you.

"You don't have to tell me, hun. If you do, it won't come true~" he watches you suck the remnants off the fork.

He looks at your face closely and sees a piece of cake on your bottom lip. His hand reaches out, and his thumb swipes your lip, picking up the residue, then bringing it to his mouth and eating it. You blink twice, and your smile instantly wipes off your face.

"Why'd you do that?"

"I saw a mother do it to her child the other day," he says innocently.

You blink and look away, while he keeps eating. You didn't notice the red tint forming on his cheeks and ears, or the strange lump in his pants.

~

Zayne didn't mean to snoop around, but he was always curious about what you did after he 'went to bed'. He walked out of the room and quietly moved down the hall. All the lights were off, and the only thing that shone into the area was the moonlight from the patio. He peeks around the corner and sees you sitting outside, your back's facing him. He gets closer and looks down, seeing a glass of wine in your hand. The right sleeve of your robe hung off your shoulder, exposing the skin and top of your breasts. He looks down further for a moment too long, and that strange tingly feeling forms inside him once more.

The only times he's experienced this were when that one time he was training with you a few years back, and this morning— when he wiped the cake off your lip. His eyebrows furrow as he rests his hand on his heart. He looks at you again and sees you leaning back on your left palm, while drinking the liquid. His hand carefully presses on the glass, and he contemplates greeting you or going back to bed.

Your head tilts back as you take another sip. Your eyes wander for a second, and a shadow sits in the corner of the patio. You casually take a pocket knife out and throw it at them, missing by an inch. They don't flinch or freak out, and as they move closer, their face comes into view.

"Why are you creeping around like that? … Why are you even up?" Your drunk side-eye glares lethally.

"My apologies …" he scoots towards you and sits almost shoulder to shoulder.

"You should be asleep. You have a big day tomorrow." Your deep voice brings blood to his cheeks and ears.

Tomorrow is the day he goes back home. You already informed his folks a few weeks ago during a long and rough conversation that started with them accusing you of kidnapping him.

"I'm not going."

"We're not having this conversation again. I already said you're going, and that's that." You snap at him, then hiccup.

He closes the distance between you two and takes the large wine bottle.

"What the hell are you doing? Give it back!" You reach for it, but his long arms hold it too high for you to grab.

"No. You shouldn't be drinking this. Look at you— you're a mess." He softly reprimands you.

"I don't care; give it back, Zayne." You stand up to grab it, and he follows after.

He's just as tall as you, but his arms are longer, and his empty hand presses on your forehead, holding you back from trying to get the alcohol.

"Why do you like this stuff so much anyway? It's gross and bad for your health." He looks at you through the top of his glasses.

"It tastes good to me!" You trip over your foot trying to get back from him.

"Careful," he whispers, wrapping his arm around your waist tightly.

Your bodies fall back against the wall hard, and the jar breaks, spilling all the red liquid out.

"Shit— damnit, Zayne!" You slump against him, grumbling curses at him.

He freezes, looking down at the sight. You, drunk and beautifully disheveled, were lying on top of him with your breasts peeking out of your robe. His heart thumps harder in his ears, and his breathing slows. That strange throbbing in his pajama pants becomes painfully apparent, and it makes him hiss quietly.

You try to get up, accidentally touching it, and his grip tightens.

"Let go of me. I'm irritated and pissed off," you hiss, trying to push away from him.

"… wasted my fucking wine. Why does it matter to you that I drink, huh?!" You huff, feeling your head throb.

He lays the broken glass down and wipes the liquid from his hands on the wooden floor. They rise and gently cup your face, making your blurred eyes of fury stare up at him. Your expression exposed annoyance and frustration, but damn, if you weren't so gorgeous right now, he might take your emotions for the spilled alcohol seriously.

"What are you doing?" You whisper harshly.

"I don't know…" he looks down at your lips, thumbing your bottom one like he did early that morning.

You move to get off again, but he hugs you tighter. "Don't go… stay."

"This is weird, Zayne. Whatever you're thinking, stop it." You scold him, but he doesn't care.

"Why?" His voice softens more.

"Because it's bad." You bluntly reply, then hiccup.

"It didn't look bad when I saw others doing it."

"Yeah, well, they're idiots," you grumble.

His hand moves under your chin and lifts your head to look up at him. "Am I an idiot if I want to do it?"

You stare at him briefly, then look down at his covered chest. "You're not an idiot, and you know that."

"Then, why can't we do this?"

You sigh, letting your head hang low. His hand rubs your back, then goes down and touches your waist.

"Because it's wrong. I'm just your shifu, nothing else." You slump against him.

His grip loosens, and he rests his hand on your head. He inhales the smell of your hair and sighs quietly, feeling more than content. His hands grip under your armpits and lift you, making you sit on his lap.

"You can love your shifus, can't you?" 

"The love you're thinking of is not the same." Your head lies on his shoulder, and his hand rubs your back.

"How is it not?"

"Because the love you think you feel for me is not truly for me. It is… supposed to be for someone closer to you than me." You pull away, looking at him.

"I've been with you for a long time… I don't want anyone else…" he looks at you with a faint look of a needy puppy, his green eyes soft and loving.

The truth was, Zayne was nowhere near innocent. From the moment he saw that couple kissing in town when he was 12, curiosity grew within him. They looked at each other with an intense gaze— one he once saw his cousin and her husband have in the garden of their mansion during a party. When he asked the town's "father" about it, he just told him he was too young to understand. 

The older man gave a belly laugh when the teen demonstrated with a drawing what the two people were doing.

"It's called kissing! It's something people do when they're deeply in love with each other," the elder explained.

"Will I ever do that?"

The man looked at him, then back at his book. "When you're older, you'll meet a fine person… and you'll want to do that all the time."

From that moment on, Zayne did research.

What did kissing feel like? What was this 'sex'? He went to the local library and asked the librarian, who looked at him like he grew 5 heads on the spot. Realizing the boy actually didn't know what it was, he carefully guided him to the section on health and medicine.

Zayne spent hours reading biology books, but something felt missing. Then he wondered if he could ask you. I mean, you were his shifu, so it shouldn’t be weird, right?

He went home that night and tried to ask, but you weren't home. The next morning, he went out of the room to search for you, and when he found you, you had a look of concentration. And he knew not to bother you when you had this expression.

From that point on, every chance he had to try to ask you about it was interrupted by something. He figured maybe it wasn't time.

Now that he's grown into a gentle and intelligent giant, he looks at you with a softer version of that intense gaze, as your head is pressed against his chest and his hands on your waist.

"When you're not home, where do you go at night?" He asks randomly.

"What are you talking about?"

"… sometimes when I look for you in the middle of the night, you're not home." He feels you shift and looks down to see you looking at him.

"… it's nothing important." Your voice softly shakes, and you wobble a bit, trying to get up. 

He helps you stand up, and you're looking down at him. 

"I'm going to bed." You grumble and turn to leave.

He watches you walk away and looks down at the wood. His eyes shift back over to you, who's walking toward the rooms. He walks in and closes the door, locking it, then following your steps. You yawn as you enter your room and push the door closed, but something stops it from closing. When you look to see, Zayne's standing there.

"What do you want, Zayne?" You tiredly whisper.

"I just…" he sighs. "When I was little… that picture of that man I found… who was he?"

"Does it matter? It's not your business anyway." You rub your eyes.

"Please tell me. It will… put my spirit at ease." He whispers.

You glare up at him. "He's my late fiancé."

He blinks, nodding. "Is that why you drink? Because you miss him?"

Jeez, Zayne. Read the room!

You move to shut the door, but he pushes it open. "Look, I don't know what games you're trying to play b-"

He cups your face and kisses you. You didn't even notice him getting closer as you spoke. Your eyes widen, and you stare at his cheek as his lips connect perfectly with yours. You step back, grabbing his wrists, then move your head away, but he makes you look at him.

"The hell's wrong with you?" You hiss quietly.

"I-I don't know. I just… felt like doing that… How did it feel?" He whispers.

"You're so annoying. Why'd you do that?!" You grow more irritated just thinking about it and remembering it.

"I was told you do that with someone you love deeply..." He sounds like he's getting closer to the edge of no return.

"We're not together, Zayne!"

"Can we be?"

"Get out!" You push him back, but end up slipping and falling against his chest.

He crouches down and lifts you up, closing your door and moving over to your bed. You sigh heavily as your body melts into the comforter and rolls onto your side.

As if realizing what he was about to do, he second-guesses himself. "We'll talk in the morni-" he's cut off by you grabbing his collar and pulling him down.

Your eyes burn him with an intensity he's never seen from you, and the two of you have a stare-down. Your mind works quick, and you let him go, turning away again. You can't do this; it's wrong, and you know it, but you aren't sure if he knows it is. His hand carefully caresses your cheek, and you instinctively lean into his touch. 

"You're so beautiful…" he gently pushes you onto your back.

You look up at him through bloodshot eyes, feeling his hand cup your cheek. "I'm old, ya know? I have gray hairs and wrinkles, Zayne."

"That doesn't mean anything to me…" His forehead lightly touches yours, and his eyes glance at your lips. 

…Those soft lips once coated in the red bittersweet liquid.

He leans down and covers your lips with his, tasting the faint flavor of the alcohol. The kiss feels foreign and strange, but comforting in a way. Your hands lie next to your head as the two of you continue kissing, with you feeling his hand glide up your waist and grip the base of your right breast. You pull away and gasp.

"How was that?" His voice sounds desperate, as if he needs something.

"I-I… no— we can't, Zayne"

"Does it not feel good?" It does, and that's the problem.

You swallow and blink twice, looking down at his large hand gripping your jiggly mound. As if reading your mind, he squeezes it, and your head falls back, turning to the side to hide from him.

"It does feel good, doesn't it?" He pulls back and unties your robe, pulling the panels apart.

"You really are a work of art…" his hands carefully hold your waist, pulling you closer to him.

He kisses you again, this time in shorter intervals. Like he's building up the tension. Wetness begins to form between your thighs, and you have to stop yourself before you do something both of you will regret.

"You're squirming… does it hurt?" He nuzzles his nose against yours.

Yes, in a good way.

He feels your legs squirming and looks down to see your thighs pressed tightly together. "I see."

He shifts downward, and you immediately sit up. "W-what are you doing? That's not...!"

He sighs at the sight of your tank top and panties. 

"Zayne, I'm not the person you should be doing this with—!"

He kisses your inner thigh, and your legs shake, begging to close. "Why not?"

He stamps open-mouth kisses, making sure his saliva seeps into your skin. He moves closer to your cunt, and your hand presses against his forehead.

"If you do this, you'll regret it." You warn him, quietly panting.

"Why would I regret having sex with someone I love deeply?" He repeats the old man's words to you.

You look at him, bewildered, and quietly gasp. "I-I'm not-"

He looks down at the light colored fabric, noticing a dark spot further down.

"S-stop staring. That's rude…!" You scold him, gripping the blanket.

"Then I love being rude…" his fingers move the fabric to expose your slicked folds.

He leans in and gives it a nice long lick, making you shiver. Your head falls back, and your hips rise, pressing yourself firmly against his mouth. "How does it feel, mommy?"

Your eyebrows pinch together as your head snaps down to look at him, who's kissing your folds. His two fingers spread them and find what he's been looking forward to. His tongue presses against your clit, and the moan that had built up in your throat gets stuck there.

He quietly groans as he licks and kisses your pussy, taking his time as he devours it. He moves your legs to lock his head between your thighs, and he gently grinds himself against the bed.

"Oh, yes! … R-Right there…" You whisper, biting your lip to hold your sounds back.

He moves faster, flicking your sensitive pearl with his wet muscle. Your hands worm into his hair and grip the strands, giving his mouth gentle thrusts. "Right there, mommy?"

"Y-yes! Yes!" You felt your high rushing up on you, and push him away.

He looks at you, confused as you turn away from him, closing your shaky legs. He watches them and sees a faint, clear liquid rushing out of you. No sound comes from you as this happens, and his hand rests on your ass.

"Why'd you turn away?"

"Because it's dirty… you shouldn't let stuff like that go in your mouth…" you breathe out, curling into a ball.

He unties his sweatpants and pulls them down, along with his boxers. You hear rustling around and turn your head a bit, only to see Zayne standing behind you with his dick out. You quickly shift your focus to his face, aware of the long and thick length hanging between his legs. He kneels down and towers over you, caging you between his arms.

He kisses your shoulder after pulling the sleeve down. You moan quietly and bite your lip when you feel him removing your robe completely, then worming his hands between your thighs. 

"W-where did you learn to do this?" You side-eye him, feeling him rub your clit. 

You turn into your pillow and moan in it, feeling his cock gently graze your wet folds. Your body rolls over onto your stomach, and you unconsciously raise your hips, presenting that wet cunt to him, due to him touching your clit.

He doesn't answer. But a moment later, he whispers, "Why are you trembling?" against your ear, gliding his hand down to your waist.

"Y-You know why…" You quietly hiss, then moan softly when his tip rubs your hole.

Your head turns to look back at him, and your hand presses against his stomach. He looks down at you, who's panting and looking at him lustfully. "… I-I… have to stop you…"

He leans over and kisses your back, pushing his dick in slowly. "But you can't… you want this just as much as I do…"

Your eyes roll back, and your hands crush under your breasts as his length stretches you out. It's been a while since you've felt something as big as him fill you to the max, and it makes your body shake and ache for more.

He plants his feet into the blanket under your hips and pulls out halfway. Your head throws back when he pushes in fully, his hips slamming against your ass.

"Z-Zayne!"

"I'm here, mommy," he feels sweat forming on his forehead as the pleasure he's waited so long for takes over his conscience.

He starts thrusting fast, making you gasp loudly and moan out. His hands pull you back from your wrists, making your back arch, then they move up to grip your tits. "Oh, you feel so good. I always knew you would." He kisses your neck.

Your sight blurs with stars as his tip rams into your cervix, making your jaw slack. "You say this is wrong… but it feels too good to be…"

He holds your wrists behind you, making you hover over your blanket with your mounds swinging. Your delicate moans and pleas for more go straight to his cock, and you feel him thicken.

"Y-you're filling me more than I can t-take!" He presses you down into the mattress, smacking his hips faster.

"Zaaaayne!" You whine, feeling ready to cum.

"Let go for me. Let me have it. I-I can take it, mommy." The name feels so sinful, but you're too lost in the clouds to care.

His arms hug you tightly as he pushes in, releasing his hot load into your womb. "Ngh—!" You pant harshly as your legs convulse, with him slowly grinding into you. He carefully pulls out and hisses when the absence of your tightness hits his cock.

You both stay there, catching your breath. It felt sinfully wrong, but neither of you cared. You let your aching desires and loss of warmth from your ex get to you, making you accept Zayne's touch, while his curiosity and jealousy of your ex got to him. His cum slowly seeped out and onto the blanket, puddling in thick amounts.

"Y-you… came s-so much…" You're careful with your voice's volume, having an invisible sense of his dick in your walls.

He gently rolls you onto your back and towers over you, propping your pillow up so you can lay your head down. You don't speak, but yelp as he lifts your hips, making you look up at them, then at him. His hand grabs the base of his dick and pushes it inside you again.

"W-Wait! I-I'm sensssitive!" He crouches over you, curling your bodies into each other.

"That means you'll feel even better, right?" He whispers innocently, moving his hips a bit.

You sob as his fingers rub your clit, the stimulation already at max, making you squirt a little. "Mmm!!!"

You couldn't notice until it was too late; the look he had in his eyes, he was started bouncing on you. His eyes were filled with greed and hunger, wanting nothing more than to push you until you begged him not to stop and became a mess for him. Your teeth clenched together as he pounded his first load into you, working up to put another inside you.

He's losing his mind by the second. The Heavens carefully made you, and they made you just for him. Forget your dead fiancé; you have Zayne now. And he'll give you what he couldn't.

He leans down and captures your lips, slipping his tongue between your teeth. Your eyes widen and water as every pleasure point hits you at once. Your fists clench tightly next to your head, and your eyes stare up at him. His hands that gripped the headboard for leverage move down to pin your wrists before fucking you faster and harder than before. You whimper and whine loudly in his mouth, feeling your pussy sucking his cock in like she's hungry for it.

The bed squeaks and croaks, hitting aggressively against the wall and chipping its paint. Your nails dig into the skin of your palm like you were trying to subdue the overwhelming pleasure throughout your body. He pulls away from your lips and rests his forehead against yours.

"You feel that? You feel how tightly you're squeezing my dick?" He moans in your ear, slamming down onto you once more, then grinding his hips harshly against you, wanting to be impossibly deep.

You cry out, and your toes curl as you feel his tip trying to push into your womb. "T-too much! Oh, baby!"

He hugs you tightly as he rocks your bodies, ensuring your souls are one. Now no one would come between you and him, and he'll make sure that ex of yours is a forgotten man.

"I'm coming for you, y/n…! Only you~" he whispers before kissing you deeply while his eyes roll back; his mind happy that one of his wishes had came true.

Zayne woke up to something shaking him. His eyes open, and he sees his professor smiling down sympathetically at him. His eyes widen a bit, and he quickly lifts his head up.

He fell asleep in classes.

"I'm sorry, I-"

"It's alright. Class just ended." She says, walking down the stairs.

He takes a second to regain himself and packs his supplies up, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. He doesn't even remember falling asleep. 

He walked out of the room into the empty hallway and checked the time, seeing that school had already ended. A deep sigh flowed from his lips as he walked out of the building and headed home. The 20-minute walk turned into a 35-minute walk after he stopped by the cafe to get some macarons on the way home.

~

Your phone displayed 8:30 PM on the screen. You sit in the booth, waiting for your date, when someone calls out to you. You turn your head, excited to see the man, only to find one of your students standing there.

"Oh, hi Zayne!" You give a soft smile.

"Hello. How are you?"

"I'm alright, I'm waiting for my date," you awkwardly nod your head. "Having dinner out?" 

He nods. "I come here every once in a while. I didn't feel like cooking tonight." He stands closer to the table, out of the way.

"Oh okay!" You aren't sure what to say, but you're saved by the sound of your phone going off.

You quickly take it out of your purse and see a text from Mark.

Can't make it tonight. Can we reschedule? 

You sigh and shake your head, putting your phone back in your purse.

"Did he decide to not show up?" Zayne's voice brings you out of your head.

"He said he can't make it, so we'll have to "reschedule"," you move to get up, but his hand rests on your shoulder.

"Why don't you have dinner with me? It'd be a waste for you to have come all the way here just to not eat anything," He softly suggests.

"I'm not sure…"

"Just as colleagues, if that's what you're worried about." He nods firmly.

You blink and look at the table, taking your purse off your shoulder. He sits across from you and waves at the waiter.

~

The dinner was going well. You and Zayne talked a lot about your hobbies and interests, and you learned he despises carrots and has a monkey for a brother. You also learned that he does a lot of sports, while the only thing you're good at is doing backflips and splits.

"I think flexibility is important. It keeps your muscles intact the older you get and aids in circulation." He adds. 

He quickly imagines you doing a split on him, and his face heats up.

You chuckle and agree, taking a sip of your water. The two of you finished your meals and were given a plate of mini chocolate bars, like refreshment treats. Nothing too crazy until you got curious and looked at the menu.

Chocolate cake, chocolate mousse, chocolate ganache…

No chocolate candy or refreshments.

The waiter came back and you went to grab the bill but Zayne got it before you could. "I can pay my stuff, Zayne."

"It's alright. I appreciate you letting me keep you company." The faintest smile forms on his face as he hands the bill to the waiter.

You look at your heel and rub your ankle, feeling a cut starting to form from it digging into your skin. Too busy being distracted by your tiny wound, the tip of your shoe rubs up his leg a bit and sends shivers up his spine. But of course, when he looks at you, you don't realize what you've done.

~

Turns out the "refreshment" chocolate had alcohol in it. You only realize this now after asking for some more and eating them on the way out. Zayne stands close to you, noticing something different about you but not commenting on it. 

He offered to take you home, and you looked down feeling flustered, and he senses it. His hand rests on your mid back as you two walk toward his car. "You don't need to do that. I already feel bad that you spent your money on me."

"Why do you feel bad? I wanted to pay for your food." A small crease forms between his eyebrows.

"Plus, I'd feel better knowing I took you home, and you got there safely." He steps closer to you.

You two were almost the same height, but you were three inches taller, even without the heels.

Zayne helps you get in the car, then gets in and buckles his seatbelt. He goes into the glove compartment and takes a water bottle out. "Here. It has not been opened yet."

You take the bottle and use some strength to open it. "Thanks."

He drives off and keeps his eyes focused on the road, trying to ignore the fact that his crush is in his car right now. He takes a glance at you and sees you staring straight ahead.

"How would you rate the food?" He tries to make conversation.

"Mmm, I'd give it an 8 and a half. I feel like it was missing something, but I couldn't figure out what... I do want to try the carbonara next time I go." You nod, fiddling with your fingers.

"I'm glad you liked it. We can try it next time."

"Huh?" You look at him surprised, but he doesn't respond.

You two sit in silence once more; the sprinkles of rain from earlier turn into large drops, pattering harshly against the vehicle.

"Man… it's coming down pretty hard…" you whispered, looking out your window.

"The weather app said nothing about rain tonight... But I'm glad you're not driving. I can't imagine what it'd be like for you." You look over at him and nod.

"I'm not used to driving in the rain."

"And you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk. I can walk in a straight line and do the alphabet backwards." You huff.

"What's 5 quartic plus 22?" He lightly teased.

"That's such a specific equation?" Your eyebrows furrow in bewilderment.

He chuckled, and the deep, but soft sound flutters your stomach, making you look away out the window. Your hand cups your bicep, and he glances over.

"Are you cold?" He asks softly, turning the heater on.

"No, I'm all right." You nod slowly.

He pulls up to a stop sign and quickly grabs his jacket from the backseat. "Here."

"I-I don't need that, really." You wave your hands.

"I wasn't asking." He dryly jokes, sprawling it over you.

You rigidly lay under the material, staring out the windshield. "Thanks…"

"You're welcome."

The next 15 minutes feel tense. You should've been home by now, but it feels like he's been driving for longer. You look down at his radio, only to see the GPS was off.

When did he turn it off?

"H-Hey, we should have made it to my house by now."

He looks over at you then back at the road. "We're just driving around… I didn't want to drop you off just yet."

Now it was your turn to stare at him. "What? Why?"

The more you stare at him, the longer his silence concerns you. He turns the wheel and drives down a dark road, the moon slowly vanishing behind the car.

"Zayne-"

"It's all right. I just… want to be around you a little longer." His voice becomes husky, and you feel your heart thump anxiously.

"What are you talking about? Where are we going?" Your breathing becomes shallow, the panic slowly seething out.

He looks over at you, and his heart races abnormally. "I need to talk to you."

He pulls over and parks the car, turning the headlights off. You look at him confused and curious.

"You can talk to me when I get home? I'm confused." You swallow, looking at your surroundings frantically.

His hand lifts and gently rests on your thigh, making you jump a bit and look down at it, then over at him. "I… have feelings for you. I've had them for a while now."

The tone that he speaks in tells you he genuinely means it, and it scares you.

"N-No, I… I don't understand." You shake your head, beginning to panic.

"I need to go-" You try to leave, but the doors are locked. He must've turned the child safety lock while he was driving.

"I just want us to talk." You turn back to look at him, but he's gotten much closer.

"Y-you…" you back into the door, your hand raised like you were going to reach for the assist grip.

"I won't hurt you. I just… need to show you who you belong to." You watch as his eyes shift down to your lips.

"W-why me though? I'm old enough to be your mo–!" his lips press against yours, and your eyes widen.

It feels like someone sharing their first kiss with their crush, after the months-long tension boiled over. Sparks burst like fireworks; adrenaline rages through your bodies. He alternates his head's direction as his lips move against yours. Your eyes squeeze shut as you feel yourself slipping into him. Your mind snaps, and you push him back, keeping your hands on his shoulders.

"I can't do this. I'm your professor; you shouldn't be seeing me in this way, Zayne." You turn your head away.

"Believe me when I say that I've tried to ignore this. But it's only gotten worse since you've been my professor." His hand lifts, and his thumb rubs your bottom lip.

"You've been so sweet to me… How am I only supposed to see you as my professor…" he trails off, cupping your head and kissing you again.

Your protests are muffled by his lips; the taste of alcohol and chocolate mixed together seeps from your mouth to his. He pulls away just a centimeter and pushes his tongue into your mouth, fiddling with yours. You feel your heart race, and a delightful moan rumbles in your chest.

Zayne groans in reciprocation, moving his hands down to the sides of your neck. His lips stamp the corner of your lips, then your cheek, followed by your jaw, and lastly the left side of your neck. Almost instantly, he finds that sweet spot and kisses it, making you grip his shoulders.

"Sh-shit…" You quietly curse, feeling him suck on it.

Your eyes roll back, and your head falls back against the window— well, against his hand to prevent your head from hitting it. He continues sucking that spot as the same hand maneuvers down and grasps your right mound.

"Ah!" You yelp, turning your head the other direction, ruining his leeching behavior.

He pulls back to look at you, and a sense of relief washes over you. But it's short-lived because his hands grasp his jacket over you, and he pulls it off, revealing your long-sleeved top that was snug on your torso.

He doesn't speak as his hands mess with the buttons, causing you to look down at them. "What are you-" Each one quickly comes undone, and he hastily pushes the panels apart.

"Zay-"

"Let us have this… just for tonight." He pants shallowly, staring at your bust under the bra.

He doesn't want this just tonight; he wants this forever. He's sure.

"My gods…" he leans forward and latches his lips above your right bust, making you press back against the door again.

Your back arches into him when he pulls your bra down and sucks your nipple. "Mmm!"

Your thighs squeeze shut; your right hand grasps his long strands while your left hand rests on his right bicep. Your sweet sounds were music to his ears, and he'd happily listen to these tunes all night.

He pulls away from your tits with a harsh 'pop!' and flicks his tongue up and down your nipple, making sure to give the other one the same attention.

"Z-Zayne… please…" You whisper, looking down at him and feeling vulnerable.

He left kisses along your cleavage, groping your tits as he kissed up to your neck again. A part of you felt ashamed that your student, as young as he is, was able to do such things to you. Or maybe your body grew more sensitive over time, and was getting off to anybody touching it.

Zayne pulls back completely, his eyes completely filled with need and desire. He cups your cheeks once more, making your eyes shift to his. His hands hold your biceps and rub them up and down.

"I know it's a bit cramped up here… let's move to the back, my love." The back of his hand caresses your cheek gently as he presses his lips to yours once more.

~

You were propped half against the door, half on the seat. He towered over you and unraveled the rest of your clothes as he kissed your tits. Your head shifted to the side to hide away from him and cover your mouth. Your quiet moans fill his ears when his hands glide up your waist and grope your breasts from their base. You bite your lip, suppressing those sounds he loves dearly, and tilt your head back to his shoulder.

His lips press all over your skin, leaving faint trails of saliva everywhere. Your other hand comes up and touches the back of his head, entangling your fingers in his hair.

"Don't silence yourself. I want to hear it all." He grinds against you.

Your body falters and tries to curl away from him, but his hands don't let you. They slide between your knees and push them far apart, curling your left leg around the seat's headrest and gripping under your right knee. Then his right hand moves down and rubs in between your wet folds.

"A-Are we really- Oh!" Your words cut off when he fingers your hole. Your eyes shake as the pleasure becomes unbearable.

He strategically pulls his pants down with his other hand and rubs his cock, wetting it with your juices before sliding it in carefully.

"They say that sex is better when two people can feel each other… right, professor?" He whispers, sucking your neck once more.

"But…" your words melt into nothing as he pushes all the way in.

"I need to feel you, my flower." His soft voice captures your heart as his lips connect to yours again.

You knew that if you were going to fall into this depravity, you should've at least made protection the number 1 boundary. But something about this nerdy and quiet young man sticking his raw dick inside you tempted you more than being safe.

His grip on your right leg shifts, and he presses both your legs against each side of his head, climbing on top of you fully. His hips slowly thrust while keeping you spread wide open for him.

"You're taking all of me so well, my j-jasmine." He groans in your ear, thrusting faster and feeling his balls slap against your ass.

The car shakes as he moves faster, deeper, harder, trying to get inside your womb.

"Because of you… I can fuck you like a real man. Thank you for showing me what I needed to do- fuuck, mommy." His voice strains when he whispers harshly.

M-mommy? Oh shiiit, you think, feeling your heart falling for him.

Your mind brings up the question of how you showed him what to do. When did that happen? What did you show him? You're distracted for a moment, but your walls squeeze him, bringing you back to reality.

You both look down at your genitals, connecting and making a mess. You turn into a mewling mess for him, and he's more than ecstatic to be touching you like this. He leans down and kisses your forehead, moving to your ear, then your neck.

"… we were meant to fuck each other like jackrabbits in heat." His arousal speaks through before his jaw slackens as he sucks and kisses your neck once more.

Your hands claw at his arms, your shoulders tense as your orgasm rapidly builds up.

"FFuuuck!!" You whine and sob quietly, biting your lip at how good it felt.

"Ngh, mommy… You belong to me now. Oh, I'm never letting you go." His soft voice has a lingering desperation.

His hand that rested on your breast slides up to your throat and grips it gently, forcing your head to lift so he could kiss you. Your dazed eyes widen at the action, and you squint when he moves faster.

Your eyes roll back while his tongue slips between your teeth, and your nipples harden at his balls slapping harshly against your ass.

Suddenly, something in the back of your mind makes its way to the front, and paints a picture from a couple of days ago, and you start to remember what he was talking about (when he said you taught him how to fuck you).

->

It was after class one day. You bid a student farewell after answering some of their questions and giving advice for the coursework. You closed the door behind them, locking it from the inside.

Zayne stood up and slung his backpack over his shoulder, then walked down the stairs.

"Professor—" His soft voice questioned.

You jumped and put your hand on your heart. "Goodness, Zayne! You're as quiet as a mouse!"

"Apologies. I didn't mean to scare you. I was waiting until you were done to talk about the material." He stood tall and rigid a few steps away from you.

"Y-Yeah, sure. Have a seat." You gestured over to your desk.

The two of you sat at the corner of the classroom, with you logging back into your computer. The room fell quiet again, and for once, he felt awkward. Caleb had teased him about this plenty of times and even tried to give him advice.

"Try getting to know her first; see what she likes or dislikes. Find out her hobbies or any other interests." His friend's words echoed in his mind.

Of course, he didn't know that his friend's crush was his professor, who was 20-something years older than him.

"So, what does the great Zayne Li need help with?" Your teasing voice brought him out of his mind, and a fiery red spread across his cheeks and ears.

He grabbed the textbook out of his bag and sat it on the desk, turning to page 265. He looked for the paragraph and pointed at it.

"Here it says that men are best at sex when they're 19?" His eyes shift up to you.

You glanced at the paragraph. "Seems to be a misconception. What they're really talking about is when sex is at its "peak" for men. A lot of factors can influence how "great" sex is, rather than it just being the age."

"…These books are somewhat outdated. I don't know when they'll give us new ones" You muttered.

"Factors like…?" He gets closer, just barely.

"Well, libido, how sexually and physically active someone is, if they do any specific exercises that can help improve those areas, so kegel exercises, for example, to strengthen the muscles of the pelvic floor... It can also be certain positions." You awkwardly looked over at your monitor.

He senses he's getting to you and quietly clears his throat. "If you don't mind talking about it, could you… give examples?" His voice is soft, like he's trying to be secretive.

"I'm not a therapist or anything—"

"But you are my professor, no? Surely this isn't too inappropriate to discuss." The redness on his cheeks and ears worsens.

"Zayne, I—" you both hear a knock at the door and turn your heads.

"___? Are you in there? I need to talk to speak with you." One of your colleagues yelled through the door.

You looked at Zayne, who had an unreadable expression, and got up, quickly stepping over to the door. You unlocked it and peeked your head out, seeing one of your colleagues, Mark, standing rigidly.

"Hi. I'm with a student right now, we're talking about the material I just taught. Could you maybe send me an email?"

"Oh yeah, I was just reminding you that our date is at 8 tonight." He whispered.

"I already knew, thank you." You shyly nodded, and bid each other goodbye before you closed the door.

"Sorry about that." Your sneakers quietly squeaked as you rushed back over to the desk.

"It's all right." He spoke softly.

"Okay… we were talking…?"

"Sex." He bluntly stated.

"Right… I can't really show you anything because I'm your professor obviously, but I can direct you to some resources, like medical websites and health books. I won't be able to do it here because we're on school grounds, so if you have a personal email, I can send it when I get home."

He wrote down his personal email, and ripped the paper off then gave it to you.

You walked out of the building and down the stairs, making your way to the parking lot. The sky had an orangish-blue gradient that faded completely into blue on the other side of town. You were about to get in your car when a few of your students yelled at you from nearby. You looked at them and waved with a small smile on your face.

You were too busy looking at them to notice a particular student standing behind the stairs of the school's entrance, just watching you.

~

When you got home, you unraveled your clothes from today and hopped straight into the shower. Zayne got home a little while ago and sat in his room, staring at his computer. He was impatiently waiting for your email.

Thirty minutes went by, and every refresh felt agonizing. No new emails, not even in spam or important. He checked the time and read '5:58 PM'. It's been 28 minutes and 12 seconds since you got home.

Yes, he watched you make it home, totally not to get your address. And yes, Caleb taught him that; don't judge.

After another 15 minutes of waiting, he was about to call it a night, assuming you just forgot or changed your mind, when a ringtone sounded off from his computer, and his eyes darted to it immediately.

He saw the email from you, likely your personal email because the domain was not the school's. His cursor immediately clicked on the message, and he read it over.

"Hi Zayne,

Here's some links to articles and books you can check out for more information."

The information you provided wasn't what he had hoped for. A tiny bit of him hoped you would send some actual links to these… certain positions, but these could do. He switched to a private browser and inserted the links in multiple tabs, going on an adult site and searching them there.

He watched the videos, keeping the volumes low and zooming in on certain parts. The man had his dick so deep in the woman that she was practically screaming bloody murder.

'How is this pleasant?' He asked himself.

"Now remember, when a girl tells you deeper, you go deeper. It's the same if she tells you faster; you fuck her faster." His friend's vulgar words echoed in his mind.

Despite the videos being fake, he took notes, memorizing how the man moves his hips, how he eats her pussy, and how he rubs her clit.

"You should know that the clitoris is very sensitive and has a lot of nerves, right?" Zayne stared at his friend and nodded.

"So when you're playing with it, start slow. Not too much pressure, but not too soft. It's the same when you're licking it; imagine like you're eating the ice cream off a cone!" He blinked slowly.

He finished the second video and closed the tab. He felt overwhelmed by how much information he had to retain for this specific thing, but it was for you— for you. He wanted to prove that he can have sex with you just as well as any other guy, but he aimed to be the best.

Even if he was a virgin.

<-

Zayne's pace gets sloppy as his high approaches, moving roughly by the sound of your weeping pussy being filled. He cages every part of you in his embrace, wanting nothing more than to fill that fertile pocket right up.

A strained groan vibrates the car as something warm quickly fills you. The hot liquid escapes your metra and seeps out, leaking onto his seats. You look up at the roof of the car, fucked out. The foggy windows and circulating heat symbolize what just happened.

He hugs you like he hadn't seen you in years, not letting even a centimeter of space get between you two while lifting and lowering his hips, over and over, to grind his cum into you. His head turns and smushes his lips on your cheek, then moves to your lips. Your right hand comes up and cups the back of his head, signaling him to stay like this. 

His tongue claims every inch of your mouth, then plays with yours. His heart swells as his cock softens and slowly slips out, hanging in front of your filled cunt with a string of cum attached to his tip from your hole.

The sound of kisses plays out within the heated vehicle as he peppers your lips with lots of them, keeping his arms firmly wrapped around you. Neither of you speaks as you both make out, with you feeling tired, overly satisfied, and wanting him, and him wanting to go more rounds. The camera above his GPS ends the recording and sends it to his computer back home, giving him something physical— or digital— to remember this night.

Though he didn't need a physical reminder because he would never forget the best thing that ever happened to him.

ts ass, lwk

[zaynelandsontop]

Dadbod zayne bc his metabolism caught up to his dessert addiction 🤤🤤

[fromeirlys]

Hwk need dadbod dilf zayne injected into my bloodstream

[bloodabi]

maybe a lukewarm take: i cant picture a yandere sylus really. ive discussed him a little bit before, and when i do i talk about how he feels bad about his actions. because i have such a hard time putting the yandere label on sylus at all, i think what would be really interesting is sylus succumbing to a yandere virus, which is a subject i havent really talked about in a while.

the idea of a virus spreading that alters behavior in such a way to create a yandere i think would be a terrifying plague to deal with, and i think that those in relationships might deal with dread and remorse for actions they know at some point they'll commit. i think sylus in this scenario is super interesting, as he's always respected your independence and autonomy. now there's something that will make him feel otherwise, and he doesn't want that. so when sylus inevitably gets sick with the initial cough and fever, he panics. he's inconsolable. he's crying in your arms, terrified at what he might do to you. but eventually, the crying subsides, as does the fever. and while he feels guilty the whole way through, he still locks every door and window tight, and you know by the way he looks at you, you're not going anywhere anymore.

[fromeirlys]

I fr need him to tie me to the bed already 👹

[fromeirlys]

Just got my lips pierced; couldn’t decide between Dahlia bites, snake bites, double vertical labret or angel fangs, so i just got angel fangs lol

They kinda make a face with my frog eye piercing lol

[fromeirlys]

Been “studying” anatomy so I can finally upload spicy art of Zayne and MC on my twt 💔

[fromeirlys]

Happy Birthday!! 🥳🎉🎊💚

It was last Saturday, but OH MY GOD THANK YOU I FEEL SEEN 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

[niima0]

Everytime I think of Dawnbreaker Zayne I imagine him to look like this. Just so tired, unkempt hair and with a bit of a stubble.

He needs a hug :(

[fromeirlys]

OH MY LOVELY DAWNBREAKER 😫

[calebsfavoriteusedthong]

Professor Zayne

Wc: 14,089

CW: Student-teacher. Eventual smut. P in V. Oral s3x. Medical inaccuracies.

You stare at your laptop screen, the cursor blinking mockingly at the bottom of your email draft. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you reread what you've written—no, what you sent—to Professor Zayne.

The essay. Or rather, a smut story.

It's titled "Electrophysiology of Desire".

You'd thought it was clever, a play on words that would show your understanding of cardiac rhythms and sex. Something to post on your blog for fun.

The ML is named Zander—a cardiac surgeon with green eyes and cold hands who knows exactly how to make a patient's heartbeat quicken. The story describes, in excruciating detail, how he examines his patient, his fingers trailing across her skin, his breath cold against her neck as he teaches her about accelerated heart rates and the body's natural responses to stimulation.

You'd written it late one night, frustrated with your lack of sex and projecting your fantasies onto the one person you shouldn't have—a man who could actually diagnose the "tachycardia" you were having right now.

The email you sent an hour ago still haunts you:

"Professor Zayne, attached is my essay on Electrophysiology. Please review and provide feedback."

Then, twenty minutes ago, you sent the correction:

"Please disregard my previous email. The attached file is the correct essay on Electrophysiology. I apologize for the confusion."

Now you wait. The hours crawl by like molasses. You imagine him opening it, his expression shifting from professional curiosity to shock. Maybe disgust. Maybe he's already contacted the Dean. Maybe he's laughing. Maybe he's forwarding it to the entire faculty.

That last thought has you panicking. Sweaty palms. Fast breathing. That sick feeling in your stomach like you're on a rollercoaster that won't stop.

"What the hell was I thinking?"

Your phone buzzes and you nearly jump out of your skin.

It's an email notification from Zayne.

You click it open with trembling fingers.

The email subject reads: "Re: Electrophysiology Essay"

Your stomach drops.

The body is short. Professional. Cold.

Y/N,

I have reviewed your submission. It is... certainly creative. However, it does not meet the academic standards required for this course. You will need to submit a proper essay on the physiological mechanisms of cardiac conduction systems by the end of the week.

I suggest you take some time to reconsider the appropriateness of your work. This class is not a venue for personal fiction, no matter how... imaginative... the subject matter may be.

Professor Zayne

The email ends. There's no attachment. No further comments. Just those few sentences that somehow manage to convey everything without saying a word about how your protagonist's name sounds like his, or how you'd described fingers trailing across skin in excruciating detail.

You sit there, staring at the screen. Your face burns with shame so intense you can barely breathe. He didn't report you. He didn't call you into his office. He just... sent you this.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

"You're such an idiot."

The story is still saved on your laptop. You could delete it. Burn it. Pretend this never happened. But your finger hovers over the delete button and you can't quite bring yourself to do it.

Instead, you press your face into your hands, wondering how you're going to walk into his classroom on Monday.

...walk into his classroom on Monday.

The thought makes you want to laugh—or cry. Probably both.

Outside, you can hear other students laughing, living their normal lives, completely unaware that you've just sent your professor an erotic story disguised as an academic essay.

Your phone buzzes again. Another email notification.

This time it's from Zayne's personal email address, not the university one. Your heart stops.

You open the email, hands shaking so badly you almost drop your phone.

The subject line is simple : "Reviewing 2nd Essay Now"

The body is brief:

I've just seen your correction. I'll review the proper essay when I have time.

However, I did want to address the first submission you sent. I've attached it with some notes. While your writing shows... creativity... there are some anatomical and physiological inaccuracies I think you should be aware of.

Professor Zayne

Below the text, there's an attachment. Your story.

Except now it's covered in comments. Zayne's comments.

You click to open it, and your stomach drops even further.

The notes are clinical. Detached. But they make you burn with shame anyway.

[Note 1: The description of ventricular fibrillation is technically accurate, though the context is inappropriate for an academic essay.]

[Note 2: Your understanding of sympathetic nervous system activation is correct. The physiological response you've described does occur during arousal.]

[Note 3: The term 'tachycardia' is used correctly. However, the scenario in which it occurs is not clinically appropriate for this assignment.]

[Note 4: Your description of afterdeath cardiac changes is remarkably detailed. You appear to have done significant research. Though again, the application is... unconventional.]

[Note 5: The protagonist's skill set—knowledge of anatomy, understanding of physiological responses, ability to calm distressed patients—is actually quite accurate for a cardiac surgeon. Though his bedside manner in your story is not clinically recommended.]

[Note 6: The psychological aspect of parasympathetic activation post-climax is well-researched. Your understanding of heart rate variability is impressive.]

[Note 7: The ice-breath technique described is not a recognized medical procedure. While you've attempted to connect it to Evol abilities, this is fictional and should not be presented as medical advice.]

[Note 8: Your understanding of endorphin release and oxytocin's role in mood elevation is great. However, the romanticized presentation is not appropriate for academic work.]

Overall assessment: Creativity: High.

Academic appropriateness: Questionable.

Research depth: Impressive.

Recommended for: Personal enjoyment only.

Not recommended for: Submitting to this course.

Professor Zayne

The notes end there.

You sit frozen, staring at the screen. Your face feels like it's on fire now. Every single paragraph of your story—every intimate detail, every fantasy you'd written late at night when you thought no one you know would ever see it—has been read and analyzed by him. By Professor Zayne. The man who actually knows about tachycardia and sympathetic nervous systems and heart rate variability.

You scroll through the notes again, each one making you feel more exposed than the last. He didn't just read your story. He corrected it. Pointed out what you got right and wrong, the same way he would grade an actual essay. Except this wasn't an essay. This was you. Your private thoughts. Your secret fantasies.

And he'd dissected them with the same clinical precision he'd use on a difficult case.

Your phone buzzes again. Another email from his personal address.

This one is shorter:

I understand you may not want to attend class on Monday. That's acceptable. I'll email you the lecture notes and any assignments. Focus on the new essay due at the end of next week.

No need to respond unless you have questions about the feedback.

Professor Zayne

He's giving you an out. Letting you skip Monday. Probably because he knows you'd be too mortified to show your face after this.

You should feel relieved.

Instead, you feel... something else. Something you can't quite name.

You look at the attached story again, covered in his clinical annotations. Every note is professional, detached—yet somehow that makes it worse. He didn't get embarrassed reading it. Didn't get angry. He just... analyzed it. Like a specimen under a microscope.

You press your face into your hands again, wondering how you're ever going to recover from this.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

Monday Morning

You are 10 minutes late.

Just don't go in. Just turn around. Send him an email. Tell him you're dropping his class.

You know you won't. This is worth too much. You need this class. You have to go in.

Standing outside his classroom, with your bag clutched against your chest like a shield, you can see students already in their seats through the small window. The lecture hall is on the third floor of the medical building—impossible to avoid running into anyone you know on the way there.

You can do this. You're an adult. You made a mistake. He's a professional. He'll barely acknowledge it.

You take a deep breath and push the door open.

The classroom falls silent for exactly three seconds. You can feel every pair of eyes on you as you make your way to your usual seat in the middle row. Your hands shake slightly as you set your bag down, trying to make it look casual.

Professor Zayne stands at the front, writing something on the whiteboard. He's wearing his usual professional attire—a crisp white coat over dark slacks, silver framed glasses perched on his nose. He hasn't turned around yet.

"Good morning, Y/N," he says without looking, his voice carrying that familiar clinical tone. "Glad you could make it."

A few students snicker quietly and you feel your face burning already.

"As I was saying before the interruption," he continues, still facing the board, "the sinoatrial node generates electrical impulses at approximately 60 to 100 beats per minute in a resting adult. These impulses travel through the atrioventricular node and—"

He pauses. Turns.

Your eyes meet his across the classroom.

For a fraction of a second, his expression is unreadable. Then, just barely perceptible, his lips curve into the smallest hint of a smile. Not mocking. Not cruel.

"Though I suppose we should discuss what happens when heart rates increase significantly," he adds, his eyes holding yours. "Perhaps a volunteer could help?"

The room feels like it's tilting. You can't breathe. You can't move. Every student is staring at you now, and you're certain they all know. You're certain he's going to say something. Call you out. Make an example of you.

He just... keeps looking at you.

Your mouth is dry. Your hands are clenched so tight that your knuckles have gone white. He's still looking at you, and it feels like everyone is holding their breath.

Then, with the same professional demeanor, he says, "Y/N, would you mind coming to the front? I'd like your help for this next section."

Your name sounds like a death sentence.

You can't say no. You were already late for his class. If you refuse everyone will suspect something happened.

Your legs feel like they're made of lead as you stand. You can feel every pair of eyes boring into you as you walk to the front of the room. The fluorescent lights too bright. The air conditioning makes you shiver, or maybe that's just adrenaline.

"Thank you," Zayne says when you stop next to his desk. He gestures to the whiteboard where he's drawn a diagram of the heart's conduction system. "When the sympathetic nervous system is activated—through stress, excitement, or other stimuli—heart rate increases. This is a normal physiological response."

You know he is thinking about your story.

"Y/N, if you could stand here," he says, gesturing to a spot next to him, "and we can walk through the physical manifestations of this response. What do you think happens first when someone experiences increased heart rate?"

Your mind is completely blank. You can't think about physiology. You can't think about anything except how he's standing way too close, how you can smell that faint scent of antiseptic and something else—something clean and masculine—that you've noticed before but never really felt until now.

"I..." Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. "The heart beats faster?"

Stupid obvious answer

"Correct," he says, and there's something in his tone—not praise exactly, but acknowledgment. "And what about respiratory rate? Breathing?"

You open your mouth. Close it. Your heart rate spikes even higher. You can feel it in your throat, in the pounding of your temples. You stand there, acutely aware of every student watching you and you wonder if he can hear it. If he's noticed that you're breathing faster.

"Y/N?" Zayne's voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts. He's still standing close, close enough that you have to resist the urge to step back.

"Breathing gets faster too," you manage to say, voice steadier now despite the chaos in your chest. "The body needs more oxygen when the heart is beating harder."

"Exactly right." He turns to makes a note on the whiteboard, his handwriting precise and controlled. "And what about peripheral vasoconstriction?"

You blink, trying to focus on the anatomical diagram he's drawn. The SA node, the AV node, the bundle of His—you've studied this a hundred times. But having him stand this close, having his attention entirely on you, makes it all feel like a foreign language.

"The blood vessels tighten," you say, finding your footing. "To redirect blood flow to the muscles and vital organs."

"Excellent." He turns back to the board again, adding another notation. "Notice how the body prioritizes function during stress responses."

He pauses and you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye. For just a moment, his professional mask slips, and there's something else in his expression

"Is there anything you'd like to add?" he asks, turning to face you. "You seem like you understand this material quite well."

Heat floods your face again.

"I...No." you say quietly, meeting his eyes. They're fixed on you with that same clinical intensity he uses on all his students.

"Good," he says, nodding slightly. "I'm glad you're following along." He gestures to the diagram again. "This is why it's important to understand the physiological basis for these responses. It helps us anticipate how patients might react in different situations. They're not just abstract concepts—they're what your body does when it's..." he pauses, choosing his words carefully, "...responding to intense stimuli."

Thinking he is done with you you give a step forward to go back to your seat.

"Y/N, what happens when this response is sustained? When the sympathetic activation continues beyond what's necessary?"

Your mind immediately goes to your story—the part where he keeps her body responding, where the stimulation doesn't stop, where everything built and built until...

"When it's sustained," you say carefully, trying to keep your voice level, "the body can't maintain the response indefinitely. Eventually, the parasympathetic nervous system kicks in to restore balance."

"Mm." He makes a sound of acknowledgment, writing on the board. "But during that sustained period, what do you think the body does to compensate? To... manage the increased demand?"

The question hangs in the air between you. You can feel the weight of it, the other meaning that's layered underneath the anatomical lesson. Your story had described exactly this, how her body learned to manage the stimulation, how it adapted, how it...

"You said the body prioritizes function," you respond, keeping your eyes on the board and not on him. "So it would redirect resources. Increase blood flow to where it's needed most. The muscles, the heart itself, the brain."

"Precisely. And what about sensation during this period? Does the body become more...sensitive?"

You can't answer that directly. Instead, you force yourself to keep your focus on the diagram, on the scientific terminology he's using. "Increased neural activity would enhance sensation" you say, the clinical terms helping you maintain some distance from what he's really asking. "The nervous system is already heightened, so every stimulus would register more strongly."

"And what are the physical manifestations of that heightened sensitivity? Temperature changes, for instance?"

"Temperature changes," you repeat, forcing yourself to stay clinical. "Blood rushing to the surface in some areas while being constricted in others creates a flushed appearance. Skin might feel hot to the touch despite core temperature being regulated."

 

"Exactly." His voice is lower now, and you realize he's not looking at the board or the students. His eyes are fixed on you "The body's response is complex. It's not just about the heart rate or the breathing. It's about the entire system adapting, compensating, finding new equilibriums."

The rest of the class is oblivious, taking notes, listening to what sounds like a perfectly normal lecture on cardiac physiology.

But you're not oblivious. You can feel the tension between you, the way he's using medical terminology to describe exactly what you wrote, what you imagined. Your protagonist's body learning to handle stimulation it had never experienced before, adapting to new sensations, finding pleasure in responses that should have been purely physiological.

"Dr. Zayne," a student in the back calls out, "what happens to the muscles during these responses?"

He blinks, and in that moment, his professional mask snaps back into place.

You swallow hard and answer without thinking "Muscles...become more rigid. Tense up"

"This tension can be useful, it prepares the body for action. For movement." His eyes hold yours for a beat longer than necessary. "Though sometimes, this tension can build and build... until it needs release."

The classroom feels impossibly hot suddenly. You can feel sweat beginning to form at your hairline. Several students shift in their seats, but they seem to think it's just another part of the lecture. You know better. You can hear the faint sound of his pen moving across the whiteboard again, adding more notes.

"Now," he says, "let's discuss the parasympathetic nervous system. What happens when the body needs to return to baseline?"

Your mind is racing, trying to keep up with the lecture while also processing the other layer to everything he's saying. You'd written about this—the release, the aftermath, the way bodies settle back into stillness after that kind of intensity.

"The heart rate slows down," you manage. "Breathing returns to normal. Muscle tension releases."

"And what about hormone levels? What decreases after this parasympathetic response?"

"Stress hormones," you say automatically. "Cortisol, adrenaline. They drop."

He turns back to the board. "And what about oxytocin? What role does it play in this recovery process?"

You blink, momentarily thrown off your game by the question. You'd written about it too, it's when everything softens and becomes gentle. But you'd never thought you'd be discussing it in class. "It... promotes bonding? Helps regulate emotions?"

"Among other things," he says, his tone remains neutral as he writes the word 'oxytocin' on the board in large, deliberate letters. "Interesting, isn't it? How the body uses these chemicals to regulate emotional and physiological states."

He keeps talking about your story and he's doing it in front of the entire class making it look like it's just another lecture on endocrinology.

He turns back to address the room, "Let's move to the final section. I want everyone to think about the long term effects of these responses. If someone experiences these physiological changes repeatedly, what could happen? It's very important to understand them. To know when they're appropriate and when they might need... intervention."

The way he says 'intervention' makes your stomach flip. Other students start murmuring answers, but you're frozen in place.

He steps back to his desk, and you immediately feel the loss of his presence beside you. "Thank you, Y/N"

The lecture continues for another 30 minutes. He moves on to explaining the differences between bradycardia and tachycardia, the role of the baroreceptor reflex, various medications used to regulate heart rhythm. You try to focus, you really do, but his words blur together. You keep thinking about his hands, writing those notes on your story. You keep wondering if he actually read the whole thing, or if he skimmed it, disgusted by it, or—worse—actually read it carefully, analyzing every detail of your fantasy the way he's analyzing every detail of this physiology lecture.

When the class ends, you gather your things as fast as you can, dreading the walk to the door where you'll have to pass his desk.

"Y/N." His voice stops you mid step. You turn, and he's standing there with your essay in his hands, the correct essay. "Do you have a moment?" he asks, his tone perfectly professional. "I wanted to discuss your essay before you leave."

Fuck

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

His POV

Zayne had been grading papers in his office when he opened his laptop and saw he had a couple of new emails—the clock marked 7:04PM on a Friday night. He'd clicked it open expecting just another standard essay on cardiac conduction systems.

What he got was not standard.

He'd been teaching Cardiac Physiology 301 for three years now, and he'd seen plenty of rushed essays, poorly researched submissions, and the occasional student who thought medical terminology was just decorative language to sprinkle into their assignments

Y/N's work always stood out. From the moment she enrolled in his Monday-Wednesday-Friday class six weeks ago, he'd noticed her. Not just her grades—though those were exceptional—but the way she approached the material. The questions she asked. The intensity in her eyes when she was trying to understand complex concepts like cardiac conduction disorders or the details of congenital heart defects.

He'd caught himself watching her more than he should have. The way her hair fell across her shoulders when she leaned over her notes. The slight furrow of her brow when she was concentrating. The way she bit her lower lip when she was nervous about answering questions.

He'd told himself it was professional interest. She was a promising student. That's all.

He was about to learn exactly how unprofessional his attention had become.

He clicked on the attachment labeled "Electrophysiology_of Desire_.docx" and he stared at the first paragraph of what was clearly not an academic essay.

He blinked and reread the paragraph. This wasn't... this couldn't be... He glanced at the email subject again.

He should have closed it immediately. Should have deleted it without reading further. But something made him keep scrolling.

The prose was good—actually good. The understanding of physiology was impressive. But the subject matter...

He'd kept reading, assuming it was some kind of creative writing piece that had been sent on accident. Because no student in their right mind would submit this to their cardiovascular physiology Professor.

Then he got to the third page.

[His fingers traced the pulse point on her neck, feeling the fast flutter of her heartbeat. 'Tachycardia,' he whispered, 'Your body is responding to my touch. Shall we continue the examination?']

Zayne's coffee cup froze halfway to his lips. His eyes narrowed as he reread the passage.

The protagonist—named Zander, which was too close to his own name for comfort—was described in detail, broad shoulders, green eyes, dark hair. The way he knew anatomy. His hands "both precise enough for surgery and skilled enough for pleasure."

The research was impeccable. The descriptions of how heart rate increases during arousal were accurate. The understanding of sympathetic nervous system activation was correct. Even the details about vasoconstriction and respiratory changes were right. She'd done her homework, studied this material.

['His hand slid beneath her shirt, his touch tracing the curve of her breast, her nipple hardening beneath his palm. 'Sensitive,' he noted, thumb circling the peak. 'It responds to stimulation through nerve endings connected to the sympathetic system.']

But she'd used it to write porn. And not just any porn. Good porn, and that made it somehow worse.

Zayne's own heart rate was climbing. He could feel it pounding in his ears as he read on, his professional detachment crumbling with each paragraph.

[She gasped as his soft lips closed over her nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive tip.

'Cold,' she breathed, feeling his breath—that Evol ability he possessed—making her skin break out in goosebumps. 'Za...it's making me... oh god...']

Just like his own Evol.

Zayne's pen slipped from his fingers, clattering against the desk. A familiar awareness of his body's involuntary responses making him a bit uncomfortable.

['He pressed her back against the examination table, his body pinning hers down as his fingers explored lower, sliding between her thighs until he reached her soaked pussy. 'Already wet, lubrication increases during arousal to facilitate penetration.']

Zayne's cock was hard. He was hard, sitting in his office at 7:20PM, reading a student's porn.

When he reached the section describing the role of the parasympathetic nervous system in post orgasmic relaxation, he closed his laptop, walked over to the window and gazed out at the hospital grounds for a few minutes. Then he returned to his desk to write his feedback on her essay.

[Y/N,

I have reviewed your submission. It is... certainly creative. However, it does not meet the academic standards required for this course. You will need to submit a proper essay on the physiological mechanisms of cardiac conduction systems by the end of the week.

I suggest you take some time to reconsider the appropriateness of your work. This class is not a venue for personal fiction, no matter how... imaginative... the subject matter may be.

Professor Zayne]

He tries to forget the whole thing and moves on to read the next email.

Another email from her.

"Please disregard my previous email. The attached file is the correct essay on Electrophysiology. I apologize for the confusion."

His lips quirk into something between a smirk and a grimace as he opens the attachment.

This one is different. Professional. Academic. Properly formatted with references and citations. She's written a legitimate essay on cardiac conduction systems, complete with diagrams and footnotes. It's exactly what a medical student should be submitting and somehow Zayne is oddly disappointed.

He reads through it quickly, then sets it aside. His eyes drift back to the first file—the one sent by mistake. He opens it again, scrolling through the smut story with deliberate slowness. His pen taps against the desk as he rereads certain passages and decides to add notes on it.

He tried to maintain proper professor-student boundaries while writing those notes, but he couldn't stop thinking about the person who'd written it.

He also couldn't stop thinking about how the protagonist's name was very similar to his.

It was probably just a coincidence. Probably.

Probably.

He stood up again and walked to the window, watching the evening shift change. His hands were steady. His breathing was controlled. His heart rate wasn't. It was slightly elevated, and he knew it wasn't from stress or caffeine or any of the normal academic frustrations.

He turned back to his desk and scrolled through the annotated essay one more time. Every note he'd written felt inadequate, like he was trying to contain something inappropriate within the structure of clinical feedback. She had taken every single concept from his lectures and twisted it into this—this thing that made him feel like...like this.

[Overall assessment: Creativity: High. Academic appropriateness: Questionable. Research depth: Impressive. Recommended for: Personal enjoyment only. Not recommended for: Submitting to this course.]

He'd written that last line almost defensively, needing to maintain some kind of professional distance.

Zayne pressed his fingers to his temples. He had two choices: send the feedback and never think about it again, or... not. The problem was that he couldn't stop thinking about it. The clinical precision haunted him, the way every medical term was used correctly even in the most inappropriate scenarios. It was like finding a diamond in a pile of garbage—precious, valuable, but completely out of place.

The cursor blinked at the bottom of his last note, waiting. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, and then, without further ado, he hit 'Send'. Only this time, the email was sent from his personal account.

5 min later

He was a cardiac surgeon, for God's sake. He made life-or-death decisions every day. He should be able to handle one awkward Monday lecture without dissolving into professional incompetence. But the thought of seeing her after what he'd read... it made his chest feel too tight and his breathing too shallow. So he writes another email.

[I understand you may not want to attend class on Monday. That's acceptable. I'll email you the lecture notes and any assignments. Focus on the new essay due at the end of next week.

No need to respond unless you have questions about the feedback.

Professor Zayne]

He pressed send before he could second-guess himself.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

The classroom empties quickly, students filing out with curious glances, their whispers fading as the door clicks shut. You're alone with Professor Zayne now, standing near his desk while he spreads the essay out in front of him.

You already know what's coming, a lecture about academic standards, the discussion of how your writing doesn't belong in a cardiac physiology class. So you prepare to apologize, to explain, to anything that might make this less mortifying.

"Your essay," he says, gesturing to the paper "This is excellent work. The research is thorough, the citations are properly formatted, and your analysis of the sinoatrial node's role in cardiac conduction is particularly insightful."

Heat rises to your cheeks. His praise shouldn't make you feel this way but there's something about the way he's looking at you, the way his voice carries just a hint of warmth beneath the professional tone, that makes your pulse quicken.

"I've marked up a few sections with comments," he continues, the red pen marks are minimal, mostly small notes on minor clarifications. "But overall, this is the kind of work I expect from my students. You clearly understand the material."

You nod, relief flooding through you. Maybe this is it. Maybe he's just going to let it go, pretend the other email never happened, and you can both move on with your lives. "Thank you," you manage to say "I worked really hard on it."

"I can tell." he says "You clearly put more thought into it than your first submission."

Your face burns so hot you think you might actually faint.

"There are a few points here where you've gone beyond the basic material. Like this section on the vagus nerve and its role in the parasympathetic system."

He taps a paragraph, and you lean in slightly pretending to read it, catching a whiff of his cologne.

"I... I thought it was important to include, since it plays such a significant role in the body's stress response and recovery" you explain, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Absolutely," he agrees "Your attention to detail is commendable. And you've cited your sources properly, which demonstrates strong academic integrity."

He looks up at you, and for a moment, his gaze lingers on yours.

"Is there anything you'd like to discuss about this essay? Any questions about the material or the feedback I provided?"

There are so many things you want to ask him—about his notes on your story, about the way he'd looked at you during class—but you can't bring yourself to voice any of them. "No" you say finally, shaking your head.

His gaze intensifies, eyes flickering briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again. "Alright, if you think of anything, you know where to find me. My door is always open."

"Thank you, I... I appreciate your time and feedback."

He nods, breaking the moment. "You're welcome. Keep up the good work." He hands you the essay, and you take it with trembling fingers, glancing down at the red marks scrawled across the pages again before you tuck it into your bag, needing a few seconds to compose yourself before you can leave.

As you turn to go, he clears his throat.

"Y/N? One more thing."

Oh no

"The other document you sent, a fictional piece, I believe?"

Of course he would bring it up. Of course he would acknowledge the elephant in the room. You take a deep, steadying breath before turning back to face him, cheeks already flaming. "Yes, that was a mistake..."

You can feel the heat spreading from your cheeks, down your neck and across your chest.

"I know," he says simply. "I received your second email. I know it was a mistake."

You wish you could disappear. "I don't know how that happened. I meant to send the right one, it just... I'm sorry."

But he holds up a hand, silencing you "Don't apologize," he says, and there's a note of dry amusement in his voice "It's not every day a student submits a fictional story of a cardiac examination."

You can feel the smirk in his words, the unspoken implication. "I'm sorry," you say again, lamely. "I didn't mean to waste your time. I know it's not appropriate. It's just a hobby of mine. I never meant for it to be submitted as part of the coursework."

"You got a lot of things right. The physical responses, the physiological reactions... you nailed it." he moves closer "But doctors and patients, Y/N... it's not allowed. It's a clear violation of ethics and boundaries."

Your mouth is dry, but you can't stop yourself from saying, "Well, then it's a good thing its just fiction. A fantasy. I'm sure doctors like you wouldn't actually..."

"I wouldn't" he interrupts "especially not with my stu...patients"

Your heart is beating so fast it makes it hard for you to gather your thoughts "I know, Professor. Like I said, it's just a silly story I wrote for fun, not for you to read or grade."

"Fiction or not, it's not appropriate for a medical student to write erotic stories about doctor-patient relationships," he says, without thinking "Especially when that doctor is also her teacher."

Your eyes widen in shock at his words, tongue suddenly glued to the roof of your mouth.

He takes a step back "Now, if there's nothing else, you should get going, you have a paper due on Friday."

Disappointment settles heavy in your chest with the realization that you've crossed a line. That you've let your imagination run away with you in a way that's made him uncomfortable. "Yes," your voice sounds small and distant to your own ears. "Of course."

Your bag feels heavy in your hands as you make your way to the door. But before you can reach for the handle, Zayne clears his throat again. "Just a word of advice? Channel that creativity of yours into something productive. Write about something that matters and can make a difference. You have a gift, and it would be a shame to waste it on... fantasies."

When you finally step out into the hallway, you feel like you can breathe again. But the tightness in your chest remains, the weight of regret heavy on your shoulders. You've made a mess of things, and now you're not sure how to fix it.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

After leaving Zayne's class that day, you try to put the incident behind you. You attend his lectures and take diligent notes but now you sit in the back row, as far from Zayne as possible. It's not that you're trying to avoid him—okay, maybe you are—but it feels safer this way.

You realize, too late, that it's not enough. Nothing feels like enough, not changing seats, not burying yourself in study materials, because no matter what you do you can't shake the feeling that Zayne is always watching you.

The following weeks are a test of your concentration and self control. It seems that wherever you go, you keep ending up in Zayne's orbit. Fate, and perhaps the academic program, keeps pushing you both together.

One afternoon, as you bend over a microscope, focused on examining a stained heart tissue sample, you hear Zayne's voice behind you. "See the Purkinje fibers? Notice how they branch and extend from the bundle of His."

You lean in closer, squinting through the lens and notice the distinctive branching pattern of the fibers, pulse quickening at his proximity

"Yes," you breathe, "they form a intricate network throughout the ventricular myocardium."

"They do indeed" his warm breath ghosts across your ear.

His fingertips graze your waist lightly as he adjusts the focus knob and you suck in a quiet gasp. He pauses for a moment and you swear you can feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest inches from your back before he walks away.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

It's 9pm on a Friday night and your dorm room spins slightly. You're not drunk, but you're not sober either. You're just relaxed. Loose. Tired of being so tense all the time. Tired of pretending not to notice the way Zayne looks at you when he thinks no one else can see. Tired of wondering if he notices you watching him, always aware of his presence, his movements, the way his hair falls over his forehead as he writes on the board.

You know you should work on your final essay, the one due tomorrow. But your fingers itch for something else. Something more, so you open your laptop, the screen glowing in the dim light.

And you start to write.

You don't think about the essay. You just let your fingers fly over the keys, letting out the tension, the frustration, the longing that's built up over the past 7 weeks. The story pours out of you, raw and unfiltered.

This time, it's not a story about a doctor and his patient. This time, it's about a teacher and his student. You write of stolen glances in the classroom, of her fingers brushing against his as she hands in an assignment. You write of a kiss, fierce and desperate, and the way his hands grip her hips as he pulls her closer.

You write of a man who is everything you shouldn't want, but everything you crave. A man who sees the desire in your eyes and meets it with his own.

You're so focused on the finishing touches that you don't realize Tara is back until she's standing behind you, her brows raised and a smirk on her face. "Wow," she says, glancing at the screen. "Someone's got it bad."

You quickly slam the laptop shut "It's nothing" you mumble, but Tara's not buying it. She leans in closer, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Nothing, my ass. That was hot" she laughs, fanning herself dramatically before narrowing her eyes slightly at the cans of beer on your desk "Wait, are you drunk? What did you do? take up drinking alone on a Friday night?"

You laugh, running a hand through your hair. "Maybe a little," you admit "I just needed to clear my head a bit."

She drags you to a club downtown, determined to help you "clear your head" for real. The music is pounding, the lights are flashing, and the alcohol is flowing freely. You dance and laugh with your best friend, the stress of the semester melting away with every sip of your colorful cocktails.

Hours later when the night grows late and your bladder grows full, you stumble into the club's bathroom, giggling to yourself. You wobble into a stall, and as you sit, you pull out your phone to check the time. That's when you see the reminder blinking back at you, your essay for Zayne's class is due in less than 24 hours. You squint at the screen, trying to focus through your drunken haze.

In a moment of poor judgment, a brilliant (stupid) idea strikes you. A slow grin spreads across your face when you open the email app on your phone to find Zayne's email address, his personal email.

Still grinning like the cat that got the cream, you attach the story you wrote earlier, the one about a professor and her student. The one that will let him know you can write whatever the hell you want, even if it is about him.

You type out a subject line—"Just a little something to keep you up all night, Professor Li ;) "—and hit send before you can second guess yourself. You giggle again, feeling brazen and bold and utterly ridiculous all at once.

When you walk out of the bathroom and back onto the dance floor, you shake your head, wondering what the hell you were thinking. But it's too late to take it back now. You've sent it, and there's no turning back. Besides, it's not like anything can go wrong, right? It's just a silly story, and there's only a week left of his class. He can't get too mad... can he?

You push the thought aside and keep dancing, letting the music drown out any lingering doubts. Tomorrow, you'll deal with the consequences of your actions.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

The next morning, you wake up with a pounding headache and a mouth drier than the Sahara. Squinting at the harsh sunlight streaming through your window, you curse Tara for not drawing the curtains before she passed out. You feel like death warmed over, but when the fog in your brain starts to lift, memories of the previous night come rushing back.

The dildo of consequences rarely arrives lubed.

You drag yourself out of bed and stumble to your desk, grabbing your laptop with shaking hands. You need to check if he reported you. Your stomach twists with dread as you open your email, there it is, at the top of the list, sent at 2:37 AM, marked as read.

He's seen it. He probably read every word.

What the fuck were you thinking?

You start to hyperventilate, heart racing as you scroll through your inbox, looking for any sign of a response from him. There's nothing, no angry email, no summons to his office, nothing. But then, you notice something even worse: your essay is due in just a few hours, and you haven't even started revising it yet.

Panic turns to dread, you're going to fail his class, lose half your final grade, and probably get expelled for sexual harassment. This is it, this is how your college career ends. With a drunken lapse in judgment and a poorly timed bout of liquid courage.

You skip breakfast and lunch, skip hydrating, and hunch over your laptop to finish and send your essay before the deadline. It will be a mess, and you know it, but it's better than the alternative.

Hours later, with minutes to spare, you hit send, slumping back in your chair with a groan. The relief is short lived, however, as the queasy feeling in your stomach returns with a vengeance. You barely make it to the bathroom before you're kneeling in front of the toilet, your body heaving and purging the alcohol and stress of the past 24 hours.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

On Monday, you make the decision to skip Zayne's class. Your stomach is in knots, your mind racing with worst case scenarios, and you can't bring yourself to face him. You convince yourself that skipping one day will give you time to breathe, to think, to figure out how to handle this mess.

On tuesday morning, you write an email to Zayne, explaining that you're sick and won't be able to attend his class on Wednesday. Your finger hovers over the 'send' button for a long moment before you finally hit it, feeling a pang of unease but also a flicker of relief.

Wednesday rolls around, and you stick to your plan, staying in your dorm during Zayne's class. You try to focus on your other courses and act like everything is normal, but your mind keeps drifting back to him.

It's late afternoon when you find yourself leaving Professor Liu's office after a meeting about your final project. You're juggling your bag and your notes, mind already racing ahead to the rest of your evening plans, when you hear a voice that makes your blood run cold.

Zayne's voice. He's standing by the window, his back to you as he talks to Professor Liu. They're discussing something about missing materials in the lab. You try to slip away unnoticed, but you've only taken a few steps when you hear Zayne calling your name.

"Y/N, a moment please."

You swallow hard and nod jerkily. He tells Professor Liu something else before walking towards you. Your feet are glued to the floor, body refusing to move as he approaches until he stops in front of you.

"Walk with me," not a request but a command. "I want to review your last essay in my office."

Your stomach drops, and you feel the color draining from your face. You scramble to fall into step beside him, heart racing as you try to come up with any excuse to get out of this "I... I have a doctor's appointment scheduled for later," you stammer, struggling to keep up with his long strides. "I don't think I have time for a review session today."

He shoots you a sharp glance, his brows furrowed. "Reschedule it, you look fine to me"

You try again "Well I'm not and... I also have a big project due for Professor Chen tomorrow. I really should focus on that..." Your words trail off as he pushes open the door to his office, holding it for you to enter.

He leans against the frame, his eyes narrowing. "Professor Chen's last class for this semester was today."

"I have a lot of work to catch up on. I can't afford to fall behind in any more classes."

"After you"

With a deep breath, you step inside, heart pounding in your ears. The room feels smaller than you remember, the air thicker. You take a few steps inside before turning to face him, arms wrapped tightly around yourself.

He walks past you, moving to sit behind his desk. He gestures to the chair in front of it, waiting for you to sit.

You sit on the edge of the chair, back straight, hands clasped tightly in your lap. You're expecting him to bring up the story, to confront you about the contents of the email you sent. But he doesn't. Instead, he leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on you.

"Your essay was poorly written, disorganized, and lacked the depth of analysis I expect from my students. This will have a significant impact on your final grade, and I want you to be aware of that."

He pauses, letting his words sink in. You nod numbly, trying to focus on his words and not on his lips "I know you're capable of better work than . So I want to know what happened here. What caused this drop in quality?"

You squirm in your seat, feeling like a insect under a microscope. "I... I don't know," you struggle to find an excuse. "I guess I just got behind on the reading and didn't have as much time to work on it as I should have."

Zayne's jaw tightens, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk "Try again, I know there's more to it than that."

You try to focus, you really do, but your mind keeps drifting. You can't stop imagining the way his hands would feel on your body, the sounds he would make as he...

It's like you are drowning in a sea of inappropriate thoughts, and you can't seem to find your way back to the surface.

"Is there something on your mind? Something distracting you from your studies?" His tone is casual, but there's a tension that makes the air between you feel charged.

"No" you say, but it comes out sounding more like a question. Your eyes keep drifting back to his mouth, to the way his lips move as he speaks.

"Then why do you keep looking at me like that?"

"Like what...?"

"I'm your teacher, Y/N"

"I know," you say, your voice sounding breathless. "I know you are."

He stands abruptly, the sudden movement startling you. You follow him with your eyes, heart leaping into your throat. He takes a step towards you, then another, until he's standing right in front of you "Then stop looking at me like that."

You move your head back to meet his eyes "Then stop looking back," your voice sounds braver than you feel. "Zayne."

He just blinks, taken aback by your boldness. For a moment, he's at a loss for words. You watch as a faint flush creeps up the back of his neck, spreading to his ears. It's a small thing, but it's enough to know that you've flustered him, that you're not the only one feeling this tension between you.

He clears his throat, looking for a moment like he might say something more, but then seems to think better of it. "I'm giving you a chance to do better," he says, his voice sounding a bit rougher than before. "Your essay was... lacking, but it's not too late. I want you to rewrite it and bring it to me on Friday."

You stand up slowly, facing him "That's so nice of you, Professor Li, are all teachers as caring as you are?" you bite your lip, watching as his eyes flick down to your mouth for a fleeting moment before he catches himself.

He takes a small step back, putting some distance between you "Not all teachers are as understanding as I am"

You tilt your head, studying him with a curiosity you've never shown before. "Really?" you ask, taking a step closer to him, closing the distance he just opened.

"This needs to stop, Y/N, you can't keep messing around like this."

"You're right," you whisper "It has to stop."

His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing against your lower lip, tracing it, teasing it.

Your teeth catch the pad of his finger, tugging gently. His eyes flare with heat, his grip on your face tightening "You don't know what you're getting into."

"Don't I?"

And then, without warning, his mouth is on yours.

The kiss feels electric and you melt into him, your hands fisting in the soft fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to him as the world spins around you.

But it's not enough. It's not nearly enough.

Zayne breaks the kiss, his glasses askew on his face. He reaches up, yanking them off, and tosses them carelessly onto his desk. They skitter across the surface, falling to the floor with a sound that echoes in the silence of the room.

Before the echoes have even faded, he's kissing you again, hotter and harder than before. He kisses you like he's been waiting his whole life for the taste of you, his hands moving over your body, making you arch into him, breasts pressing against his chest.

The sound of a knock on the door jolts you both out of the heated moment. Zayne's body goes rigid, his hands falling away from your hips as if burned. He steps back, putting a sudden and necessary distance between your bodies.

You stumble slightly at the loss of his support, your knees weak from the intensity of the kiss. You catch yourself and take a deep, shuddering breath, your skin feels flushed and your lips throb from the pressure of his mouth on yours.

The sight of him, flustered and hot, makes you want to close the distance between you again, to feel his hands on your skin and his lips on yours.

"Come in"

The door opens, and a student assistant pokes her head in, startling at the sight of you both.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt..."

"It's fine, what do you need?"

She hesitates, glancing at you uncertainly before speaking. "I just wanted to check if you needed anything else before I head out for the day, Professor"

He takes a deep breath before answering."No, that's all, Sarah. Thank you."

Sensing an opportunity to escape you quickly grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. "Thank you for your time, Professor"

"I'll see you in class on Friday."

Your pulse flutters in your throat and you nod "Yes, Sir" you murmur, before slipping out of his office, leaving him standing there, his eyes following you until you disappear through the door.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

His POV

3:40 am

Zayne sits at his desk, the eerie blue light of his computer screen casting strange shadows on his face as he reads the email that has been sitting in his inbox for an hour. From the moment he saw the subject line, he knew precisely what was inside, and he has been dreading the moment he would finally click on it.

[Subject: Just a little something to keep you up all night, Professor Li;)]

He knows he should delete it without looking, but he is far too curious and, he can admit it to himself now, a bit disloyal to his own sense of decency and autonomy.

It's another story, this time a student and her professor getting lost in their lust, obviously forbidden in their circumstances. He knows immediately he is reading about you and him.

The opening page goes into graphic detail about how the Professor pulls up the student's skirt and pushes her down onto his desk.

"[Spread your legs for me, I want to taste you."]

It describes how she spreads her legs apart for him and how he buries his face between her thighs to lick and suck on her clit softly before sinking two of his fingers deep into her hot cunt, thumb replacing his tongue to rub tight circles around her clit. It also details how her hips move against his mouth, how her fingers tangle in his hair to hold him in place.

It makes Zayne wonder how it would feel to have your clit swell over his tongue, to have your arousal coating his lips and chin.

["Fuck, Zayne, yes! Don't stop!"]

This time you didn't even bother changing his name.

He grips the arms of his chair until his knuckles turn white, trying to resist the impulse to palm his cock through his pants. He can feel it throbbing, demanding attention.

Taking deep breaths in an attempt for his half hard cock to behave wasn't working, the words from the story were seared into his brain, playing out like a porno reel that he couldn't turn off.

The story continued with the student now straddling her professor in the back row of his classroom, his hands palming her tits, filling his hands like they were made just for him.

["Beg for it, Beg for your Professor's cock."]

"Fuck, Y/N" Zayne mutters under his breath, his hand coming down to palm his dick through his pants. He's rock hard, aching, the need to touch himself growing impossible to ignore.

With another curse, he surrenders, unbuckling his belt and freeing his cock. It springs up, hard and heavy, the head already slick with pre-cum. He wraps his fingers around it, squeezing hard, thumb swiping over the sensitive crown, smearing the sticky fluid around.

He forces himself to keep reading every single word, pumping himself in time with the rhythm of the story, his breath coming faster and harsher as he imagines it's you riding him, your tits bouncing in front of his face, your pussy gripping and clenching around him. He pictures your face, flushed and panting, lips parted on a moan as you fuck yourself stupid on his dick.

His balls tighten, cock pulsing in his grip. He thinks of all the filthy things he wants to do to you, all the ways he wants to fuck you. He thinks of you in his classroom, on his desk, in his office, in his bed...

HIS BED

With a low groan Zayne throws his head back, his teeth clenched, and he finally lets go. His cock jerking and twitching in his grip, spurting thick ropes of warm cum all over his hand, some of it landing on his laptop screen.

But he keeps stroking, keeps imagining, keeps fucking you in his mind until he has nothing left to give. Panting and spent, he slumps back in his chair, the evidence of his lust cooling on his skin. The story still glows on the screen, the words blurring before his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. He knows he should feel guilty, ashamed for jerking off to the thought of his student, but all he can feel is the satisfaction of finally giving in to the desire he's been fighting for so long.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

Friday morning dawns with a sense of finality. It's the last day of class, the last time you'll see Zayne. The thought should bring relief, it's a chance to put this whole messy situation behind you, but all you feel is a hollow ache in your chest.

You can't stop thinking about the kiss. About the way his soft lips moved against yours or the way he tasted. You've replayed it a thousand times in your head, and each time, you feel that same heat pooling low in your belly.

But it's over now. It has to be. You're his student, and he's your teacher. What happened between you was a mistake, a moment of weakness that can never happen again. You tell yourself this over and over as you get dressed and make your way to his class.

The door to his classroom looms before you, and you hesitate, hand hovering over the handle. You take a deep breath to steady your nerves, to prepare yourself before you step inside, keeping your head down, your eyes fixed on the floor as you walk in.

The classroom is quiet and the blinds are closed, you expect to hear the usual murmurs of your classmates, the sound of Zayne writing on the board, the rustle of papers. But there's nothing. The room is empty.

Confused, you turn around to leave the way you came. But before you can reach the handle of the door you hear it, his voice, calling out from the back of the classroom.

"Where are you going, Miss L/N?"

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you freeze, breath catching in your chest. Slowly, you turn around, your eyes lifting to find him sitting in the back row with his arms crossed over his chest.

You just stare and his eyes hold yours, unblinking, waiting.

"I asked you a question, Miss L/N"

"I... I thought we had class today..."

A slow, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of his mouth, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Those remain dark, focused, predatory. He uncrosses his arms and stands, the movement fluid and deliberate. He begins to walk towards you, his footsteps echoing in the silent room.

"There is," he says, his eyes never leaving yours as he closes the distance. "But only for you. The rest of the class was emailed last night that there wouldn't be a session today."

He stops just an arm's length away but it's still too close. He’s deliberately isolated you. This wasn't an accident. This was a plan.

"What are you doi...?" you start, but he cuts you off with a raised hand.

"Your essay, Miss L/N" his voice sounds calm, professional "You were supposed to turn it in today."

You blink, your mind struggling to catch up with the conversation. Right. The essay. With shaking hands, you reach into your bag and pull out the neatly stapled papers, holding them out to him.

His eyes move down to where your hands are trembling slightly, and you see something flicker in his expression. Satisfaction? Desire? It's gone too quickly to tell.

He takes the essay from you, his thumb brushing over the top of your hand in a gesture that could be mistaken for accidental. But you know better. He's touching you on purpose, testing your reaction. His eyes meet yours again and you feel your knees go weak.

"Thank you," he throws the papers on his desk "I'll... review it carefully."

He steps forward and you take a step back, your heel catching slightly on the floor. The movement is instinctive, a physical reaction to the proximity, to the way his presence seems to fill the entire room.

His brow furrows, and he makes a soft tsking sound, almost like he's scolding a child. But there's nothing childish about the way he's looking at you now, the way his eyes move over your body with open hunger.

"What happened to all that bravery from Wednesday, Miss L/N? Are you backing away from me now?"

His words hit you like a slap, and you feel your cheeks flush with shame and arousal. He's right. You're being a coward. You're letting your nerves and your insecurities win. But how can you be brave when he's looking at you like that, when you know that one more step, one more touch, could break the last thread of your self control?

He takes another step closer, and now you're pressed against the wall, with nowhere else to go. He's so close now that you can feel the heat of his breath on your face.

"We can't do this" you whisper, voice barely audible over the sound of your own racing heartbeat. "Someone could hear or walk in, you could lose your..."

His actions cut you off before you can finish, his hand shooting out to the side to lock the door with a click. Then he turns back to you, his hand moving to rest on the wall next to your head, caging you in.

"Then you should keep quiet, Y/N"

Finally, he closes the distance. His lips crash against yours in a kiss that's hungry, desperate and filthy.

The moment his lips meet yours, something inside him shatters. It’s not a gentle breaking, but a violent, glorious fracture. The part of him that’s always been reasonable, the part that calculates risks and adheres to ethics and decorum, that part dissolves like sugar in hot water.

This other part is new. Deeper. It’s been watching you since the first story landed in his inbox, a constant hum in his blood that he’d mistaken for frustration or stress. But now, with your mouth under his, your body pinned against the wall of his classroom, it roars to the surface. It’s not reasonable. It doesn’t care about contracts or careers or the decades he spent building this life. It only knows one thing:

You

This kiss is so much better than anything he'd imagined over the past couple of nights as he jerked off to the memory of your first kiss. The way his tongue explores your mouth, the way his hand grips your hair just tight enough to make you gasp, it's overwhelming, intoxicating, perfect.

His hands, which had been so carefully caging you, now roam. One slides from your hair, down the line of your throat, over the frantic pulse there, and palms the front of your shirt, fisting in the fabric. The other finds your hip, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, anchoring you to him as he backs you further into the wall.

He tastes you, coffee from this morning, the faint sweetness of your lip balm, and underneath it all, you. The flavor is like a drug, and he’s like an addict finally getting his fix after weeks of cold turkey. He devours your sighs, your little gasps, the way your tongue shyly meets his before he claims it, sucks it, shows it who’s in control.

Every instinct he’s ever had is sharpened to a razor’s edge. The way your breath hitches when his thumb brushes over your peaked nipple through your bra, he files it away. The tiny, involuntary clench of your muscles when his knee pushes between your thighs, he memorizes it. The way you’re melting against the wall, your own hands now clutching at his arms, nails biting through his shirt sleeve, it’s not surrender. It’s an answer.

His next thought isn’t a whisper. It’s a seismic event in his mind, a single possessive word that echoes in the hollow of his skull: Mine.

And that thought doesn’t frighten him. It fuels him. It’s the engine of this raw, ugly, beautiful need. He’s not Zayne, the cardiac surgeon, the award winning researcher. He’s not even the stern professor. Right now, he’s just a man, a creature of base instinct, and his prey is tasting so fucking sweet.

He breaks the kiss only to drag his open mouth down the line of your jaw, his teeth grazing your skin, leaving a trail of fire.

"Zayne, we shou...we shouldn't be doing this here..."

His mouth finds the sensitive curve of your neck, and he sucks hard. The world narrows to the salt of your skin, the sound of your whimper, the relentless, unreasonable chant in his head: MINE MINE MINE.

"You're right," he breathes against your ear "We shouldn't be doing this here."

And then, without warning, he's lifting you. Your feet leave the floor, your skirt rides up your thighs, and he's carrying you toward his desk with an ease that makes you gasp. He sets you down on the edge, and you feel the cool wood against your heated skin.

He stands between your spread legs, his hands on your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver. The classroom suddenly feels smaller, more intimate, the air thick with unspoken words and pent up need.

"But I'm not going to stop" his hands slide higher, and you feel his fingers brush against the wet fabric between your legs. He pauses there, eyes meeting yours, and you see the challenge in them. The dare.

You open your mouth to tease him, to tell him this is wrong, that he shouldn't lust after his student, but the words die in your throat when his fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding slick, hot flesh.

"I should" his thumb brushes over your clit, and you gasp, hips jerking up into his touch. His lips curl into a dark smile, and he leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "But I won't"

Two fingers slide inside, and your head falls back, hands gripping the edge of the desk for balance.

"Not when my student gets this wet just from kissing her professor" his thumb circles your clit slowly, savoring every whimper, every shudder that escapes your lips.

"How many times have you done this?" he asks "How do you know so much in such... specific detail?"

The question hangs in the air between you, loaded with implications. You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch in your throat. How do you tell him that every filthy scenario you've written was just a fantasy? That you've never actually experienced any of it? That you're a virgin not just to sex, but to this too.

His fingers, those skilled surgeon’s fingers that can suture a heart, still and he pulls them out. The delicious circles against your clit cease. The abrupt stop feels like a physical shock, a cold splash of reality on your overheated skin. You lift your head to meet his eyes. He’s watching you, his expression unreadable, his jaw tight.

“I… I haven’t…” the words tumble out in a mortified, breathless confession. “I’ve never… done anything like this before. I just… read a lot.” your face burns, a wildfire of humiliation and undeniable want.

His answer is a dark chuckle that rolls through the quiet room. It’s not kind. It’s possessive, triumphant. “Read a lot?”

The pad of his thumb, slick with your arousal, moves slowly from your cheek down to the corner of your mouth.

“Let’s see this pretty blush extend elsewhere” his eyes shine with a promise that makes your stomach clench.

Before you can even process the meaning of his words, he’s moving. His hands grip your thighs, firm and unyielding, and he’s sinking to his knees between your legs. You instinctively try to close them, a last vestige of modesty, but his grip is iron. He pulls the fabric of your skirt up and over your hips and then his palms are on the insides of your thighs, spreading you wider. The cool air of the classroom hits your soaked underwear, and a wave of goosebumps ripples across your skin.

He doesn’t touch. He just looks. His gaze feels like a physical thing, a slow, hungry perusal of the glistening cotton plastered against your slit. Then he looks up, his eyes locking with yours from his position on the floor. The power dynamic shifts completely. He’s below you, yet he’s in complete command.

“Do you think I can make you cum faster than the Zayne in your story?” the question is a direct hit, a brutal, exciting acknowledgment of the fantasy you wrote. Before you can even form a thought, his thumb hooks into the side of your underwear and pulls it aside.

He groans. A deep, visceral sound from his chest. His eyes are fixed on the sight, your slick, soft flesh, swollen and eager, with a clear, sticky strand of moisture connecting your skin to the damp fabric he just moved. The visual is so raw, so utterly debauched, that he stares for a heartbeat longer, his chest heaving.

“Look at that,” he breathes, his voice thick with awe and hunger. “So fucking ready. For me.”

His breath ghosts over you first, a cold whisper against your heat that makes you cry out. You feel the first wet, hot stroke of his tongue, long, slow, and deliberate, from your entrance all the way up to your clit. And it’s infinitely better than any fantasy. His hands hold your thighs open, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive inner crease, anchoring you as he licks you with a focus that is terrifying and exquisite.

“Best pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he whispers against your skin, the words a filthy praise that makes your cunt clench. All you can manage is a breathless and stunned “Oh my god” as his tongue swirls around your clit in a tight circle. One hand flies to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands, holding him in place.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

The sound is sharp, sudden, and wrong in this moment. Your hand slips on the desk, fingers scrabbling for purchase. Zayne's tongue stops and you feel him pull back just slightly, his breath still ghosting over your cunt.

"Professor Zayne? Are you there?"

It's Sarah's voice. Of course it's Sarah again.

Deep down, in some dark, feral part of your brain, you want to fucking murder her. You want to storm to that door and—

Fuck

You feel it. His teeth. Sinking into the soft, sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make you hiss out a sharp, involuntary sound.

Zayne doesn’t answer. Instead, his hands slide from your thighs to grab your hips. With a firm grip, he pulls your body to meet his waiting mouth again. He doesn’t break eye contact with you because he knows exactly what he’s doing. There is no way in hell he is stopping. Not for Sarah. Not for anything. The knock is just noise. The risk is just fuel.

His lips seal around your clit and he sucks gently, you moan but quickly slap a hand over your mouth, biting down on your palm to stifle the sound. Your eyes move to the locked door, watching it like a rabbit watches a predator. You can see the outline of Sarah's feet under the door, waiting.

"Professor Zayne? I have those reports you asked for" she calls out again, trying the door handle.

His tongue slows, torturously so, dragging lazy circles around your sensitive nub. He's toying with you now, with the situation, with Sarah. He's a man who's never been a risk taker, but here he is, risking everything for a taste of your pussy. And he's going to make you cum. Right here. Right now. With Sarah knocking on the fucking door.

The thought should horrify you. It should make you push him away, make you pull your skirt down and compose yourself. But the forbidden nature of it all, the danger of it, only makes you hotter. Makes your clit throb harder against his tongue. Makes your walls clench around nothing, desperate for more.

He moans against you, the vibration sending you spiraling closer to the edge. Your hand slips from your mouth, fingers tangling in his hair again, pulling him even closer. He chuckles and then—he sucks your clit between his lips. Hard.

He feels the second you break, the way your whole body shakes, a silent, shuddering scream trapped in your throat. Your fingers, which had been clawing at the edge of the desk, fly to your mouth, smothering the cry that wants to tear free. He doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t give you a moment to breathe. He rides the crest of it, drinking every spasm, every drop that spills for him.

And in that vortex of sensation—the sharp, clean smell of your arousal mixing with the chalk dust in the air, the muffled sound of Sarah’s voice from the hall—something fundamental shifts. The fear, the “this is wrong” that had been a cold knot in your stomach, doesn’t vanish. It transforms. It melts and re forms into a hotter, sharper thing, a hunger that has a name, a direction, a single target.

Him.

For Zayne, it’s a revelation that hits with the force of a defibrillator. This isn’t just a student. This isn’t just a fantasy. This is a convergence. The woman from the stories, the brilliant mind in the front row, the body now trembling under his mouth—they are one. And she is answering. Not just to his skill, but to the raw, unvarnished need he’s stopped hiding.

He slows, gentling his ministrations, but his eyes never leave yours. He laps at you softly, soothingly, as the aftershocks roll through you. He pulls back just enough to look at the ruin he’s made of you—flushed, slick, your underwear pushed aside, your skirt a mess. Then he stands and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His own breath is ragged. His eyes black pools.

He leans over you, bracing his hands on the desk on either side of you. The scent of you is on his lips, on his breath. His voice, when it comes, is a rough, shredded whisper, thick with a certainty that terrifies and thrills you both.

"That," he breathes, his forehead almost touching yours, "is what it means to be touched by someone who burns for you."

He doesn’t say ‘I burn for you.’ He doesn’t need to. The statement is a fact, as immutable as a heartbeat. The fire is the point. And you, in your spent, shuddering, gloriously ruined state, have just proven you’re made to stand in its heat.

He doesn't let you recover. While your body is still trembling, still coming down from that overwhelming high, he's already moving. His hands slide under your arms, lifting you effortlessly from the desk, and before you can even process it, he's sitting in his chair, pulling you onto his lap. You land straddling his thighs, your skirt a tangled mess around your hips, legs weak and shaky.

He doesn't rush. Instead, he lets the tension build like a slow burn, each second stretching taut until it hums in the air between you. His thumb moves in slow, hypnotic circles over your hip, as if he’s calming a spooked animal. Which, in a way, he is.

"Show me."

Your fingers are unsteady, betraying you as you fumble with the button of his slacks. He doesn’t help. He lets you do it. Lets you take the lead, even when his gaze pins you to the spot, steady and unwavering. The zipper is a struggle, the teeth catching, and you feel a hot flush of embarrassment. But his hand only moves, sliding from your hip to the small of your back, a steadying, grounding pressure.

Then it’s open.

You push the fabric aside, and there he is, already straining against his underwear. You look up and see the control he’s exerting. His jaw is clenched, a muscle feathering in his cheek. His breathing is even, but you see the storm in his eyes, the glittering, hungry chaos he’s containing. He feels it, you realize. He feels it more than you know. The tension isn’t just yours, it’s a live wire strung taut between the two of you.

You reach for the waistband of his underwear, hooking your fingers inside, and he lifts his hips just enough to let you pull them down. Enough for his cock to spring free, and fuck....

He's big. Thick. The kind of cock that makes your mouth water and your pussy clench.

You line yourself up after pulling your panties to the side, the fat head of his cock pressing against your entrance. For a second, you just hover there, making the anticipation feel like a physical ache.

Then you sink down.

The sound that leaves him is a broken gasp. It’s too much. He’s too much. The stretch is a delicious, overwhelming burn that immediately gives way to a profound, soul deep fullness. You’re so full you can’t move for a heartbeat, your body adjusting. Your eyes fly to his, and you see it, the moment his control slips. Just for a second. His head tilts back, a groan vibrating in his throat, his hands finding your hips and gripping hard enough to bruise.

After a few seconds you start to move and he breathes your name like a prayer. Up, and then down. The rhythm is clumsy at first, your body still learning the shape of him, but then it finds its cadence. A slow, rolling lift and fall that makes the world narrow to the slide of him inside you, the way he fills you completely on the downstroke.

He’s barely holding on. You feel it in the tremor of his hands on your hips, in the way his teeth sink into his lower lip to stifle a sound, still aware that Sarah could be waiting outside. His eyes are closed now, head thrown back against the chair.. You’re the one in control of the movement, but he’s the one holding the reins of your pleasure, his every reaction a silent command.

When his hands finally move they slide up your sides, under your shirt, and he pulls it over your head. The cool air hits your skin, making your nipples tighten into hard peaks. He doesn’t look at them. Not yet. He just watches your face, drinking in every flinch, every whimper, every flicker of ecstasy in your eyes.

Only when you’re completely bare from the waist up does his focus shift. His hands cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, and then he’s leaning forward. His mouth finds one, hot and wet. He sucks the taut peak deep into his mouth, his tongue lapping, teeth grazing like a perfect, painful echo of the bite he gave your thigh. The feeling is electric, shooting straight down to where you’re joined, making your muscles clench around him.

You cry out and your movements become erratic, desperate. He matches your pace, his hips lifting to meet you, his mouth never leaving your breast. He’s not just fucking you, he’s consuming you. And you are letting him. You are giving him everything, the rhythm of your hips, the sounds of your pleasure, the surrender of your body—all of it a language he understands better than any words ever could.

The girl in your stories, the one who rode her professor with such desperate, shameless need, you are her now. The evidence of it is the wet, obscene sound of your body moving on his, the way your thighs tremble with exertion and pleasure, the way your breath comes in ragged, broken gasps. You're not just fucking him. You're claiming him. And he's letting you. Encouraging you. His hands move from your breasts to your hips, guiding you, urging you faster, harder, deeper.

"That's it," he groans against your skin,"Show me. Show me how she rides him."

The command is a trigger. You rise until he's almost completely out, and then you sink down with a sharp roll of your hips. The sensation is a revelation—feeling every thick inch of him slide inside you, the pretty head of his cock pressing against a spot so deep inside that makes your vision blur.

And you do it again. And again. And again.

His mouth leaves your breast with a wet pop, and you see the mark he's left—dark, bruising, beautiful. His eyes are half-lidded, his jaw slack with the force of his need. He's so close you can feel it.

"Wait, wait—fuck, Y/N, I'm—"

His hands tighten on your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh and with a sharp, guttural groan, he's coming. His dick pulses inside you, hot and thick and endless, each spasm making you clench in response. His head falls back and his mouth opens in a silent moan of pleasure. The sight is devastatingly beautiful —your stern, controlled professor completely undone, his body shaking with the force of his release, his face flushed and twisted in ecstasy.

But he's not the only one who's close. The friction, the heat, the sight of him losing himself inside you, it all combines into a overwhelming, irresistible pressure. Your hands find his shoulders and you're moving again, faster. His cock is still hard inside you, still pulsing, and it sends shockwaves through your already overstimulated nerves. You can feel another orgasm building, a tight, burning coil in the pit of your stomach, and you chase it desperately, your hips stuttering, breath coming in short, broken gasps.

When your orgasm hits it's not like the first one. This one crashes through you in a wave of sensation that makes your back arch, your head tilt back, your mouth fall open in a silent scream. Your whole body lock as you clench around him, your muscles pulling him deeper, milking him for every last drop. The sensation is so intense it's almost painful, a sharp, clean burn that makes your vision go white at the edges. Your hands are still on his shoulders, but you can't feel them anymore. You can't feel anything but the overwhelming, all consuming pleasure radiating out from your core.

You are nothing but a burning, trembling mass of nerves, skin and feeling. The aftershocks roll through you in waves, each one a sharp little jolt that makes you shudder, that makes your pussy clench around him. You're slumped against his chest now, your face buried in his neck. He's still inside you, still hard, still pulsing. The reality of it sends another shiver through you—he came. He came inside you. And you loved it.

You're not just turned on by him. You're not just attracted to him. You're addicted to him. To the way he looks at you, to the way he touches you, to the way he takes you. You've crossed a line, and you don't want to go back.

He's still breathing heavily, his hands now stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. You can feel his heartbeat under your cheek, steady and strong, and you realize with a start that it's not the only heartbeat you can hear. Your own is still racing, a fast, fluttering rhythm in your ears.

You lift your head, blinking up at him, and say "I think Sarah is still outside."

His laugh is a sound you want to hear again and again. It's a sound he doesn't usually make in the classroom, a sound that's just for you. It starts as a chuckle, a low rumble in his chest, and then it grows, a deep, delighted laugh that makes his whole body shake. The sound is so genuine, so unguarded, that it makes something warm and possessive bloom in your chest. It's the sound of a man who's just found something he didn't know he was looking for. It's the sound of a man who's having the time of his life.

And it's beautiful.

[fromeirlys]

Only fuck your professor if he is Zayne Li, guys

[fromeirlys]

Calming the beast (18+) - 2/8

MDNI ‼️

Pairing! DILF!Praedator!LADS x reader

Desc! You decide to help him through his frenzy, but don’t realize how hard it’d be.

Warning! smut, implied dubcon?, calling them by their praedator name (zayne, rafayel), mullet lads, mating press (zayne), pronebone (sylus), bit of yandere caleb, doggy style (caleb, sylus), manhandling (rafayel, Sylus), full nelson (rafayel), throat fucking (xavier), breeding kink, not proofread, proceed with caution

A/N! 2/10 -> Been wanting to write this for a while. I been in bed all day, recovering from a 5 hour tattoo I got on my hip on Saturday night 💔

A/N 2! 6/4 -> I wrote this back in February and just remembered I have it…

Galen

You were standing in his office. He arrested some of your men and claimed to have dirt on them. But he wouldn’t give you information until you saw him.

“So this is actually why you wanted me to come here?” Your arms cross under your chest.

Except, he lied. Because there he sat, looking at you with an unreadable expression, and a flustered face. He didn’t utter a word about your men or their cases since you came in, and it’s been 30 minutes.

“I would never ask this of you because I usually handle it myself.” His voice softens, “But, I can’t keep pretending there isn’t anything in me wanting you…“

“I don’t know, Zayne-”

“Zayne?” You look up at him, and sigh.

Despite his usual appearance, something was different about him.

He wasn’t Zayne. He was him.

“Galen…” You whisper.

You didn’t know what to expect and he mentioned earlier it wouldn’t be too bad.

~

He’s a liar.

He dragged you out of the office a few hours ago, and to the interrogation room. He couldn’t have anyone seeing the things he wanted to do to you. Nobody deserved to see you in such bliss.

You were bound to bed— not him— with your legs bent and knees touching your chest. His cock slid in and out at a rushed pace; its tip pushing against your cervix every time. His feet were planted besides your hips and his arms hugged you tightly.

“F-feels soo good…” he breathed in your ear.

Your toes curl and teeth bite your lips as you try to hold your moans back, but it irritates him.

“Don’t you dare hide those sweet sounds from me.” He growled, slapping the side of your ass.

“Galen…! Mmm!” You whimper and moan as he pushed even deeper.

You can feel him poking where your belly button is and your urethra squirts on his pelvis.

“Good girl.” He lightly smirks, watching pleasure melt on your face.

He moves his head above yours and kisses your lips, slowing his pace for a moment. You melt into it and kiss him back, sighing in his mouth from the way he grinds against you.

You feel sticky and messy, between the sweat from both of your bodies and the cum from both of your genitals combining and piling up inside you. He keeps his lips connected to yours as he increases his pace again; his hips loudly smacking against your ass. Your eyes cross and close as you press your head back into the pillow, giving up to him completely.

Caleb

He sat on the ground, one leg bent with his arm hanging over his knee.

“P-please. I’m used to taking care of it on my own, but…,” you look so good, he’s losing his mind.

You watch his jaw clench and fist curl then uncurl. You look down at your fingers and sigh, “I don’t know, Caleb…”

He crawls over to you and holds your waist, looking up at you with half-lidded eyes, “you’re my only hope, pipsqueak.”

But, was this Caleb talking or Perses?

Your hand slowly moves and rests atop his head, making him nudge and nuzzle into your palm. He kisses it then turns to look at your covered pussy, ready to devour it any second now. You look down at him once more and notice a dark look in his eyes..

~

Two hours went by since Perses was re-arranging your guts. He had you down on the couch with your ass up, and him snapping his hips against the jiggly muscle.

“Fuck… should’ve done this a long t-time ago,” he breathes out against your spine, giving it a kiss.

Your hands grip the cushion, almost certain they’d tear at any minute. “F-fuck! S-slow… down!!” Your head turns just enough to side eye him.

His face was flushed with sweat trickling down his forehead and chest. He was focused, too focused, on something.

His hands grip your biceps and pull your torso up, arching your back then wrapping his arms around your midsection. “Do I feel good, baby?”

You’re not even sure if this is Caleb or Perses anymore. It sounds like Caleb, but it doesn’t act like him.

“Feel me deep inside? Riiiight here?” He cooes as he touches the noticeable bulge in your stomach.

“You thought you could deny me of what I’m owed? I own you, angel. You were mine from the moment I laid eyes on you~”

Your head rests back on his shoulders and you feel kisses scatter your neck and shoulder. You’re too intoxicated by his cock to even form words.

“We’re gonna be here allll day until all you can think of is me, pipsqueak.” His hand moves down and rubs your clit, making you mewl out.

“I hope you’re prepared.”

Sylus

You stared at the large man on his knees and hanging his head low.

“So… you’ve come to witness a real frenzy, kitten?” his deep voice rumbles in the large cage.

You don’t say anything and open the door, carefully stepping in. You leave it open in case you have to run out. In case he truly loses it.

“I… came to help you,” your voice gets soft.

“You can’t handle this,” he glares at you through his bangs, “I’d kill you before I’d even realize you’re dead.”

He was right. You knew frenzies could get bad, but you had never seen them get THAT bad. Not with him at least.

He knew you were hesitant when he mentioned it a while back. But, you were curious about what it’d look like. So, you made the choice of helping him.

“I want to help, Sylus.” You carefully walked up to him.

You’re only standing in front of him for a few minutes before he lunges forward and grabs you by your throat. He pulls you towards him and rubs his nose against yours. You look up at him conflicted and notice the shift in his eyes.

“You’ve Sylus and Tartarus in your hands, sweetie.”

“Tell me… which one do you want?” His breath hits your cheek then down your neck.

His grip had loosen a notch, making sure you can still breathe. You swallow and furrow your eyebrows, looking up at him.

“…Tartarus,” was all it took for him to snap.

~

Your face had been pressed hard against the bars for 30 minutes now. Your hands grip them tightly as his large dick piston’s your wet cunt. He growls and pulls you away from the bars, pushing you onto your knees and holding your head down on the ground.

You turn your head and look up at him, biting your lip as you watch him re-arrange your guts.

“Ohh! S-Sylus-!” Smack!

His hand comes down on your ass hard then grips the flesh, feeling his fingers sink into it. Your walls tighten around him, causing him to groan loudly and fuck you harder. His other hand grips your throat and lifts your head up, whispering in your ear, “That’s not my name, kitty. You wanted Tartarus, so you get Tartarus.”

You feel something warm fill your womb and realize he’s coming. Again. The white, sticky substance drips out of your used pussy every time he thrusts in and out. You feel dirty, but you forget want him to stop.

He puts all his weight on you like you’d escape, proneboning your poor body. “Fuck! … I want to breed this cute pussy so bad. Won’t you let me put a baby in you, sweetie?”

That seemed to turn you on because you let out a loud moan and cry against the floor of the cage

Or it’s because he pushed his tip against your cervix and made you cum.

He huffs and pulls back, watching you twitch and squirm under him as his cum slowly seeps out. “Now… Do you regret coming here?”

No. Not at all.

If anything, this helps you decide to help him more in the future. But, it also makes you wonder if he’s like this when he’s Sylus and just in that mood.

Rafayel

You close the door and lock it, taking your jacket and purse off. You were about to take your heels off when someone from down your dark hall spoke.

“Welcome home.”

You freeze, recognizing the voice, and sigh.

“How did you get in here? And how’d you know where I live?” You take your heels off.

“Lucky guess, cutie.” His tone deepens as he stares at you; a small smile forms on his face.

You hear him take slow steps towards you, and look up, keeping your eyes on him as you back away, and make him come into the light.

“Rafayel–” you back into your dining table, and it makes you jump a bit.

“What’s wrong? You never seen Tamino in a frenzy before?”

So this was its state? You knew they could get crazy, but he seems so calm right now. Nothing is said for a moment and you blink, instantly regretting it when he’s in your face in an instant.

~

His hands firmly squeeze your breast as he sucks on your right mound. You whimper quietly, trying to push his head back, but all his grips tighten.

“I used to stare at these when you came by my cage, cutie… always wanted to touch them.” He whispers, humming as he sucks on the other tit.

Your head falls back, and he keeps devouring your lumps before he pulls away. He turns you around, and wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you and sitting on the table with you on top of him.

He spreads your legs after pulling them up, causing a loud gasp to slip from your lips as your lower half is fully exposed.

“Y-you–!” Your eyes watch as he hungrily rips your panties of and slips his length inside you.

“I’ve been thinking about what you’d feel like for a while now…,” he mumbles against your ear, putting you in a full nelson, and groaning when your warmth and tightness chokes him.

“God you’re so perfect… how could you not think that you’ve been occupying my thoughts, cutie?” He desperately whispers. “Why do you think I always want to see you, and only you?”

You cry out and bite your lip, moaning cutely at the strange pleasure below. Your breathing matches every push he gives, and encourages him to be rougher, fight to get deeper than he already can get.

“T-Tamino…” you pant, moaning like a whore as he fucks you so good, the soft clap of your skins echoing out.

“Say it again, baby.”

Your sweet juices coat his dick, and slowly seep out, dripping onto the wooden floors. His quiet groans against your back don’t bother to compete with your cute sounds because yours are what helps him fuck you better.

Xavier

You finished getting dressed after taking a shower, and walked into your cool bedroom. You got home from work a little while ago and were settling down after the long day of paperwork and training that new guy. He’s only been there for two weeks, but he’s an incredibly slow learner, seeming like he has no interest in the work.

Whatever makes a buck, I guess.

You remove your robe and hang it up, putting it back in the closet. You move around the left side of your room near the bedroom door, completely unaware of the man sitting in the shadow of the opposite side near the window. It’s only when you go over there, do you realize that something is actually there and not just the pile of clothes you’ve been too tired to fold.

“What the fuck?” You speak loudly and step backwards to turn the light on.

And there he was. The noob from work, Xavier.

“You’re so beautiful, starlight.” He eyes your oversized shirt and shorts.

“How the hell did you get in my house?” Your eyebrows scrunch up and arms fold.

“Your patio.”

“I live on the 5th floor, Xavier,” you deadpan.

He’s not interested in having a conversation, feeling something vicious and primal raging within him. He stands up slowly and walks over to you, prompting you to take some steps back.

“What are you doing? Why are you looking at me like that?” You feel worried, somewhat panic when you bump back into the wall.

“I need your help, Captain…” his soft voice puts you at ease for a split second before you shake your head.

“I-It’s late, you need to lea-” he’s fast on his feet, caging you in his arms and taking your lips using his.

Your eyes widen and fists come up, clenched and pressed against his pectorals. He deepens the kiss, and your body slowly warms up, with you feeling something tingly and warm forming in your panties. You force your head away and press your hand on his shoulder.

“W-what the hell are you doing?!” Your eyes shift back to him, just now seeing the look in his.

“Taking what I need… to calm this monster…” his words confuse you, and you’re not given enough time to deciper them.

~

His hard dick slides smoothly in and out of your mouth, the tip grazing your uvula.

“Fuuuck, Captain… ohhh your mouth is so w-warm,” he softly moan, watching dazedly as his shaft enters and leaves it.

His intertwine with yours and press them firmly on your bed, while your body slumps against the side. You gag then gargle as he moves faster and deeper.

“Take your junior’s cock… yeah, just like that. O-ohhh,” he hiss quietly then moans again, hunching over your figure.

His balls swing against your chin, saliva and pre-cum building up and bubbling from the sides of your mouth.

“O-oh shit, I’m gonna cum! Don’t swallow just yet” He groans and lets go of your hands, tightly gripping your head as he fucks into your mouth like a toy.

Your eyes roll back and your hands grip his bare thighs, while your thighs press tightly together to try and rid the rapidly-forming wetness in your panties. His movements abruptly stop, with your face pressed against his pelvis, and you feel hot liquid filling your mouth.

“Ahhhh…” he breathes out, shivering a bit when you touch his calves.

His eyes close momentarily, before he looks down at your half-lidded eyes. Your cheeks puff as his salty load sits in your mouth.

“Open.”

He tilts your head back and you open your mouth wide, showing him his essence.

“You look pretty with my cum in your mouth,” he admires. “Now swallow.”

He watches intensely as you gulp down his seed, and his breathing slows.

“… I can’t imagine what you’d look like when it drips out your sweet pussy…” his hands slide down and grip your waist, hauling you onto the bed.

“Will you let me have a feel?” His eyes stay laser-focused on your face, taking in the sight moments before he corrupts you.

The man standing before you isn’t Xavier; he never was. You had Hermit in your sight since you stepped into your room; since you first saw him at work.

[mangoey]

hi guys... I havent posted art here in forever ^^; fem!rei/zayne :3

[fromeirlys]

She needs to scissor me now

Both sets of our lips need to touch now

[fromeirlys]

My cultural clothing from the Philippines just came in today 🥹🥹

Just another way of honoring my ancestors 🩵

[rosees3ray]

reblog if it's okay for your mutuals to message you and create an actual friendship, not just interactions

[fromeirlys]

Would like some friends that are:

- WOKE.

- And stand on business, ofc.

- Preferably over 20 (just cuz im 25 and kinda feel weird being friends with people that are 18 or 19)

- take friendships seriously (yes, ima hate that bitch that did u wrong 10 years ago; no, im not overprotective)

Anything else, email me.

[chuluoyi]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄

- zayne x reader

everyone knows dr. zayne is cool as a cucumber, and it's a given for him that you're known as his wife, but when a fresh-faced new resident seemingly makes a move on you... what will he do?

genre/warnings: very suggestive, jealousy (a very jealous zayne, in fact), making out in his office, crack, fluff, hunter!reader, you and zayne have a daughter (her name is meirin!)

note: inspired by that one kim min-kyu scene in business proposal :D this is actually an extension for nocturne of twilight and dawn's first light but can also be read as standalone

You hadn't seen your husband for two weeks.

There was a spring on your step when you entered Akso Hospital right after your long intercity mission. You had acquired some bruises and they weren't anything serious, so you figured you’d just have Greyson treat them. Besides, it gave you the perfect excuse to hand him some cookies as a souvenir.

And, of course, ask him to ring for Zayne to meet you once he had the time.

"Miss, do you need help?"

But a curious voice addressed you when you loitered around in the lobby, and you turned around to find a bright-faced young man with red hair and wearing doctor's coat.

"Ah, yes, I want to meet Dr. Zayne," you smiled. "Or Dr. Greyson will do."

The young doctor perked up at the names you mentioned. "Oh, are you a patient? Do you have an appointment already?"

"Hmm, no, actually I am—"

You halted mid-sentence before the words his wife slipped out, rethinking your choice. You knew of Zayne's infamous reputation in the hospital, and while almost everyone in his floor knew you, this new doctor didn't, and you thought it was best to leave it that way.

"Yeah, I already have an appointment," you nodded, plastering an thin smile. "Just tell Dr. Greyson that Y/N wants to meet him."

"Right, right, I'll page him now..." he mumbled, pulling out his pager and his phone. "I'll text him too..."

"Thank you."

"O-oh, Miss! Wait!" the young man called after you in a hurry when you turned around. "I've noticed it for a while, you have a cut on the side of your lips..."

"Ah, this..." Your fingers instinctively brushed the dried blood on your lips. You hadn’t thought the small cut was noticeable. "Yes, it’s from earlier—"

"Actually, I’m an ER resident!" he interrupted with a bright grin. "Let me treat you first!"

Caught off guard by his enthusiasm, you barely had time to react as he gently but firmly guided you towards the emergency room.

"Dr. Zayne! Dr. Zayne! Your wife is here~!"

Zayne had barely stepped into his office after a grueling surgery when Greyson barged in, all too casually, delivering the news with a grin. "She’s waiting in the lobby!"

He blinked, slightly taken aback. "Oh?"

You're back? He pulled out his muted phone, checking the notifications. Sure enough, you’d sent him a message an hour ago, letting him know you’d safely landed in Linkon.

His little, snarky wife. For the past two weeks you had been away, the house had felt lonelier. Sure, his daughter—who resembled you in personality, no less—was a bundle of sunshine and adorable beyond words, but without you, there was always that subtle void in the air.

Or maybe it wasn’t the house at all? Maybe it was just him—utterly, hopelessly whipped.

"Why isn’t she coming up to my office?" he asked suddenly, noticing the odd detail.

"Hmm, yeah, and it’s weird... why did the new resident say she’s asking for me?" Greyson mused, turning toward Zayne. "Don’t you want to meet her instead? Whatever she needs me for, I’m sure you could handle it."

Zayne promptly left his office and took long strides toward the elevator. As the doors started to close, he even half-sprinted, calling out to the person inside to hold it for him.

Okay, maybe he was a little too eager, but was it really so wrong to be this excited to see his wife again when the two of you had been apart for two weeks?

...then again, you didn't need to know. You would roast him to bits should you know he missed you this much.

Zayne got off at the lobby, expecting to find you there— only to find the usual flow of hospital staff and visitors. He was about to call you when he wandered past the emergency room and turned the corner—and that’s when he got his shock of the day.

There you were. But not alone.

With a guy.

Whose hand is touching your lips.

"It must be tough being a hunter, huh?"

The red-haired resident carefully tended to your bruised arm, wrapping it in a fresh bandage as you sighed, thinking back to the mission. "Yeah, there are definitely some hard days..."

"But despite all that, you still keep yourself in shape!" he remarked, eyeing your toned arms with a hint of admiration.

You let out a sheepish laugh, remembering those pull-ups sessions with Zayne. "Haha, that's because my husband makes sure I'm getting enough exercise..."

"You're married?!" His voice was filled with disbelief, and it caught you off guard, yet he grinned afterwards. "Wow! Is he a hunter too?"

You would've never guessed, boy. This resident doctor was cute, you thought, ever so curious at everything. You could only imagine the look on his face if you told him that the Dr. Zayne was your husband.

You were about to refute it when his fingers brushed against your lips. "Oh, sorry, let me apply some ointment here first..."

His touch felt cool to your lips and you were momentarily stunned at the contact— but then a gruff cough startled you so much you almost jumped.

The towering figure of your husband behind him. Zayne's dark gaze was fixed on the man in front of you, like he could murder the poor guy with just a look.

"Z-Zayne...?" you squeaked against the ointment on your lips, and the resident quickly turned behind him in surprise, hastily greeting him, "Oh, Dr. Zayne!"

Zayne shot the poor man a single, pointed look before his gaze shifted to you, clearly unamused.

He suddenly grabbed your hand and, without sparing the resident another glance, swiftly pulled you away. The other guy was left standing there, speechless, as Zayne led you off, leaving him in the dust.

. . .

"Zayne!"

Oh, how he actually missed his name coming out from your lips.

"Are you done with your schedule?" you asked as he pulled you into the elevator, confusion evident in the way you tilted your head. But when he didn’t answer, you glanced down at his firm grip on your arm, suddenly realizing something. "Wait, no... are you angry?"

Sigh. It irked him so much, actually. Because, how could you, after weeks—

No, he actually knew he was being irrational. He shouldn’t overreact like this just because someone else touched you. But why is he so annoyed, still?

"Wait, why?" you kept asking, wide-eyed, as the two of you stepped out and made way towards his office. "I'm not injured! I'm fine! It's just some bruises—"

Without a word, Zayne pulled you into his office, swiftly locking the door behind him. Before you could say another word, he cornered you against the wall, and you fell silent instantly.

It had been a while since he’d seen you this way—stunned, caught off guard, and utterly silent under his gaze. He studied your face closely, watching the way your breath hitched as the tension between you both thickened.

It sparked something inside him seeing you like this, a sense of satisfaction that he couldn’t quite explain, but one he welcomed nonetheless.

That was when he saw the blood on your lips. "Did you get punched in the face?"

"Y-Yes, but— it's nothing severe!" you defended, trying to convince him. "It's such a small cut anyway!"

He frowned. "Why didn't you come to me?"

"What? Hey, I was about to ask Greyson, but—"

That got him frown even deeper, even irate. "Why Greyson? When you come home with any injuries, you come to me, not anyone else."

You let out a resigned sigh, slumping your shoulders in defeat. "Because I know you'll fuss over me, duh."

"I don't fuss," he retorted.

"You do," you shot back, pursing your lips. "You try to act like this cool, calm robot all the time, but you always drone on and on whenever you patch me up. You're worried, it shows."

Zayne huffed, shifting his gaze away from you as he felt his face burn. Was he that obvious? How could he not, though, when you managed to get hurt so often and yet acted so innocent about it?

Then as if inspired, you caught on immediately. Your eyes sparkled, and a mischievous smirk tugged at your lips. "Wait, just now... don't tell me... Are you jealous?"

Damn.

"Heh, Dr. Zayne, really?" Your voice was playful now, mocking him. "Whoa, how can this be?"

How had you figured him out so easily?

You continued in a sing-song voice, putting both hands on your chest, "Ah, my heart flutters! My husband is apparently—"

Enough. This time, his patience snapped.

He didn’t hesitate even for a moment. A low growl escaped him, and in one swift motion, he crashed his lips against yours, silencing you with the most effective method he could think of.

"Mmph!" You gasped in surprise, the teasing words at the end of your tongue completely forgotten. His gray eyes gleamed. Been too long, he thought, and now he was making sure you knew just how badly he craved this.

The kiss was searing as he deepened it, his tongue seeking yours with urgency. "Hngh!" You let out a feeble whine when he teased you by biting your lips.

Zayne held back a snort. One of his hand then strayed inside your hunter uniform, unclasping your bra with a flick.

"—?!" Your eyes widened as you realized what was happening, and before you could process it, he pulled away. But you were far from right in thinking it was over. The dangerous gleam in his eyes kept you tense as he swiftly removed his glasses...

...before he pulled you back towards him and claimed your lips once again.

With a swift, commanding motion, he guided you toward his desk. His papers scattered at the sudden movement, but he had you bent over it regardless, forcing your body to arch. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, while his right hand fondled your breasts, repeatedly squeezing, palming and switching between them.

"Mmm...!" You let out a strangled moan, instinctively holding onto his shoulder, feeling the way how he groped you ignited your core. "Ahh..."

Your body was tantalizing as always. Hardened and sometimes bruised from your work it may be, but to Zayne, you were still beautiful as ever.

When you gasped for air, he decided he was done with your swollen lips. His lips then trailed down to your neck, sucking hard on it, creating a squelching sound that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

"W-what's... gotten into you...?" you breathed out, tangling your fingers in his hair, hyperaware of his hands still roaming over your nipples.

In response, he nibbled at your skin and flicked your breasts at the same time, causing you to freeze and draw a sharp, hitched breath. "Haah...!"

Unbeknownst to you, his lips curled wickedly at your reaction, and he continued to pepper your neck with series of wet sucks as if to mark you altogether. You writhed under him, whiny and sighing, relishing his hot breath on your skin.

You were utterly at his mercy, pliant and helpless in his hands. There was a deep satisfaction in knowing he was the only one who could bring you, his lawfully wedded wife, to this state—

Still, he wouldn’t allow you to be indecent in a place like this. When he finally pulled back, he was breathing heavily, eyes dark with lust, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of your jaw. "Don’t tempt me," he muttered, voice low and raspy.

You gazed up at him, your heart pounding. "Zayne..." you whispered, a whine broke through the heat on your flushed face.

His expression softened just enough, a flicker of tenderness cutting through the intensity. Pretty. That’s what you were, undeniably so. How he had missed out on you so long once was his greatest regret.

Carefully, he helped you sit upright, his touch gentle as he clasped your bra and began buttoning up your uniform, disheveled from his earlier ministrations.

The gentle way he touched you was a stark contrast to how it was earlier. "Is that a new way to treat busted lip?" you nudged his collar, feeling a little braver now.

"For bad wives, yeah."

"I'm not a bad wife! Just disobedient on some occasion."

Zayne's fingers brushed your face as he finished with your uniform, his dark-gray eyes steady on you. You pouted.

"You're the one who's bad," you accused with slight resentment, not missing a beat as the heat between your legs started to dissipate. "Leaving me unfinished like that."

"Hmm? Am I?" he murmured, the faintest amusement in his tone.

"You have to take responsibility tonight, you big meanie," you mumbled, your pout deepening as you avoided meeting his gaze.

Zayne snorted at the sight of you—so precious in his eyes, his thumb lightly grazing the corner of your lips in a gesture so tender it made your heart skip, before whispering in your ear:

"Well, if your voice won't wake Meirin, that is."

Epilogue

Not long after, just as you had gathered yourself and were preparing to leave the hospital to head home, a sudden knock at the door of his office startled you both.

Quickly, you moved to sit on the patient’s seat, feigning nonchalance as you braced yourself for whoever was on the other side. Zayne reached for the door, but before he could unlock it, a familiar voice called out.

"Excuse me!" the resident's voice sounded a bit hesitant but firm. "Dr. Zayne, the miss left her handbag earlier!"

Zayne let out a low, irked sigh. You glanced at him curiously, watching as he opened the door and came face-to-face with the redheaded resident.

Without a word, he extended his hand, and the resident blinked before handing over the bag.

"I-is the miss still here?" the young doctor asked, almost intimidated by his unfriendly gaze.

"Ma'am," Zayne corrected, his voice flat.

"Huh?"

"Call her ma'am. She's someone's wife."

"O-oh, and her husband is—"

"Me. I am her husband."

Your eyes widened in surprise at the matter-of-fact exchange, heat rising to your cheeks as Zayne’s words hung confidently in the air. He curtly thanked the poor resident before slamming the door shut in his face.

Your jaw practically hit the floor. "Zayne!" you gasped, staring at him as he turned back towards you, entirely unbothered.

Your husband was as cold as the snowman he often made, but somehow the way he boldly declared he was your husband was just so him that it made you so giddy.

You tilted your head, crossing your arms with a playful smile. "You’re really jealous, huh? How?"

He didn’t answer, his gaze still fixed elsewhere, most definitely trying to save his dignity.

You chuckled softly, stepping closer to him with a teasing sway. Your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, turning him to face you, and you winked at him mischievously.

"Well, I’m all yours. But if it makes you feel better, maybe I’ll stay away from any ER residents for a while~"

[fromeirlys]

OMGGG FABZICHAKSNZKAMFNBD 😫😫😫😫😫😫