Weirdo @glossystardust - Tumblr Blog

The first, the last, my everything

your first time with them

<based on this request!> caleb version here!

tags: first times, virginity loss(the LIs), sentimental boys, no protection

[Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus]

XAVIER

He’s shaking.

Not the kind of tremor you get from cold or nerves you can laugh off. This is bone deep, the kind that starts in his chest and rattles out through his fingertips where they’re pressed to your bare waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he grips too hard.

Two centuries.

200 years of dreams that felt too real, of waking up reaching for someone who wasn’t there, of touching himself in the dark to the memory of your laugh, your scent, the way your hair used to catch moonlight.

200 years of thinking maybe this was all he’d ever get; ghosts and echoes.

And now you’re under him.

Completely bare, vulnerable and all his.

Your thighs cradle his hips, soft and trembling just like his. He’s been hard for what feels like hours, since you first tugged his hoodie over your head and let him see every inch of skin he’s only dared imagine lately. He’s leaking against your stomach, slick and insistent, but he hasn’t moved to push inside yet.

He can’t.

Not yet.

Because the second he does, this becomes permanent. Proof he finally got you back. Proof he’s allowed to have this.

“Xav,” you whisper, fingers threading through his hair, tugging just enough to make him look at you instead of staring at where your bodies almost touch. “Hey. Breathe.”

He tries. The inhale is ragged. His eyes are glassy, too bright, too wet. He blinks fast so he can force the tears back inside.

“I-” His voice cracks on the single syllable. He swallows, tries again. “I dreamed this so many times. Every version ended with me waking up alone.”

Your thumbs brush the corners of his eyes before the tears can fall.

“You’re not dreaming.”

He lets out a broken little laugh that sounds more like a sob.

“I know. That’s the terrifying part.”

You pull him down until his forehead rests against yours. Your noses bump. Your breaths mingle. His cock twitches against your folds, hot, slippery from how long he’s spent kissing down your body, licking into you until you were shaking and pleading.

When he finally notches himself at your entrance, he freezes again.

You feel the tremor travel through him, feel the way his arms cage you tighter like he’s bracing for impact.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “I’ll stop. I swear.”

You cup his face. “Don’t you dare.”

One slow, careful roll of his hips.

The head slips inside.

He chokes on air.

His whole body locks up; muscles jumping, breath punched out of him in a sound that’s half moan, half broken whimper. His eyes squeeze shut. Forehead drops to your shoulder. He’s shaking so hard the bed creaks.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You’re- so warm. So- tight-”

He doesn’t thrust yet. Just stays there, barely inside, letting himself feel it. Feel you clenching around him like your body remembers him even if your mind spent years apart.

Tears prick at his lashes again. He blinks them away, but one slips free, tracing down his cheek to land on your lips.

You lick it away without thinking.

That undoes him.

You feel him throb inside you. Feel the way he’s fighting not to move, not to chase the heat too fast, like he’s scared it’ll disappear if he’s greedy.

“I missed you,” he chokes out against your skin. “I missed you so much I-I thought I’d die from it some nights.”

His hips give one helpless little rock. Then another. Shallow. Shaky.

You wrap your legs around him, pull him closer.

“I’m here now.”

That breaks something.

The next thrust is deeper, harder. Still careful, but desperate. His mouth finds yours, messy, wet, tasting like salt and relief. He’s whimpering into the kiss every time he bottoms out, every time your walls flutter around him.

He doesn’t last long.

How could he?

Years of wanting crashes down all at once.

He comes with a broken “-love you-” muffled against your lips, hips jerking erratically as he spills inside you, hot, too much, pulsing so deep you feel it in your stomach. His whole body shudders through it, arms trembling where they hold him up.

When it’s over he doesn’t pull out.

He collapses onto you, careful not to crush, but heavy enough that you feel every inch of him still buried inside, still twitching with aftershocks.

His face stays pressed to your neck.

You can feel the goosebumps on his skin.

You stroke his hair. Feel the way his breathing slowly evens out.

“Stay,” he whispers, voice raw. “Please don’t go again.”

You kiss the top of his head.

“Never.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for half a decade.

And for the first time in a lifetime, he falls asleep inside you, warm, safe, finally home.

RAFAYEL

He's not gentle.

Not at first.

Years of waiting, watching, wanting. Of painting your face from memory until the canvases blurred with his frustration. Of waking from dreams where he could almost taste your skin, only to find empty sheets and the echo of your name on his lips.

And now you're here. In his studio. On his bed that's more nest than mattress, surrounded by half finished sketches of you that he never quite got right.

You're naked under him, finally, and he's staring like he'll memorize every freckle, every curve, before fate rips you away again.

His hands tremble when they trace your sides, not from nerves, but from the sheer effort of holding back. He wants to devour you. Claim you so thoroughly that no other lifetime could erase it.

"Raf," you breathe, reaching for him, but he catches your wrists. Pins them above your head with one hand. His grip is bruising. Desperate.

"Don't," he warns, voice low and ragged. Lilac eyes dark with something ancient and hungry. "Don't touch me yet. I won't last if you do."

You arch under him anyway, teasing, always teasing and he groans, leaning down to sink his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp, enough to leave a mark that'll bloom purple by morning.

Mine, it says. Finally mine.

He's hard against your thigh, leaking already, the tip flushed and slick. He's been like this since you stripped for him, whispering promises he half believed were lies.

When he finally spreads your thighs wider, positioning himself at your entrance, he pauses. Just the head pressing in, hot and insistent and his free hand digs into your hip like an anchor.

"Look at me," he demands. His voice cracks. Just a little.

You do.

And that's when the dam breaks.

He thrusts in, slow at first, inch by torturous inch, feeling you stretch around him, warm and wet and perfect. His eyes flutter shut. A shudder runs through him, violent enough that the bedframe protests.

"Gods- " He chokes on the word. Forehead drops to yours. "You feel like every fucking prayer I never thought would be answered."

Before you knew it, you felt a small pearl roll over your collarbone, one, then two, they started gathering around your shoulders.

You look up and search for Rafayel’s gaze.

Your eyes widen as you see his lips pressed together tightly and his lashes wet.

Before you can say anything, he moves again.

The next thrust is harder. Deeper. He releases your wrists to wrap both arms around you, clinging, pulling you flush against him as his hips snap forward again and again. The rhythm is uneven. Frantic. Like he's afraid if he slows down, you'll disappear.

"Rafayel-" Your nails rake down his back, leaving red lines he'll wear like badges.

He hisses at the sting. Buries his face in your neck. "Say it again. My name. Say you're mine this time."

You do. Over and over, gasping it into his ear as he fucks into you with everything he's held back for years. His hand slips between you, fingers circling your clit, possessive and skilled from all those lonely nights imagining this.

You come first, clenching around him so tight he nearly blacks out. Your cry echoes off the studio walls, mingling with the wet sounds of skin on skin.

He follows seconds later.

Spilling inside you with a broken moan, hot pulses that seem to go on forever, marking you from the inside out. His hips stutter. Grind deeper like he can fuse you together.

When it's over, he doesn't pull out.

Doesn't let go.

Just holds you there, still buried deep, as his breathing slows. Tears turning into pearls streak down his face now, silent and unashamed. He brushes them away from your cheeks too, thumb gentle for the first time tonight.

"I waited so long," he whispers, voice hoarse. "Don't make me do it again."

You pull him down for a kiss, soft, salty with shared tears.

"I won't."

He exhales against your mouth. Finally relaxes into your arms.

That night, he finally sleeps without dreaming of loss.

ZAYNE

He insists on the lights low.

Not off, just dim enough that the warm glow from the bedside lamp paints long shadows across your bodies, but bright enough that he can see every detail. Every flutter of your lashes. Every inch of skin he’s finally allowed to touch without layers of restraint between you.

You’re both bare now. He’s kneeling between your thighs, palms braced on either side of your ribs, and the first real press of his chest to yours makes something in his throat click shut.

Skin.

Actual skin on skin.

His skin on your skin.

His heartbeat is loud enough you can feel it thudding against your sternum like it’s trying to climb inside you.

“Tell me if I-” He stops. Swallows. Tries again, quieter. “If anything feels wrong. Or too much.”

His voice is steady on the surface but you hear the faint tremor underneath, the way his breath hitches when your fingers trail down his spine.

He’s nervous.

Not the fumbling, boyish kind. The kind that comes from someone who’s spent years perfecting control, who’s terrified that if he lets go even a fraction, the whole carefully constructed wall will come down.

You cup his face. Thumb along the sharp line of his jaw.

“I want this. I want you.”

His eyes close for a second. When they open again, the green is darker, pupils blown wide.

He lowers himself slowly. Until every inch of his front is pressed to yours, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, thighs slotted together. His cock rests heavy and hot against your folds, not pushing in yet, just letting you both feel the contact. The heat. The slide of skin on skin.

A low sound escapes him, almost inaudible. Not a moan. More like relief so sharp it hurts.

He stays like that for long moments. Just breathing you in. Memorizing the way your nipples drag against his chest with every inhale. The way your heartbeat syncs with his the longer he stays pressed close.

When he finally shifts, reaches between you to guide himself, the movement is careful. Except his hand trembles.

The head breaches you.

He freezes.

Every muscle in his arms locks. His forehead drops to your shoulder. You feel the exhale against your collarbone, long, shaky, controlled.

“Warm,” he murmurs. So quiet you almost miss it. “You’re… so warm.”

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t chase. Just sinks in bit by bit, like he’s cataloging every sensation. The stretch. The slick heat. The way your walls flutter and grip him involuntarily.

When he’s fully seated, hips flush, buried to the hilt, he stops again.

Doesn’t move.

Just holds himself there, arms caging you, face tucked against your neck. You can feel the fine tremor running through him now. Not from effort. From the sheer overwhelming reality of it.

No distance left.

No more barriers.

He exhales again, longer this time. His lips brush your pulse point.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he says, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “I didn’t know… how much it would feel like surrender.”

You wrap your legs around his waist. Pull him impossibly closer.

He groans, low and broken, at the shift in angle. His hips give one instinctive, helpless roll before he catches himself.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I-I need a moment.”

You don’t let him retreat.

Instead you slide your hands up his back, nails grazing lightly, then press your palms flat. Skin to skin. Everywhere.

“Move when you’re ready,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Something shifts in his breathing. Not tears, Zayne doesn’t cry, not like that but the tension in his shoulders finally, finally starts to melt.

The first real thrust is slow. Measured. Deep enough to make you both gasp.

He keeps the rhythm controlled at first, long, rolling strokes that let him feel every drag, every clench. But the longer he stays buried in you, the more the control frays.

His mouth finds yours. Kisses turn open mouthed, messy, desperate. One hand slides under your lower back, arching you into him so there’s not a single inch of space left between your bodies.

Skin. Heat. Friction.

He starts to lose the measured pace.

Thrusts get deeper, harder and edged with something raw.

“You feel-” His voice cracks. He tries again. “Perfect. You feel perfect.”

He buries his face against your throat when he comesx hips grinding in tight, stuttering circles as he spills inside you. The quiet, shuddering release of years of restraint finally giving way.

He stays inside after.

Doesn’t speak for a long minute.

Just holds you. Chest to chest. Breathing in time.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are clear. Calm again. But softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Fingers threading through yours. Squeezing once. “For letting me… have this.”

You kiss his palm.

“Always.”

He exhales. Settles his weight more fully over you.

And for once, Dr. Li lets himself rest. Completely

SYLUS

He doesn’t pounce.

He could. Gods know he wants to, has wanted to since the first time you looked at him. But the second your clothes hit the floor and you’re bare beneath him on silk sheets that cost more than most people’s rent, something in his chest locks up.

Not fear. Not exactly.

It’s the weight of knowing you’re choosing this. Choosing him. After everything. After blood and betrayal and nights where he thought he’d lost you forever.

So he stays kneeling at the edge of the bed, red eyes locked on yours, waiting for permission even though you already gave it with the way you reached for him.

“Sylus,” you whisper, soft. A little shaky.

His name in your mouth still undoes him every time.

He exhales through his nose. Control slowly slipping away. Then he lowers himself over you, careful, so careful, bracing his forearms on either side of your head instead of caging you like he normally would. His body is a furnace but he keeps most of his weight off you, like you’re made of glass he’s afraid he’ll crack.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. One large hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “Tell me if you need me to stop. At any point. I mean it.”

You shake your head. Reach up. Thread your fingers through silver hair and pull him down until his lips brush yours.

“I want you,” you say against his mouth. “All of you.”

That’s when the last thread of restraint frays.

He kisses you like he’s starving, deep, slow, devouring but still measured. Still careful. His tongue slides against yours in lazy strokes while one hand trails down your side, memorizing every dip and curve like he’s mapping territory he’s only been allowed to dream of.

When he breaks the kiss, he doesn’t go for your neck or your breasts first.

He slides lower.

Broad shoulders push your thighs apart. He settles between them like he belongs there, because he does now. Because you’re letting him.

His first lick is tentative. Testing. Flat tongue dragging from entrance to clit in one long, slow stripe.

You arch. Gasp.

He groans, guttural, against your core. The sound vibrates through you.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You taste better than I imagined. And I imagined a lot.”

Then he stops holding back on the oral.

He eats you like it’s the only thing that matters. Like your pleasure is the only currency he cares about tonight. Lips seal around your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder when your hips buck. Tongue circles, flicks, dips inside, relentless but never rough. Two thick fingers slide in when you’re dripping, curling slowly, stroking that spot that makes your thighs tremble around his head.

He doesn’t stop until you come, shaking, crying his name, nails digging into his scalp.

Only then does he lift his head. Lips shiny. Eyes blown black with want. But he’s still careful.

He crawls back up your body. Kisses you so you can taste yourself on his tongue. Lets you feel how hard he is, thick, leaking, throbbing against your thigh but doesn’t push for more.

“Not yet,” he rasps when you try to reach for him. “I need you ready. I need you soaked. I’m not small, kitten. And I’m not risking hurting you. Not tonight.”

So he works you open again. Fingers. Tongue. Whispered praise against your skin, “So good for me,” “Look at you taking it,” “That’s it, let me hear you”, until you’re trembling on the edge a second time.

Only then does he line himself up.

The head nudges your entrance. He pauses. Forehead pressed to yours. Breathing ragged.

“I’ve wanted this,” he admits, voice cracking just enough to betray him. “For so long I stopped believing I’d ever have it. And now that I do…”

He swallows hard.

“I’m terrified I’ll ruin it.”

You cup his face. Pull him closer.

“You won’t.”

He pushes in, slow. So slow. Inch by torturous inch. Every time you tense, he freezes. Murmurs against your lips. Kisses the corner of your eye. Waits until you relax before moving again.

When he’s finally seated, deep, stretching you full, he stops. Completely still. Arms shaking where they hold him up. Face buried in your collarbone.

His voice is wrecked. “You’re everything I’ve ever been missing.”

He doesn’t thrust right away. Just rocks. Tiny, shallow movements that let you adjust. That let him feel every flutter, every clench. Skin to skin. Heat to heat.

When he finally starts moving, long, rolling strokes, it’s reverent. Worshipful. Every thrust angled to hit that spot inside you. One hand slips between your bodies to circle your clit in time with his hips.

He wants you to come again. Needs it. Needs to feel you fall apart around him before he lets himself go.

You do, clenching so tight he chokes on a groan. Your orgasm drags his out of him like a confession.

He comes with a broken sound, half growl, half plea, burying himself as deep as he can. Spilling hot and thick inside you, hips grinding in helpless little circles like he can’t bear to leave even an inch.

He doesn’t pull out after.

Just gathers you close. Rolls so you’re draped over his chest. One arm locked around your waist. The other hand stroking your hair.

His heartbeat thunders under your ear, fast, unsteady.

“I love you,” he whispers into the dark. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

You press a kiss to his collarbone.

“Never.”

He exhales. Long. Shaky. Finally lets himself relax beneath you.

For once, the most dangerous man in the N109 Zone feels safe.