Unfortunately my library is NOT a safe space for minors. Please do not read or interact with my content.
About me: I am in my twenties. English is my first language so I have no excuse, I'm just terrible at proofreading. No AI, but you can pry the em dash from my cold dead hands because I like it.
Cynosure is my ongoing, multi-chapter omegaverse love letter to Love and Deepspace, but you can also find my Jujutsu Kaisen writing on AO3.
I reblog a lot of adult material, which is not always explicitly tagged for kinks or triggers. I do my best to cover what I can for my own work, but please do look after yourself.
You wake up slowly, still half-lost in that hazy space between sleep and reality, because something feels way too good.
There’s steady pressure between your legs — slow, lazy strokes that make your hips twitch before your brain even catches up.
“Xavier…?” you mumble, voice thick and raspy.
“Shh, go back to sleep, starlight,” he murmurs against the back of your neck, his body warm and solid wrapped around you from behind. His hand is already under the sheets, two fingers circling your clit in unhurried loops.
“What are you— oh fuck—” The words die in your throat as he slips those fingers lower and curls them perfectly inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl instantly.
“You were making the sweetest little sounds in your sleep,” he says quietly, voice still rough with drowsiness. “Grinding back against me, moaning my name… figured I’d help you out.”
His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing slow, perfect circles while his fingers keep that lazy rhythm. You’re already soaked — embarrassingly wet, like you’ve been dripping for a while.
“How long have you been…?”
“About twenty minutes,” he admits, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “You were so fucking wet, baby. Soaked through your panties. Couldn’t help myself.”
The thought of him touching you while you slept, watching your body react, learning exactly what makes you whimper — it sends a fresh rush of heat through you.
“Xavier… feels so good—”
You’re already close, still sensitive from whatever you were dreaming about. But then his pace shifts. The lazy strokes turn purposeful, intense. He adds a third finger, stretching you open as the rhythm gets rougher, deeper.
“Oh shit— Xavier—”
“I know, baby. Just relax. Let me take care of you.”
He kicks the blankets off with his foot, cool morning air hitting your bare skin. His hand grips the thigh that’s on top and hooks it back over his hip, spreading you wide open.
“Fuck… that’s better,” he groans. “Now I can see everything. Look how pretty this pussy is, dripping all over my fingers.”
The wet, squelching sounds fill the quiet room as he pumps his fingers harder, curling them just right. Every stroke makes your breath hitch.
“Right there?” he asks, voice dropping lower, hungrier. “Yeah? You’re clenching so fucking tight around me. Gonna make a mess, aren’t you?”
“Yes—god, don’t stop—”
“Never.” His thumb presses harder on your clit, rubbing faster. “Come on, starlight. Soak my hand. You know I love when you let go for me.”
Your leg trembles where it’s draped over his hip. The pressure builds fast and sharp.
“Xavier— I’m gonna— oh fuck—”
“That’s it. Give it to me.”
His fingers curl viciously and you break — a sharp cry ripping out of you as you squirt hard, clear fluid gushing over his hand and soaking the sheets beneath you.
“Fuck yes,” Xavier groans, low and appreciative, still pumping slowly through it. “Love watching you squirt for me, baby.”
But he doesn’t stop. His fingers keep moving, dragging out every aftershock until you’re shaking and whimpering.
“Xavier— too much—”
“One more. You can give me one more,” he says, voice calm but commanding. He knows your body too well. “C’mon… drench the bed for me.”
He shifts the angle just a little and you’re gone again — gushing even harder this time, screaming his name as another wave crashes through you.
“Good girl… that’s my good fucking girl,” he murmurs, finally slowing his fingers to gentle strokes while you tremble through the aftershocks.
When he finally pulls his hand away, his fingers are drenched, strings of your release dripping down his wrist. You watch, dazed, as he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, eyes dark with lust.
“Best fucking taste in the world,” he mutters.
Then you feel it — his cock, rock hard and pressing insistently against your ass through his sleep pants.
“Xavier…” Your hand reaches back, palming him. He’s leaking already, a wet spot spreading across the fabric.
“Can you blame me?” He grinds against your palm. “Just made you squirt twice. Got me so fucking hard.”
You don’t even think twice. You shove his pants down and he helps, kicking them off. “Then fuck me. Want your cock.”
“Greedy this early?” he chuckles, but he’s already lining up. He slides into you in one smooth thrust, both of you moaning at the tight, wet heat.
“Fuck… still so tight,” he groans, gripping your thigh tighter to keep you spread open. “Even after all that. This pussy was made for me.”
His other hand slides up to wrap loosely around your throat — not squeezing hard, just possessive — as he starts fucking you deeper, harder.
“Yes— harder—” you gasp, already climbing again even though you’re oversensitive.
“Want one more out of you,” he growls against your ear, hips snapping forward. “Want to feel you squirt on my cock this time.”
His fingers find your clit again, rubbing rough circles while his cock drags against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. The sounds are filthy — wet slaps, your desperate moans, his low grunts.
“Xavier— gonna— fuck—”
“Do it. Squirt all over my cock, starlight. Make a mess for me.”
You shatter with a broken scream, gushing around him as he keeps pounding through it, soaking both of you and the already ruined sheets.
“Fuck— that’s it—” Xavier’s rhythm stutters. “Gonna fill you up— gonna—”
He buries himself deep with a low groan, cock pulsing as he cums hard, flooding you with hot, thick spurts.
For a long moment you both just lie there, breathing hard, bodies sticky and spent. The bed is an absolute wreck beneath you.
He presses slow, lazy kisses along your shoulder and the back of your neck, still buried inside you.
“Give me ten minutes,” he murmurs, voice warm against your skin.
You let out a tired, breathless laugh. “You’re insatiable.”
His smile curves against your neck. “Only for you.”
The End 🤍✨
Y'all can really see my own kinks on my works lmao. I'm trying to explore and try more 😭 I also almost got caught in a science competition earlier. "I like how you write, it feels like a story" I ALMOST SHAT MYSELF.
dividers: @/cafekitsune
Xavier’s kinks revolve around his laid-back, protective knight persona, mingled with innate freakishness and jealousy. :3 soft dominance mixed with exhaustion-fueled intensity. He’s all about quiet intimacy that builds slowly, like a secret mission in the dead of night.
Somno (Sleepy/Somnophilia Play): Xavier thrives on the thrill of waking you up with gentle touches that escalate into something more possessive. Picture him murmuring half-asleep praises as he pins you down, murmuring softly on how cute you sound whining as he eats you out. His soft chuckle while he utters praise, “Hmm- not my problem you are so beautiful. I have to love you.”
Bondage with Silks: He loves using soft, ethereal fabrics (inspired by his princely ass aesthetics) to tie you up loosely, just enough to restrict but not hurt. Never hurt. It’s his way of “protecting” you in vulnerability, whispering how you’re his light in the dark while he teases every inch. He loves to see you writhe against him especially when he feels a little agitated or jealous. (Don’t talk to Jeremiah so nicely next time, okay?)
Marking with Bites: Subtle, hidden love bites on your inner thighs or collarbone—places only he sees. It’s his ownership instinct kicking in, a quiet brand of ‘you’re mine’ that heals just slow enough to linger until the next time.
⛄️ Zayne
Zayne’s kinks are clinical yet intensely personal, rooted in his surgeon precision and ice-king (but marshmallow inside) personna that melts into obsessive care. Hmm, very medical play coded with emotional tending. He struggles with emotions which is why he strives to excel in it, especially when he is breaking you intimately.
Temperature Play with Ice: I mean, with an evol like that, and precision control like Zayne? He loves to make you feel the loud touches of his cold fingers on your nipples, pebble-ing them instantly. He also likes how you gasp when the stark contrast of his fingers are felt on your warm, dewy pussy, melting ice droplets that he licks away, monitoring your “vitals” with a stethoscope mid-scene, turning arousal into a controlled experiment where he pushes your limits just to watch you shiver and beg. Zayne is freaklord ™️
Medical Restraints and Exams: Full-on roleplay where he “examines” you on his desk, using soft cuffs and speculums for that doctor-patient power dynamic. “I think your pelvis is cramping, too. Don’t worry, this is exactly what happens when you orgasm.” He asks you to resonate with him, just enough to mingle your energies, syncing heartbeats so every touch feels amplified, like he’s literally feeling your pleasure pulse through him: intimate, invasive, and utterly possessive.
Overstimulation via Denial: Edging you to the brink with precise, feather-light touches, then pulling back to “observe recovery.” It’s his perfectionist side, he wants you trembling, data-pointing your every gasp, only granting release when you’re a coherent mess reciting how much you need him.
🐣 Rafayel
Rafayel’s kinks scream artistic chaos (Hello, ENTP Sea god) —playful, fluid, and deeply tied to his Lemurian heritage. He’s a tease who paints passion with whimsy, turning sex into a canvas of his own. He loves to tie you up as we have cough, cough, heard.
Aesthetic Bondage: He adorns you with strands of pearls (real ones from the ocean depths) that double as restraints, draping them over sensitive spots to tug and tease. You look like a masterpiece, glowing, his bride a “living sculpture” where your movements only make him lose his sanity more, artistic foreplay that ends in him going absolutely feral later.
Ocean sex: This is some Ebb day shit. When he feels weak & needy, emotions riveting his core and you pliantly agree on letting him ‘use’ you, Rafayel loses his mind. He fucks you in his Sea-god form, two cocks to please, the ocean as audience. “It’s okay, scream for me my bride. Make them wish they were us— let them hear the Sea god’s song of love~” Safe to say you ask him to do it again even when he’s not Ebbing :3
Food Play: Smearing sweet, colorful concoctions (like berry inks he “paints” on you) before licking them off, turning your body into his latest masterpiece. It’s messy, giggly, and specific to his artist ego, he critiques the “composition” mid-lick, demanding you hold still or pose, “Cutie— don’t move—“ blending laughter with the slow burn of his territorial need to mark you as his muse.
🐦⬛ Sylus
Sylus embodies dark indulgence—predatory, commanding, with a velvet-gloved cruelty that’s all about breaking you down to build you up in his image. His kinks are power games laced with that brooding intensity, where consent is a throne he lets you share. He wants to break you in a way that you truly feel safe to. He is a Pisces Venus in my head shush.
Breath Play with Evol Tendrils: Using his energy manipulation to create red, coiling restraints that tighten around your throat or limbs on command, syncing to his voice. He pairs it with whispered threats/promises in that husky tone—“Breathe for me, kitten, or I’ll make you”—watching your eyes for that perfect mix of fear and trust, his needy Ruby eyes glowing as he feeds off the rush.
Impact Play with Clawed Precision: Groping the plush fat of your ass and spanking it with a soft chuckle, the way your skin retaliates is his pleasure. He loves it because you love it, safe words are boundaries he honors ruthlessly, then soothes your ache his mouth—dominance as a branded loyalty test, where pain blooms into pleasure only he can orchestrate. “Oh~ still want more? You’re greedy as always aren’t you, Sweetie~?” He croons. Very insane, but very worshipful.
Voyeurism via Caged Displays: Setting up scenarios where you’re “on display” like on an auction *cough cough*, I think you would suggest this to him one day and he would grow feral. The point for him here is the TRUST you have in him. Incorporating his mind-link to flood you with arousal in real-time, making the exposure feel like shared telepathic filth—intimate violation that ends in him claiming the “prize” with feral urgency. You better believe you almost remember he is a reincarnated dragon after one of these :3 His glowing eye watching you while the sounds echo in your head of you wanting to devour him, while he breeds you leaking.
🍎 Caleb
Caleb’s kinks are grounded in that Gege-who-raised-you warmth, but with a possessive undercurrent from his yandere/protector role, soft and casual on the surface, fiercely intimate, almost violatingly so, underneath. He’s the type for spontaneous, heartfelt heat that feels like homecoming. 😏
Uniform/Roleplay Teases: Slipping into the kitchen counter, pinning you against it for quick, adrenaline-fueled sessions. The colonel uniform gives him a dangerous edge that pools like hot lava in your core. He loves to interrogate you and suddenly your sweet Gege asks the filthiest questions possible. “Tell me, who owns this little pussy baby? Who is it crying for so cutely? Me? Me, who? Oh… the Colonel? Or Caleb?” The mind games are soul melting. Your entire brains are melting out of your cunt by the time he’s done.
Praise with a Rough Edge: Lavishing you with affirmations (“Good girl, taking me so well”) while gripping hard enough to bruise, his free hand soothing the marks. It’s tied to his Gege vibe, he knows every trigger from years of knowing you, using inside jokes as dirty talk, like referencing old pranks now twisted into commands, blending nostalgia with raw need. “Remember when you showed up in DAA. Pretending to be my girlfriend? This is what I wanted to do to you back then. Marking you so it’s even more evident that you’re mine.”
Public Risk with Discretion: Subtle fingering under tables at date dinners or thigh-squeezes while hanging out with your Hunter colleagues, his calm facade hiding the thrill. This freak this freak this fucking freak looks at you with his soft grin, asking stuff, “You okay?” Leaning in and whispering while his hands traverse further up, cupping at your pussy from outside. “Just checking if you’re okay” Gege always makes the danger feel safe, culminating in rushed, breathless releases where he swallows your sounds with a kiss after he takes you away from prying eyes. >:3
Ps: I am sorry I just can’t stop Gege-fying him 😔🙏🏻
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.
3,125 words * ˛ ✦ ･ She makes a small sound, not quite a word, and he shushes her again, leaning down to press his lips to her forehead. "Sleep, baby. Daddy's here." The possessive pronoun sends electricity down his spine. He has earned this. He has denied himself everything else—women his own age, relationships that might have distracted him, the simple relief of fucking someone who wasn't her. Caleb has been a saint. He has been a martyr to his own desire. And now he will be a god, unmaking and remaking her in the image of his desire.
WARNINGS: third person pov (fem!reader), alternate universe – modern, significant age gap — reader is eighteen, size difference, heavy dubious consent, pseudocest (reader is adopted by caleb), daddy kink, drugging, manhandling, mentions of non-consensual voyeurism and masturbation, cherry-popping, somnophilia (?), overstimulation, edging, implied breeding kink + creampie.
The amber liquid catches the light as Caleb swirls it in the crystal tumbler, watching the condensation slide down the glass with the patience of a man who has waited a long time for this. The pill sits in his palm, small and white and innocent, ground to powder between his thumb and forefinger. He has carried it for six months, tucked in the lining of his wallet, waiting for the right moment; the right excuse; the right moment of weakness in his own resolve that finally mirrors the weakness in hers.
She asked to taste his whisky.
Such a small thing (such a fatal thing) to ask for.
He drops the powder into the glass and watches it dissolve, disappearing into the golden depths like it was never there; like his conscience; like the boundary he has maintained for years through sheer force of will and nightly cold showers and the kind of self-denial that has made him a terror in boardrooms and a monster in his own bed.
"Here, little one," he says, and his voice doesn't shake; he has forced it not to shake right at this very important moment. "Sip slowly. It's strong."
She takes the glass with both hands, her delicate fingers wrapping around the crystal, and he sees the way her throat moves when she swallows. He has imagined this moment ten thousand times before. The taste of his drink on her tongue as she drinks from the same spot his mouth have lingered before, the way her eyes will flutter closed; and the inevitable weight of her in his arms when she goes limp, helpless.
She makes a face at the burn, and he smiles. "Is it too much for you?"
"Never," she says, and drinks again, deeper this time, showing off, proving something to him that she doesn't understand she's already lost.
Caleb takes the glass back, sets it on the side table, and counts. He knows the exact dosage. He knows her weight to the pound, her metabolism, how she reacts to antihistamines and anaesthesia and alcohol. He has studied her like a pilot studies the sky, learning every part of her that is bared to his eyes.
Right on the four minute mark, she blinks slowly. "Dad? I feel—"
"Shh," he murmurs, and catches her as she sways. "I've got you. Daddy's got you."
The words taste like copper and honey. He has never allowed himself to say them aloud, not like this, not with her warm and pliant against his chest, her head lolling back to expose the unmarked column of her throat. He can almost see her pulse fluttering there, rabbit-fast, then slowing as the sedative takes hold.
He lifts her easily. She has always been small. He made sure of that, in ways he doesn't examine too closely—concern about her eating, her safety, keeping her close, keeping her dependent, keeping her his.
She fits against him the way a key fits a lock, the way she was always meant to fit.
The master bedroom is two floors up. He takes the stairs rather than the elevator, wanting to feel her weight shift with each step, wanting to prolong the moment before the inevitable. His heart pounds against his ribs, a war drum, a countdown. Years of waiting. years of watching her grow into exactly what he wanted, what he shaped, what he owns.
Caleb lays her on his bed with a gentleness that belies the violence coiling in his gut.
She is wearing one of his shirts, stolen from his laundry, too large for her frame, falling off one shoulder to reveal the strap of a cotton bra in white that practically screams innocence. He wonders if she chose it deliberately, if some part of her has always known what she does to him and wielded it like a weapon she didn't understand.
Her skirt is short, but he didn't buy it for her.
She did, with the money that he gave her, the independence he allowed her to believe she had. He slides his palm up her thigh and feels the muscle twitch, the last of her consciousness fighting to surface. She makes a small sound, not quite a word, and he shushes her again, leaning down to press his lips to her forehead.
"Sleep, baby. Daddy's here."
The possessive pronoun sends electricity down his spine. He has earned this. He has denied himself everything else—women his own age, relationships that might have distracted him, the simple relief of fucking someone who wasn't her.
Caleb has been a saint. He has been a martyr to his own desire. And now he will be a god, unmaking and remaking her in the image of his desire.
He undresses her slowly and carefully. The shirt first, lifting her arms above her head to pull it free, leaving her in the white bra and the short skirt. Her breasts are perfect, the nipples already straining against the cotton like they are reaching for him. He traces the outline with one finger and feels her arch into the touch as much as her pliant body allows her to.
The bra clasp is in the back. He rolls her onto her stomach to unhook it, and the position sends a jolt of heat straight to his cock. She is face-down, vulnerable, her spine is a valley that he wants to map with his tongue. He leaves the bra in place for now, liking the way it looks on her skin.
Her skirt zips at the side. He draws it down her legs, taking her underwear with it, leaving her bare from the waist down.
She is shaved. He taught her to do that, years ago, explaining hygiene with a straight face while his hands shook. He told her it was for her health, but he knew it was for his pleasure. The smooth skin glistens in the lamplight, pink and innocent and his.
Caleb spreads her legs slightly, just enough to see the folds of her sex, the tight entrance that has never known anything but her own fingers. He knows this. He has cameras in her apartment, in her bedroom in this house, in her bathroom on both living space. He has watched her explore herself with the curiosity of youth, has seen her cry out his name—Daddy, Dad, Caleb—when she cums alone in the dark, and he has stored every image, every sound, every proof that she wants this too, that she has always wanted this, that the drug is merely a formality.
He undresses efficiently; his shirt, his trousers, his boxer briefs straining with an erection that has been constant since he carried her up the stairs. He is thick, heavy, the head of his cock already wet with anticipation. He has not touched himself. He wants to spill only inside her, nowhere else, the first time and every time after. He climbs onto the bed and settles between her thighs, his weight pressing her into the mattress.
She is so small beneath him; he could crush her.
The thought makes him harder, the awareness of his own strength, yet still choosing to be gentle even when every instinct screams to take, to claim, to ruin.
He gathers her wrists in one hand and pins them above her head, stretching her out, opening her completely. With his other hand, he guides himself to her entrance, feeling the heat, the impossible tightness, the resistance of a body that has never been breached. Caleb pushes forward without preparation, without warning, without the mercy of lubrication beyond his own arousal and the faint wetness he can feel gathering at her core.
She is virginal tight.
Perfect.
The head of his cock breaches her, and he feels the moment her hymen tears, the subtle give, the way her body tries to reject him even as he forces himself deeper. She makes a sound—pain, confusion, the ghost of consciousness struggling against chemical chains—and he freezes for one heartbeat, two, letting her adjust to the invasion, letting her feel the size of him, the irrevocable fact of his presence inside her.
"Shh, baby," he whispers against her ear, his voice rough with restraint. "Daddy's got you. Just breathe. Just take it."
Caleb pulls back slightly, feeling the drag of her inner walls clinging to him, then thrusts forward, deeper, harder, seating himself to the hilt in one brutal movement. She is so small, and he has never felt anything like the grip of her, the way she wraps him completely, hot and slick now with the blood of her virginity and the arousal his body is forcing from hers.
He begins to move, slow, deep strokes that grind the head against the opening of her cervix with every thrust. He wants her to feel this tomorrow. He wants her to walk bow-legged, to wince when she sits, to remember with every step that she has been claimed. He increases his pace gradually, losing himself in the rhythm, the slap of skin against skin. He releases her wrists to grip her hips instead, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises in the shape of his hands. He wants her marked. He wants evidence that will last for days, for weeks, for as long as it takes until he can do this again.
And he will do this again. The drug is a convenience, not a necessity. Now that he has tasted her, felt her, he will neverstop.
Caleb flips her onto her back, wanting to see her face even if she cannot see him. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, her hair spread across his pillow like a halo. He frames her face with his hands, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, and thrusts back inside, but harder, deeper, angling to hit that spot inside her that makes her moan weakly.
"Look at you," he murmurs, and his voice is barely recognizable, stripped of the civility he wears like armor. "Look at my good girl. Taking Daddy so well; so deep and so fucking tight."
He wraps one hand around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, feeling her pulse beat against his palm. He could. The knowledge is intoxicating. He could tighten his grip and watch her struggle, feel her weakly panic around his cock, control the very breath in her lungs.
Caleb doesn't, not tonight; but he files the possibility away for later, when she is awake and afraid and begging just to please. He releases her throat to slap her face, lightly, nothing more than a little, a sharp crack that leaves a ghost of a handprint on her cheek. She whimpers, lashes fluttering, and he does it again, harder, watching the way her head turns with the impact, the way her inner muscles clench around his dick in automatic response.
"Wake up, baby," he taunts, knowing she can't, knowing he has ensured she won't. "Wake up and tell Daddy how much you love being fucked in your sleep. Tell me this is what you wanted. Tell me you've been dreaming about this too."
He fucks her through the haze of her drugged sleep, relentless in his pursuit of pleasure. He has denied himself for so long that his control is threadbare, held together by willpower and the desperate desire to make this last.
But she is too perfect, too tight, too completely his, and he feels the orgasm building at the base of his spine, heavy and inevitable.
Caleb pulls out abruptly, denying himself, but also wanting more. He turns her onto her stomach again and enters her from behind, yanking her hips up to meet his thrusts, driving into her with a force that moves her across the mattress. He gathers her hair in his fist and pulls, arching her back, exposing her throat, using the grip to control her movements, to angle her exactly where he needs her.
"Such a good little cunt," he praises, the words filthy but utterly sincere. "So greedy for Daddy. Taking every inch of my cock. You were made for this, baby; you were made for me."
He releases her hair to slap her ass, first one cheek then the other, watching the flesh jiggle in response, feeling the heat against his palm. He spanks her in rhythm with his thrusts, each impact driving her forward onto his cock, each withdrawal to the tip leaving her empty and aching before he fills her again.
A thick arm reaches beneath her to reach for her clit with his fingers, finding it swollen and sensitive despite her state of unconsciousness, and rubs it roughly, wanting her to cum even if she won't remember it, wanting to feel her pleasure as well as her pain.
She is wet now, soaked to the point of dripping, her body responding to the stimulation even as her mind floats in the haze of darkness.
He feels her orgasm building, the flutter of her muscles, the way she pushes back against him seeking more. He denies her, stopping the stimulation, laughing softly at the frustrated sound she makes. He will let her cum when he is ready. He will let her cum when he is cumming inside her, when there is no separation between their pleasure, when he has emptied himself so deeply inside her that she will leak him for days.
Caleb turns her again, wanting to see her face when he finishes, feral in his pleasure. He spreads her legs wide, hooking her knees over his elbows, folding her completely open. He enters her slowly this time, watching her expression for any sign of waking, any flicker of awareness.
There is nothing. She is his daughter, his good girl, and he uses her with the single-minded focus of a man who has waited half a lifetime for permission to take what is his by law.
He fucks her hard, in sharp, brutal strokes that shake the frame of the bed, that drive the breath from her lungs in soft gasps even in her sleep. He is close, so close, his balls tight and heavy against her ass. He leans down to bite her shoulder, her collarbone, her breast, leaving marks that will bloom into bruises by morning.
"Take it," he gasps against her skin. "Take Daddy's cum. Take every drop. Let me fill you up, baby. Let me make you pregnant. Let me keep you like this forever, swollen with my child, leaning on me for everything."
The fantasy sends him over the edge. He thrusts deep one final time, seating himself against her cervix, and cums with a groan that tears his throat raw. Pulse after pulse, he empties himself into her, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain, his cock jerking inside her tight heat as he marks her from the inside out.
Caleb stays there, buried to the hilt, feeling his seed leak around him, unwilling to lose the connection. He rocks his hips slowly, milking the last of his orgasm, feeling her flutter around him in aftershocks of denied pleasure.
He reaches between them to rub her clit again, gently now, bringing her to the edge and pushing her over, watching her face as she cums unconscious, her mouth open in a silent cry, her body clamping down on him as if trying to draw him deeper. He withdraws slowly, reluctantly, watching his cum spill from her, thick and white against her pink flesh. He gathers it on his fingers and pushes it back inside, sealing his claim, ensuring that none of it escapes. He wants her pregnant. He has wanted her pregnant since she turned eighteen, since he first allowed himself to imagine her belly swollen with his child, her breasts heavy with milk, her entire existence centred on the family he has created through sheer force of will.
A warm cloth is what he uses to clean her, tender now that his need has been sated, dressing her in one of his shirts, leaving her bare beneath. He carries her to her own bedroom, lays her in her own bed, tucks her in with the care of a devoted father. He kisses her forehead, her eyelids, her parted lips, tasting the whisky he gave her, the drug he used, the trust he has betrayed.
"Goodnight, little one," he whispers. "Daddy loves you so much."
He returns to his own bed, to the mess of blood and semen and sweat on his sheets, and sleeps better than he has in years.
She wakes slowly, consciousness returning like tide, bringing with it confusion and a deep, aching soreness between her thighs. She moves and winces, pressing her legs together, feeling the sticky wetness there, the unfamiliar tenderness. She remembers the whisky. She remembers her father's hands, lifting her, carrying her.
But, she remembers nothing else.
She finds Caleb in the kitchen, making breakfast, wearing his robe and a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He turns when she enters, and his gaze drops to her legs, to the way she walks like a newborn fawn, to the proof of what he has done written in every movement.
"Did you sleep well?" he asks, and his voice is warm, concerned, the perfect performance of paternal affection.
She opens her mouth to ask, to accuse, to understand, and finds that she cannot. The words won't form. The reality is too large, too impossible, too exactly what she has dreamed of in her darkest moments and feared in her brightest.
"Dad," she says instead, and the word breaks something open in her chest, some door she has kept locked for years.
He crosses to her, cups her face in his hands, thumbs brushing the bruise he left on her cheek, the one she hasn't seen in the mirror yet. "Daddy," he corrects gently, and kisses her forehead. "I'm making pancakes. Your favourite. Go sit down, my baby. You look so tired."
She sits. She eats. She feels his seed leak onto the chair beneath her, and she doesn't say a word. He watches her with those violet eyes, seeing everything, knowing everything, and she realizes with a sudden, dizzying clarity that this is only the beginning.
That he has been waiting for her to wake up.
She calls him Daddy when she asks for more syrup, and the way he smiles, slow and satisfied and terrifyingly tender, tells her everything she needs to know about her future. "Good girl," he says, and his hand rests on her thigh beneath the table, fingers pressing into her cunt that he left dripping with his seed from the night before. "Eat up. You'll need your strength."
SAINT'S NOTES ! uploaded in the server on the 22nd of april, edited again after that prior to posting; i'm rusty with writing like, holy shit. also, tumblr support came back to me and told me the label is there to stay (i crashed out in their email afterwards, so we'll see). whatever, a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do; i also got into graduate school, i'm already tired.
Warnings:: p in v, dacryphilia, Sylus is BIG, descriptions of reader having a low cervix, size difference, reader is whiny.
Sylus almost felt a hint of remorse for how he might ruin you. You followed him around like a lost kitten. You clung to his fingers when you were scared or buried your face in his shoulder to hide.
He would immediately feel bad when he raised his voice to snap at a guard. Your pretty eyes would swell with tears and he would stop what he was doing to cup your face until your cheeks squished and lips puckered. “I’m sorry, Kitten. Forgive me.”
But what he wasn’t sorry for, is how perfect you looked breaking apart on his cock. You had never managed to take all of him. A few thick inches still poked out from your wet folds every time. But that didn’t stop the slobbering, drooling, tear-filled mess you became.
“C-can’t-! Mm gonna tear!” You cry out under him. The expensive Italian sheets under you, a rich crimson, threaten to rip from how hard you grab them.
He hushes your cries and unbends your fingers from the sheets. “Easy Kitten. Put those claws away. I know it hurts. But you're being so brave for me.” His voice is like a balm. You sniffle and wiggle on his cock. His composure breaks for a split second. His eyes snap shut and a low growl escapes him. You immediately tense up, a fresh wave of tears forming when you think you’ve upset him.
“S-sorry!” You squeak out, but your inner walls just flutter more. “I-I’ll try harder! I can-“
Sylus pushes his thumb past your kiss-swollen lips to silence your babbling. “We’ve talked about this.” His voice is solid and you know not to interrupt. His free hand trails to the bulge in your tummy. His fingertips poke against the outline of his length and you hiccup. “You can’t take anymore. It’s what we agreed on.”
It’s true. The first time you had managed to convince him to fuck him with more than just fingers and tongue, you had cried. Your hole had bled and Sylus had bought out the claw machines at the arcade for you.
So now, he was more than content watching you come apart on the few inches he could give you before the cockhead met the cervix. Sylus popped his thumb out of your mouth and cupped your flushed cheeks. His massive frame curved over you, forearms resting on either side of your head.
“You’re perfect. This pretty hole was created just for me.” His honeyed voice makes the tears slowly start to dry as you wipe your eyes with the back of a balled-up fist. Sylus chuckles and kisses your forehead. He starts to rock those few inches into you just to watch you come apart again. It’s not long before your cheeks are covered with streaks of tears yet again.
He’d never tell you he does this on purpose.
A/N: GUYS IM ALIVE I PROMISE! I’m posting this for Sylus’ upcoming bday I’m so excited! ALSO I MISS YKU GUYS SM ANDHCHCH.
Even though it’s numbing, the way Zayne is rocking his hips into you, even though it’s painful and too fast and too much of a stretch, you feel full. Calm. Gone was the panic that had first arose in your chest when Zayne had set himself upon you. You lay back, close your eyes, and let the mist settle upon your mind as Zayne pushes your hands down onto the mattress, his fingers interlacing with yours. His other hand streaks down towards the bend of your knee, ghosting skin, before lifting it.
“Stay still, darling.”
With more or less of a grunt, you feel Zayne push himself into you. He’s caging you, keeping you down, pushing, shoving, pulling back again, and then with some restraint, ploughing into you desperately. Again, it repeats.
You paused. Your head throbbed, you closed your eyes. The tightness in your chest, the dreadful feeling in your head, the sensations drowned out conscious thoughts, inhibiting your ability to recall.
Thus, a second of realization was like a spark– there for a moment, briefly alight and fading away as quickly as it had appeared, turning faint as it was drowned out by the throbbing and overload of the feeling of Zayne thrusting into you.
It feels good.
“The fuck did you do to me?”
You couldn’t imagine that it had ever felt bad once.
“Are you crazy?”
You wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Why?”
You try to remember what had happened, but your memory turns black. A month ago, Zayne had blinked slowly, gently placing the orbitoclast down onto the gauze-lined tray, almost absent-mindedly looking over his surgical tools. His back was perpetually turned to you as if he was hiding something: or maybe he didn’t have the gall to look at you yet. He pulled on a pair of surgical blue gloves, the elastic snapping at his wrist, before speaking.
“You see,” he had begun calmly, “I figured out what the problem was.”
thrusting into you like a dog now. nothing like the methodical surgeon he was at Akso or when he had set you upon the operating table, tools in hand to—
“It’s all in your head.” His voice was full of pity, “But it’s going to be alright now.”
panting, mouth agape, the skin at his taut stomach rubbing against the skin on your stomach, leaving a red friction-caused mark—
“You’re just…deprived, that’s all.”
you gaze into his eyes, blankly yet longingly, at him, your love.
You had looked at him then with terror and guardedness. “I am?” you asked callously, “Deprived of what?”
Zayne looked at you as if you knew nothing. he patted the top of your head gently.
“Deprived of…me.”
all you want and will ever want is him. always him. forever him. please please please—
He moved towards you again, this time with some hesitancy, a caution as if wary you might lash out. He crouched down again, resting on the balls of his feet. “Come on. The bad feeling will go away once you rest. Lie still.”
you’re lying still beneath him as he stalls for a few seconds, still hard inside you, before resuming with a harsh grunt
You reached up to wipe at the wetness on your cheeks. The burning in your chest seemed to fade, a tight constriction taking its place.
“…Are you sure?” You asked, voice shaking, sniffling a moment after.
Zayne had loomed over you with an empty expression, the needle and pin in hand. there was a tiny mark made on your forehead which you could not see.
“Don’t worry.” He smiled. His face was never very expressive, but that meant his smiles were soft and gentle-looking. “You’ll feel so much better after this.”
And back to the present, you’re still laying there as he catches his breath beside you, huffing softly as he drapes on arm over your chest. your hand instinctively reaches up to hold it. A part of you almost feels proud of how far you’ve come…even though you can’t remember what had happened that made you this way. You assume it wasn’t important. Zayne said it wasn’t. Not that it mattered anymore, I mean, look at you! See, he remembers how awful you used to be. Look how far you’ve come and how perfect you are. Beautiful even, you’re so cute when your docile like this. When you take it without fighting back. And not to be egoistical on Zayne’s part, but he really thinks he’s fixed you up. He’s so responsible with your health. Not a lot of men would be willing to shoulder such a burden, caring and changing the one they love for the better.
“You’ve been doing very well recently.” He praises.
Those words and the satisfied smile on his face made a warmth bloom in your chest, a rush of something good. A good feeling to replace the bad. The blank. The empty. The pain. Had you thought harder about it, it might not have made any sense to you. Praising you as if you were making some conscious effort to accomplish something. As if sensing that you were trying to think hard about something, Zayne pulls your chin towards him.
“Hey…don’t worry about it. You’ve done well for me. Really, really well.”
You have half the heart to thank him. You know he probably wants to hear your thanks anyway. Not that he wants that praise, no, but acknowledgement of what a good job he’s done. He not only improved your life, but made you happier too.
Yes, you conclude, as you roll onto your back, facing the empty ceiling. He’s made your life so much better.
Can you write something similar to your last sylus work (mc carefully spending her money) with rafayel? 😅
𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel x gn!reader ꒰੭
𐙚˙⋆.˚ hurt/comfort! ꒰੭
𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭
𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭
﹙♡﹚we all deserve a raffy in our lives ૮๑ˊ ꒳ ˋ๑ა if only things were that simple and easily achievable, ughhhh!
your mother used to tell you not to indulge, but to save up.
“you never know,” she repeated, and you believed her.
you never know when an emergency could happen, or if you'd ever find yourself needing a scandalous amount to solve a problem, hence why you followed her advice.
but when would it be enough?
when would you stop saving up and start enjoying what you've earned?
when would you stop worrying about money, about your income, about your salary?
when would you hand out your credit card carelessly on a shopping spree, smiling at the cashier like a kid in a candy store?
maybe that life wasn't meant for you —and that was fine. you constantly told yourself it was fine, your mother was wise, and you did well by being cautious.
though you wondered why it felt so bad when it was supposed to be a good thing, you buried that feeling away. you couldn't afford to be greedy, let alone start wishing for things you knew you'd never have.
or well, that was until a certain someone stole your heart.~
unluckily for your mom and your rigid mentality, rafayel had other plans for you.
he'd come to visit with bags of expensive things, most of which he claimed he bought “by accident.”
but, come on, he bought the finest groceries, the freshest fruit and veggies, and even some delicacies you've never heard about… by accident?
he misclicked or accidentally swiped his credit card?
yeah, right.
then, you'd find beautiful clothes in your closet, ones you clearly didn't buy yourself since they still had the price tags on and they were ridiculously expensive.
you tried to make it stop, but he had the nerve to shrug it off and act like he didn't understand what you were saying.
“maybe you have a fashion fairy, cutie,” he'd simply answer, kissing your cheek. “or maybe you're manifesting so hard that your wishes are coming true.”
he was that goddamn fairy, but it was impossible to stop him and his stubborn need to spoil you.
the last straw came when you mentioned needing something for a hobby of yours.
it was something minuscule, really, something that you knew would improve the experience, but would most likely remain a childish dream of yours, like many other things you've wished for since you were very young.
and that very same night, you found lots of different tools and supplies in your living room, with amazing quality and, well, a price you didn't want to know.
you couldn't accept it.
your mind couldn't comprehend having expensive things, even when you weren't the one who spent money on them.
you called rafayel, telling him to come see you as soon as he could, and he arrived with a pleased smile, clearly satisfied with what he'd done.
this was the easiest way to spoil you without you rejecting it; by doing it behind your back.
shady, he was aware, but… he had to do it somehow.
“rafayel,” you sighed, looking around before meeting his gaze. “i can't accept this, i'm sorry...”
he tilted his head, sitting on your couch.
“why not, my pearl?”
“because… because i don't need these.”
“that's not what you said,” he tilted his head to the other side now, smiling. “you said you needed them.”
“i said it would be nice, not that i needed them…”
“same thing. needs or wants… you can have both,” he shrugged, patting his lap for you to sit down.
you didn't.
“rafayel, i don't need expensive things… i'm used to living like this, with things i can afford. don't spend money on me, please.”
he stared at you before standing up. he stepped closer and closer, making you step back.
“you're used to living like this, but do you enjoy it?” his smile faded, no more playfulness behind those pretty eyes. “i want to spoil you.”
“but—”
he cupped your cheeks, leaning in.
“don't. you've been denying yourself a lot of things, but i won't let you forbid me from enjoying myself either,” he spoke firmly, making your breath hitch.
you didn't even realize that.
you were denying him the things he enjoyed, just like you've been doing with your own interests.
“and i enjoy giving you the things that you want, the things that make your eyes sparkle, the things you see and could only dream of having one day,” he whispered. “but, my pearl, i'm afraid that day will never come if you keep waiting.”
you remained quiet, not knowing what to say.
“i'm not telling you to go nuts and spend half a million in one day, but… you deserve to have nice things. you've worked hard for them your entire life. you're kind, you worry about others, you're good… why must you punish yourself like this?”
without you noticing, tears started to roll down your cheeks.
punishing…?
was that why saving all the time felt so draining?
he pressed a soft kiss on your forehead, pulling you in for a hug.
“those little trinkets you see, that midnight snack you crave, those useless sheets of cute stickers, or even that expensive bag you really, really want… let me take care of those,” he offered, his voice now soft against your ear, melodic like a siren's call.
you were still hesitant.
you couldn't let rafayel take care of everything, not without feeling extremely guilty.
your mother would be against this so, so badly…
but, as if sensing your distress, he backed away and caressed your wet cheek.
“i'll let you take care of your responsible expenses if i must, but the indulgent ones?” he grinned, leaning in and pressing a kiss on your lips. “they're mine to spoil you with.”
“rafayel…”
“don't worry,” he reassured, kissing you again. “if you still feel bad… you can spoil me in your own way.”
“...and how would i do that?” you frowned, studying his mischievous expression.
he smirked, pressing his forehead against yours.
“a kiss of yours is worth millions in my world. i'm high maintenance, though. you'll need a minimum of twenty a day to keep me satisfied.”
“raffy…” you groaned, rolling your eyes.
“twenty-one, now that you're being a brat.”
“rafayel!”
“twenty-two.~”
you giggled and hugged him tight, his arms immediately wrapping around your body.
“let me spoil you, please…”
you took a shaky breath and looked up at him.
“don't go overboard, please… it overwhelms me a little.”
he smiled, kissing the tip of your nose.
“define overboard,” he grinned, pointing at all of the gift bags around you. “because this is just a tiny little gesture, my pearl.”
“rafayel!”
“okay, fine! fine… whatever makes you happy,” he sat back down and sprawled out on your sofa, grinning. “now, about those twenty-two kisses…” he tapped his lips, moving his eyebrows suggestively.
you shook your head, exasperated. but, deep down, this was one of the things you enjoyed doing, and… indulging couldn't be as bad as you've been told all your life, right?~
sylus ⋮ he found your custom-made dildo .ᐟ caleb ⋮ he's called you in his office with your bunny-ear vibrator .ᐟ zayne ⋮ he's letting you try out your new seat on his thigh .ᐟ xavier ⋮ competing with your dildo .ᐟ rafayel ⋮ you debut a discreet panty vibrator at his party .ᐟ
CW ★ MDNI! unprotected sex (p in v), voyeurism, dumbification, thigh riding, semi public stunts, tits play, squirting, overstimulation, gaping, dirty talk
SYLUS QIN ☆
Sylus never checks the purchases that you swipe with his black card. You’ve bought the most questionable things before to test that out. Which is why, you’re oblivious as to how he finds out about your recent indulgence.
“I must admit I’m a little hurt,” he drawls, leaning back in his chair, watching you like you're the rarest gem at auction. And oh, what a sight you are, indeed—your pussy swallowing the toy in eager squelches, thighs trembling because of how long you’ve been riding it.
“a custom-made dildo. How did you measure my cock, sweetie?” he quirks a brow, amused. “With your mouth? Or with your fist?”
You just whine in response, taking the slick smothered length deeper into your sinful walls. He hasn’t stopped you from finishing. If anything, he’s been your most keen patron—encouraging you to squeeze that dildo again and again, having you finish till you were dumbified by the synthetic thing.
“god—sylus, please.” You mumble, hips coming to halt, yet the finger rubbing your clit never ceasing. “I-im sorry…” you whimper, feeling another dull wave of your climax approaching.
“an apology is redundant.” He tells you, finally, finally rising from his seat. “how about you keep fucking yourself on your… plaything for me?”
His weight settles beside you and his warm palms come to squeeze your plush hips, guiding the pace youre already losing control of.
“there you go… slow circles… good girl,” he mutters, watching your cunt swallow the dildo whole. “feel how it pushes up deep inside you when you do that? Stay right there and grind,”
“yes oh-ohh!” You choke on a moan as it rubs your swollen spot—your pace slowing, thighs burning from overwork. But you’re so close. It’s right there—nagging at the back of your head. but the strain in your thighs is hindering…
“c-can’t do it ‘lone,” you look up at him with your glassy eyes.
Sylus cups your face. You lean forward, submitting to his touch—chin resting on his shoulder. You hear him huff a laugh. His fingers trace the curve of your spine, making you shiver under him and hoisting your ass up higher.
He pries the toy away from your fingers, pulling it out of the grip of your trembling walls. You whine in his neck. “sy plea—oh!”
He thrusts the toy back in you, letting it glide over the overstimulated walls of your cunt. his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, keeping you on your all fours for him while he fucks you with the toy.
Your hand goes down to rub your clit in slow circles. You don’t last a second longer. You’re milking the thick silicone for all it’s got, finally going limp in his arms.
“was it as good as the original, kitten?”
CALEB XIA ☆
“I want to watch you cum,” caleb was dead serious when he said that and you shouldn’t have taken it with a grain of salt. He was serious when he called you to his office with the toy, serious when made you comfy on his chair and serious when he plugged you full of the silicone device.
“caleb this is embarrassing!” your thighs press together, as your rabbit vibrator buzzes against two of your sweet spots. You’re on your knees on caleb’s enormous chair, while he stands behind you, watching the way your pussy pulses around the toy.
“it’s only us here, pips,” he tells you simply.
Heat floods your face as the reality of it sinks in. Knees aching, cunt leaking, humiliation curling tight in your stomach.
Your hold on the backrest falters when caleb reaches to keep the toy in place, feeding it back to your hungry cunt. Your walls keep drawing together tighter, pushing the vibrator out of your weeping hole.
you jolt when he pushes it up a notch—every thought in your head being zapped by the muffled hums of the toy against your sensitive sex.
“fuck honey,” he groans. “look at how this pretty pussy throbs,”
“d-don’t look so intently!” you manage, voice breaking into a whimper despite everything you do to keep quiet.
“you look even prettier split open on my cock,” he hums, knuckles brushing your folds apart. “buuut you’ve taken a liking to somethin else,”
“i-I’m sorry—” you add quickly. You don’t even have it in you to form the next words. All you can think about is the heavy, delicious pressure building in your lower abdomen.
Seeing you so close to cresting has caleb nearly cumming in his pants. How can he not when he can literally see your pussy lips twitching desperately? Or the way your clit throbs only to shy away from the relentless buzz.
“don’t be. This—” he angles the toy deeper to sink further where your g-spot is. “this is everything,”
You squeal, your entire body tremoring at the force of which your climax approaches.
Caleb’s eyes are locked on you as your hole gushes all over his chair and down to the floor, even pushing out the toy with a lewd pop.
“think you can do this ‘round my cock next?”
ZAYNE LI ☆
Your clit catches against the ridge between the synthetic purple petals. More of your honey dribbles down onto the seat. the room is heavy with the scent of your sex and wet squelches as you rub your hungry cunt against the grinder your boyfriend has strapped on his thigh.
Your puffy pussy lips spread open around the little bump has your clit exposed each time the lube-slick petals kiss it.
“z-zaynee,” you gasp, pussy pressing down onto the mound that merely teases your pulsing hole. “need something in,”
Your hips wiggle, as if the grinder could magically grow a dick to feed your cunt. Dejected, you just whine, hoping Zayne would sink his heavy cock into you.
“why don’t you cum on this first?” his palm flattens on your lower back, making you arch on his thigh. Your sensitive cunt is practically moulded to the shape of the mound this way. “didn’t you want to test whether or not this was a good purchase?”
You whimper in response.
“since you clearly want something else, let me help.” With that, his lips latch around your nipple, suckling it in deep and slow.
“hah! Ye-yeah. Okay,” your voice is broken sob. His hand on your lower back goes south, two of his fingers circling your sticky entrance. You clutch both his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut as you rock faster now—pace all over the place.
“you’re soaking this, darling,” he mutters around your nipple, words making his teeth scrape against your sensitive skin. “I almost wish it was my cock instead,”
The tip of his finger dips—not fully—just enough to make your honey-soaked walls pathetically try to pull it in. your ass pushes back in an attempt to have him give you the rest of it—only to have him pull back and go back to circling your entrance, leaving you with the mere tantalising thought of what-if.
You’re riding his thigh like your life depends on it, fast, rough grinds. Wet shlicks echo around the room. Zayne’s hand pries your dewy lips to have your clit trapped on the mound. Both his hands come to your hips now, grinding your body onto his thigh—slow and precise, while his mouth keeps pulling and puuulling your nipple deeper into his mouth.
“o-ohh oh yes!” you go ragdoll above him, clinging to him as you inch closer to your climax. And it doesn’t take a lot. you finish with a loud sob, clenching around nothing.
“cock next right?” you dont bother waiting to come down from that high.
XAVIER SHEN ☆
“xavier—” you whine as he pulls the toy out of you, the translucent string of your arousal still clinging to it. He spreads your cum-sticky folds with his fingers, exposing your quivering hole. He’s got you spread beneath you, thighs parted and leaving your puffy pussy for his observation.
“strange,” he murmurs to himself as the fat head of his cock breaches your sex. “your pussy wants this more.” He claims, his lips puckering in a small pout.
The entire session of him using your toys on you had somehow evolved into a competition between the dildo and him.
“no-no—hic!” his cock fills you slowly, stretching your walls impossibly farther than the toy ever could. a pathetic whimper slips past your lips when he starts moving.
The bed frame creaks behind you, as he keeps ploughing your gummy walls.
“no?” he huffs. “then why does your cunt keep pulsing for it even when it’s gone?” he spreads your thighs wider, bringing the toy back to your cunt, gliding it between your folds.
he slaps it twice against your clit, only to replace his cock back with it.
He keeps alternating fucking you with your dildo and then with his cock—until your head is spinning and your pussy is being bullied into moulding to different sizes—to the point where there’s no telling what you’re being filled with.
Each thrust feels distinct. Yet each drive into your hole hits the spot that makes you see stars with lethal precision. You’re finishing around nothing and everything all at once. He doesn’t grant you the mercy of anything unmoving—to have something to pulse around as you hit your high with a choked cry.
“i-I don’t!” you say finally, teeth digging into your lower lip to stop your moans from spilling. He gives you a punishing thrust and then he pulls out.
Your hole gapes, your walls pushing out more of your sweet juices. He’s in awe at the sight—it makes his own cock leak out warm pre from his swollen tip. Xavier’s finger pushes into you, circling to map out the pussy he’s so unreservedly stretched.
“see? It stays open when it’s me,” you follow his gaze. And then huff out a tired laugh.
“xavier…” you gently pull the toy out of his hand. “it’s because you’re way bigger,”
“…oh,”
He’s plunging back into you.
RAFAYEL QI ☆
Seeing a sea of crowd at his party should have you questioning your choices. But you don’t. not when you have your eyes on rafayel across the room, and your clit pressed snug against the panty vibrator—attempting to keep your face as straight as you can while throes of pleasure bloom through your body.
You’re failing badly to contain yourself. Your thighs press tighter together, urging you to lean against the closest surface. You see rafayel beckoning you to go to him.
“you’re very bad at hiding this, cutie,” he tilts his head with a bright smile. You just huff at him. he isn’t turning the vibrator off at all. It has been buzzing between your syrupy folds with the same incessant frequency.
He steps closer, trapping you between a wall and him—hiding your pleasure glazed face from the bustle behind him.
“if only I could have two of my fingers inside you right now,” he leans in—searing breath against your ear. “you’d clamp on them so tight—can’t wait to feel you,”
The zaps turn up a notch.
“rafa—please!” You squeak, knees nearly buckling. He chuckles lowly, holding you up.
“you can’t do better than this? Guess I have no choice but to whisk you away…”
you’re backed against a wall in a sequestered corner. Your swollen tits are out in the cool of the ac. his mouth draws your nipple into his mouth while you press a hand over your own to suppress your needy sounds.
He lodges his knee between your thighs, keeping them apart—nudging the vibrator to rest right against your poor, sensitive clit.
“don’t you worry, baby.” he tugs your nipple with his teeth, making your voice break into a whimper. “I’ll fill you up sooo well once we’re home,”
“you want it, don’t you?” his tongue darts out to flick the other nipple while your cunt keeps soaking your panties. “something to stretch your needy pussy out? you’d be split on my cock in no time,”
“ngh—being so mean,” you whine, body tremoring because of how close you are to being obliterated by your orgasm. he just huffs out a laugh.
his words ringing in your ears push you closer and closer to your high. your mouth waters at the images he keeps feeding your mushy brain. the voices outside dissolve. one grind of his knee against your pussy makes your voice break into a sob as you shatter, walls clamping around nothing in tight pulses.
summary. just sylus training you to take his huge cock <3
word count. 1,2k
disclaimer. smut (mdni!), size training ofc, dom! sylus but with a little surprise at the end ;) (slightly subby! sylus), implied extensive foreplay which includes: multiple orgasms; vibrator; oral sex (f! receiving); fingering, unprotected sex, bulge kink, nipple play, dirty talk, reader uses the government name once oh no.
nic’s notes 𔘓 no joke, this was supposed to be a drabble like 500 words max buuuut i got carried away :) anyway SYLUS BIG COCK GOONERS UNITE!
“deep breaths, sweetie. you’re doing so good.”
sylus’ hands reached for your tear-stained cheekbone, caressing the muscle. his loving strokes and whispered sweet nothings were belied by the mean mating press he had you in, sinking into you slowly—inch by inch.
your sweat-covered thighs pressed against your chest as it heaved with deep exhalations, trying to loosen your insides so that sylus could fit another inch in.
well, half an inch.
it wasn’t the first time you and sylus tried to have sex, you’ve been at this for weeks and frustration seeped into your limbs with each poorly failed attempt. you knew sylus wanted nothing more than to claim every piece of flesh of your body, but every time he’d try to push his cock past your warm folds, the pain became unbearable and the idea of pleasure would fade away like dust into thin air.
sylus could sense your irritation—feel it simmering beneath your skin. therefore, he decided to take matters into his own hands. he made it his mission to prepare you properly, determined to ensure you could take him without any trouble. not that he hadn’t taken his time before—but now? now you were going to grow dizzy from the sheer amount of foreplay he intended to put you through.
an hour of foreplay had gone by—he’d taken his time with you. his fingers had worked you open, his mouth had eaten you out like he needed it to live, and he’d even slipped a vibrator inside you to ease you up more. he’d gone as far as using a special lube meant to make the stretch feel smoother, more satisfying.
you’d already come three times. your thighs were quivering and your seemingly unsatisfied insides spammed as though they craved more and more. numb limbs and blissed-out eyes. exactly the kind of state sylus enjoyed reducing you to.
finally, after what felt like forever, you felt his mushroom head pressing against your entrance, walls already clenching in anticipation.
sylus chuckled as his fingers traced lazy, soothing patterns along your leg, which was draped over your shoulder. “eager, aren’t we?” he tapped his tip against your clit twice as he spoke. “don’t think i love your excitement, kitten, but you need to relax just a little more.”
you obeyed, loosening your insides as requested. you exhaled sharply before mewling. “sy, please just put it in. you’ve prepped me enough.”
his knuckles brushed against the fat of your cheeks, his touch carrying more than mere affection. “there’s no need to beg, yes? i’ll give you what you want, you know it, sweetie.” he pressed a cute peck against your swollen lips. “you just need to be more patient.”
you huffed, a mix of frustration and anxiousness mingling in your breath. “ugh, sylus! i’ve been waiting and cumming like crazy for an hour already and you haven’t even fucked me yet!“
sylus didn’t meet your eye while you were rambling on; his attention was fixated on your fluttering walls and his reddened girth. though you continued spluttering words. “c’mon just fuck me and quit messing aroun—angh!”
his tip eased into you, his crimson irises drawn in the way his cock disappeared inside you as he pushed more and more. he huffed before his famous smirk curved his lips. “you’re in such a rush. thought you liked it when i took my time.”
your breath grew more elaborated, chest rising and falling as you stuttered intelligible words. with furrowed brows and shaky thighs, you tried to keep as relaxed as you could whilst sylus’ girth made its way up your hole. slowly, torturing you.
your vocabulary was replaced by sweet, high-pitched whines. your eyes drifted to where your bodies met before you murmured lowly. “i-is it all in yet?”
“i’m not even half way in, my love.” his low baritone rumbled in your ear whilst he provided soothing, lingering traces of love along your outer thighs. “are you alright? does it hurt?”
you tried to make your words sound clear through your fuzzy, hazy mind. “‘m fine just—ngh, take it s-slow, please.”
“of course, sweetie.”
sylus’ big cock penetrated your insides little by little, burying himself deeper and deeper with each passing second. still, he took it slow just as you had asked. sylus was aware of his girthy length and wanted nothing but to bring you satisfaction, pleasure—and if that meant not rushing things, then that was what he was going to do.
the unrushed pace of the whole affair allowed sylus to savor everything: the way your walls constricted around him, having trouble taking him whole; the way your eyes welled up and rolled to the back of your skull with each inch he pushed in—the mix of pain and pleasure was arousing for him.
after what felt like the longest—both for you and him—, sylus bottomed out, his hips meeting your asscheeks, heavy balls colliding with your rim. he heaved out a lustful grunt as he felt the entirety of his dick being squeezed by your warmth. he had craved this closeness to you for far too long and the fact that it was now you and him united as one body, one soul, drove him mad.
but to be honest, what drove him madder was the sight of his cockhead poking out your belly.
“syyy—mghh! please move, feel like i’m burning inside.”
the aforementioned man smirked, the low vibration of a chuckle sending chills through your body. “as you wish, kitten.”
sylus rammed himself into your enveloping heat, with each thrust your breasts bounced in a hypnotizing motion—one that he could not resist as he directed his mouth toward your perked nipples, alternating between licking and teasing with his fingers.
every single one of his ministrations reduced your brain to mush and your body to a panting, whiny mess.
you begged with half-lidded eyes. “f-fuck sy, ‘s too much—gah!”
sylus faintly grazed your g-spot and your walls fluttered around him, your mouth fell agape as a string of moans echoed through the room.
sylus smiled to himself. “that’s the spot, isn’t it?”
you nodded incessantly, completely lost in the hot, sinful aura that wrapped your bodies. “yesyesyes! keep fucking me, please!“
as much as sylus loved seeing this destroyed-by-pleasure state of yours, he could not help but be a dick about it. “mhm, suddenly i’m feeling a little tired, kitten.”
he uttered before slowing down the pace. though you could feel every inch of him sliding in and out of you, it wasn’t what you needed at the moment.
what you needed was for him to ruthlessly slam his big cock against that sweet spot over and over again.
your ankles, which were draped over his shoulders, locked around his neck, pushing him down forcefully—your forehead almost colliding with his. “i told you to keep fucking me.”
his rich laugh fanned over your face, amusement written all over his. “i am fucking you, kitten. i don’t know what you’re talking about, you’ll have to be more-“
you cut out his insufferable asshole act as you purposefully clenched around his tip, the only part of his dick that was still inside of you, earning a deep and velvety grunt from the man.
“sylus. qin.”
you deadpanned with a clearly unamused expression on your face, belying your rosy, tear-streaked cheeks. and god, wasn’t sylus turned on by your stunt?
his right eye glinted dangerously, bright redness shining in the dark room. he slid a hand down your leg, gently parting your ankles as he placed a wet, lingering kiss on your skin, holding your gaze the entire time, a devilish fire hiding behind those rubies.
CW: this is an Omegaverse AU and does include adult content and themes not suitable for minors. 'Reader' here is a fem presenting afab, though I have done my best to avoid any description. Triggers for this chapter for canon-typical violence, trauma, and some medical details.
AN: later than I wanted bc apparently action is way harder to write than I remember? Anyway, this first section is now my new favourite thing I have ever written.
There is a story you have never been able to tell.
It begins when you are underwater. These are your earliest dreams. Your hair is cropped and uneven, drifting faintly in the corners of your vision when you open your eyes. You don’t question how you can breathe, only that the bellows of your lungs rattle in your ears. Men and women walk back and forth on the other side of the glass as if you are in an aquarium. And when you turn your head, there is Caleb.
It begins when there are dragons. These are your earliest dreams. You open your eyes to screaming, to the walls cracking like glass. The doors are locked and yet you are not alone. Even in your dreams someone cradles you to them, their chest like a living furnace, and their humming off-key. The sky roars open above you but you are safe, you are held. They place you like a precious thing in a half-buried stairwell when the animal wails of wanderers draw too close to ignore any longer. Wait for me, they say. But you are too exposed here, and you have to bury yourself further, crawl deeper into the ruins of the building until dust coats the inside of your throat. Caleb is there. You find him sleeping with blood in his mouth, and you curl around him and wait for the storm to pass.
It begins and ends with Caleb. Caleb. Caleb. Caleb. His name is your heart in your mouth.
I’ll always be by your side, he tells you at the children’s home. I’ll always be here, he tells you when Josephine is forced to adopt him too because you snarled, feral and hurting when they tried to pry your hand from his. Nothing will take me away from you, he tells you when you are in the hospital with monitors that spike and fall irregularly.
Protocore syndrome, the doctors say. Radiation from the Deepspace tunnel. A piece of shrapnel from the rift opening that has torn a hole in your heart and left fragments behind. We don’t know how much time she has left, they say to Josephine on the other side of the door, unaware that you and Caleb have stopped talking and can hear every word. Caleb’s expression is savage fury and sits strangely on his child features.
But there is time. There are years that pass. Years where you hang a banner across the front door for Caleb’s birthday, where you have a water fight in the front yard that becomes so violent a woman walking her dog gets caught in the crossfire, where you go on holiday to the beach and tell Caleb stories about the merman you met because he was sick with food poisoning so he can’t call you a liar. Years where you help Grandma in the garden and then watch the roses die because the autumn was nothing but rain and the garden gets so waterlogged that the basement floods. Years of homework and boredom and arguments. Caleb locks you in the attic one day and you cry until you can’t breathe, and he feels so badly about it that he apologises sporadically for the next eight months. Another time you kick him so hard in the stomach that he has a bruise in the shape of your heel.
He presents early, and his first rut Grandma sends you to stay at the main pack house down the road. As soon as the adults are watching TV in the evening you escape, slipping out the back door and running as though every shadow you pass is a wanderer waiting to gobble you down. You let yourself in using the key beneath the flower pot, and scratch at Caleb’s door like a cat until he lets you in. He is a mess of sweat, eyes glazed and cheeks pink. He started growing that summer and his limbs are as thin and unsteady as a colt. What are you doing, goober, he said. It was his new favourite insult. Sometimes you were pipsqueak because you were still waiting on your own growth spurt, and sometimes you were goober, and sometimes you were snotrag and sometimes squirt. He almost never calls you by your name. Likewise, he is meanie and idiot and dummy. Sometimes Cal or Cabe. But in your heart he has always been Caleb. Xia Yizhou. You keep his name where you keep all of your earliest dreams.
It was boring there, you told him. Let me in. He did, and you lay on top of the coverlet of his bed while he crawled back beneath. You ate his snacks and started to tell him a rambling story you made up about a sleeping prince and a planet full of flowers.
I hate that story, he said. Tell me a different one. And you hit him because you just made it up, so how can he hate it already.
In the morning there was a huge commotion when you went down to get some more food, and Grandma suddenly realised you had come back. It was the first time you ever heard her raise her voice. But it is Caleb. The boy who learned to braid so that he could do your hair for you before school. The boy who listened at keyholes with you and made fart noises using the palms of his hands, and who can run faster and jump higher than anyone else you know. He’s your stupid older brother, and he is the axis on which your world turns, and he is the first person you go to when you get a good grade, or fail a test, or cut your finger-
He is the first person you call when you realise that you’re not coming down with the flu. I think it’s fucking Heat, you hiss down the phone, mortified and horrified and delighted, because Caleb is an alpha so if you are an omega then you are right for him. You can still be what he needs. You can still be the most important person in his life.
You think, or you know? Caleb sounds unconvinced. It’s not exactly a maybe kinda thing, Pips.
It’s not a maybe thing. You feel as though you are burning from the inside out. Caleb is in Skyhaven, but he calls in sick to his lectures and flight-time, stays on the phone with you. He tells you a rambling story about two cyborgs on the run from a corrupt planetary government. That makes no sense, you interject. You are too old for bedtime stories. He doesn’t get mad. He almost never gets mad at you.
Oh yeah, he says. I thought you weren’t listening to my nonsense any more?
You roll over and groan into your pillow at the tinny sound of his chuckle through your shitty phone speaker. But he stays with you. Through all of it.
I’ll always be here for you, he says. Later. Whatever you need. You call me. Okay?
*
You find Zayne’s ID badge beneath the coat rack in the morning. He has already left – according to his calender he has two surgeries scheduled for the day, as well as two consultation meetings and an hour labelled ‘prep RX protocore data report for RSA conference’ which you are sure means something, but not to you. Regardless, you are pretty sure that having an ID badge is important, even in a setting in which you are as senior and well-regarded as Zayne.
For a long moment, you stare at it in your hand. The picture of Zayne; thinner, more tired-looking. His name, the word ‘cardiology’ and the Akso Hospital logo. Your first thought, ridiculous, is that you need an adult to tell you what to do now. Xavier is- somewhere. The Hunter let himself in last night as if it were a regular occurrence, and once again nearly gave you a heart attack when you came out the bathroom drying your hands and found him hovering dubiously over the pot of pasta you had set boiling on the stove. Somehow in the span of moments it had been reduced to a glutinous mass, and you are still not entirely sure what it was he did to it.
Rafayel is in the studio, apparently expecting a delivery of pigments, and you have hardly seen Sylus since your heat split last week.
Zayne, as you had half expected, had a medical informational pamphlet as well as several peer-reviewed studies, and offered to make you an appointment in case you wanted to talk about it with Doctor Greyson. You declined the research papers with their diagrams of different hormone chemical structures and brains with labelled cross-sections and the appointment, but glanced through the dense text and weirdly cheerful-looking cartoons on the pamphlet that explained that Heat is a natural process by which a mature omega signals their readiness to find a mate! This is the result of a surge in lutenising hormone following- you skim. Turn the page -‘phantom’, sometimes called ‘split’ heats occur at least once in 15-20% of mature omegas! These are usually nothing to worry about!
There were too many exclamation points and you put it down. Then you thought better of it, and hid it within an empty biscuit box and buried it at the bottom of the recycling bin because you knew that if he found it Rafayel would read it out loud.
A quick search online provided a short ‘presenting with symptoms of heat, however without ovulation the absence of LH hormone will lead to stabilisation and cessation of symptoms within 12-24 hours’ overview, which answered at least one question, and with fewer exclamation marks, which you considered good enough as you deleted your browsing history.
You know, logically, that it was nothing to do with Sylus. But you blame him regardless. That animal, instinctual part of you that sometimes scents the air, and that now avoids even walking too close to that area of the couch where you saw Sylus and Zayne. You know it’s not his fault that he has Zayne.
You turn the badge over in your hand and see where the clip has come loose and fallen off his lanyard. You have your old school lanyard somewhere. You could probably fix it, but it would be easier just to buy a new one. You’re being silly. Akso probably has an admin department somewhere that has a whole cupboard full of these things. You just need to get the badge to Zayne.
Your jacket hangs just beside the space where Zayne usually leaves his doctors coat. There’s a crisp white denim hanging on a hook that you think you have seen Xavier wear, and a blazer with orange paint on the elbow that Rafayel forgot to take. You thought when you first saw it that you should get it dry cleaned, and you think that again now. Perhaps you could drop it off on your way to the hospital?
You don’t know when you decided, but your body is moving ahead of your mind, slipping on your sneakers and checking that your card is in your pocket with your phone. You take the key off the hook and let yourself out, shivering slightly at the temperature change. Summer is still waxing, but the glass walls seem to do nothing but trap warmth until the entire house is practically tropical. You already know the route. You looked it up when you were taking a break once, and you know that the bus stop is at the end of the road. You can do this. You are an adult.
The bus arrives, and you tap your card as nonchalantly as you can. If you pretend that you do this every day, then perhaps it will be easier. As you sit, you wish you had brought a book with you, or your headphones. You look out of the window. It is not that you haven’t been outside since you were bonded, it’s just that- just that you were always with Zayne. Just that he drove you both to the grocery store and into the shopping district, and to visit Rafayel at the gallery when he insisted that he needed your eyes as a part of the re-hang now that he has removed the flowers to your home.
His new series is inspired by coral reefs and is full of flickering movements and paints so glossy and thick that they seem to almost drip from the canvas.
You change buses once, and after that it is another twenty minutes before you are pulling up alongside the glass and steel of Akso. You step out and look up, your fingers tight and hot around Zayne’s ID badge in your pocket. Memories prickle at your skin. Your Grandma’s phantom presence and the awful exam, and older, memories of your breath forced through tubes and adhesive patches that left traces of glue on the skin of your chest. Of crying because your heart would not stop hurting, but when you opened your eyes you saw that Caleb’s tears were the mirrors of your own.
‘Excuse me,’ you say to the receptionist. Your voice is quieter than you would like, but he looks up. Beta. His hair is scraped into a low bun at the back of his head and his nose has three rings in it. He looks far too cool to be working at the reception desk in a hospital. ‘I’m looking for cardiology.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No, I’m looking for Doctor Li, I’m his- I’m his pack,’ you do not flinch at the stumble. ‘He left his-’ you hear your name and you half turn, thinking it must be a mistake. Then the nurse says it again and grins. You recognise her. From last time. What was her name?
‘I thought it was you!’ She says. ‘Yvonne. I’m one of the nurses upstairs. Remember?’
You’ve done your absolute best to forget the ordeal of your pre-bonding exam, partly hoping that you never had to see anyone involved ever again. But you do remember her. You remember how careful she was, how kind.
‘Yes,’ you say, only belatedly realising that you should reply.
‘You here for Doctor Zayne?’
You pull the badge out from your pocket and she gives a bright laugh. ‘He left this at home,’ you say. ‘I thought I should-’
‘I think he’s just in his office,’ she says. ‘Come on, I’ll show you. It’s on my way.’
Akso is a modern hospital, but it is still a hospital, and your nose burns with the overpowering mix of chemicals for cleaning, the mild scent dampener in the air filters, along with the heady burn of cortisol. You think, if you worked somewhere like this, you would go nose blind inside of a week. You follow Yvonne up a flight of stairs and along one of the innumerable stretches of corridor until you turn a corner and find a small nurses station and waiting area.
‘Doctor Zayne’s office is that one,’ she points at the door just ahead, and when you look you locate the small silver plaque to the side; Doctor Zayne Li, Head of Cardiology. There is a box of biros on the side of the nurses station, hastily ripped open along one side, and Yvonne reaches in to take one, twisting it between her fingers as she clicks rapidly on the screen, apparently back to work.
You’re not quite brave enough to just open the door, and your first knock is too quiet, but you try again and this time you hear Zayne’s voice, muffled. You keep your hand on the door handle as you let yourself in, not fully closing the door behind you. If Zayne is surprised to see you, it doesn’t show.
You hold up his ID badge by way of explanation. ‘I think this fell off your lanyard. The clip is broken.’
‘I was wondering,’ he said. ‘I had already contacted HR to have the access use blocked. You shouldn’t have come out of your way.’
Your heart sinks. Right. Of course. There is a moment when your cheeks burn and you are just tired.
‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate it-’ he adds, and you nod automatically. He breathes out. Sharp. It could be a sigh, but it is too short for that. He says, ‘I have surgery in half an hour.’
You nod again. You know this. You have access to his calendar. Currently you are interrupting ‘patient CI, review clinical notes updated obs’.
‘Sorry,’ you say. You feel about an inch high. It’s not a feeling you’re unfamiliar with, but from Zayne-
‘Please don’t misunderstand me,’ he says, and suddenly he is much closer. You don’t know when he stood up, or crossed the space between you, but his hand is on your cheek, his thumb barely brushing the corner of your eye. If you closed your eyes now he would feel the flutter of your eyelashes. ‘I am glad to see you.’
Your breathing feels strange, unsteady and too shallow. He is so near and it would be the most natural thing in the world to close those last inches between your mouths. You wonder if he would be as gentle in this as he is with the rest of you. And there is a moment when you think he will. Where you are close enough to see the brief flicker in his eyes as he looks at your mouth and his fingers tighten and release fractionally as if he were thinking about drawing you in and up to meet him.
Then he is looking away and it is gone. Your pulse is thrumming beneath your skin, you are a bow drawn taut with no release. He says, ‘I’ll be a few hours. I know you are busy with your work, but if you wanted to wait-’
‘I handed in my last literature essay on Monday,’ you say. ‘And my portfolio isn’t due until the end of the month.’ His expression is opaque. ‘I have a book,’ you amend. ‘I can wait.’
He says, ‘The cafeteria here is good,’ in a way that sort of makes you want to laugh and sort of makes you want to shake him. It is as though he is talking to a stranger, as though you are both talking in code except someone forgot to fill you in.
You say, ‘Right. I can wait there.’
‘It’s not very comfortable,’ he says. ‘The bakery down the road-’
‘Macarons?’
‘Tiramisu.’
You do laugh this time. An undignified snort under your breath. ‘Okay. I was going to find a dry cleaners for Rafayel’s blazer anyway.’
‘You know Rafayel is not the head of our pack, you do not have to run errands for him.’
He say it so casually, but- ‘Wait, you said our pack?’
Zayne pauses in gathering his coat from the chair. ‘Do you not feel as though you have a pack?’
And the thing is, you do. You feel pack and home and family when you watch Xavier pick out all the meat from a stir fry for his bowl, and when Rafayel used your back to rest his sketchbook on, and that evening where it was just the four of you choosing where to hang Rafayel’s paintings. But you cannot think about that evening without thinking about that night and-
‘I hadn’t really thought about it,’ you lie.
‘Perhaps we should discuss it later,’ Zayne says calmly. ‘Xavier’s lease on his flat is up at the end of this month, and it would be a convenient time for him to file a new pack status with the Association.’
‘This month?’ You repeat dumbly. Then, ‘Right. Later.’
Zayne holds the door for you and you thank him automatically, mind too busy working around the information Zayne so casually dropped. Of the three men who have been in and out of the house, you suppose Xavier would be the least egregious housemate. The other alpha has never been anything but courteous, sometimes almost painfully so.
You are not numb exactly, so much as absent. Off-kilter. You find a dry cleaners a couple of streets away for Rafayel’s blazer. You’re not familiar with the brand, but the sudden shock on the young woman’s face as you unfolded it to show her the stain made you think you probably should have looked it up. You pay and leave with a promise to collect it on Tuesday.
But then, as if summoned by your thoughts, there is Xavier, wearing a pale variation of the standard Hunter’s uniform and apparently examining the menu outside a hot pot restaurant.
‘Xavier!’ You call out as much out of surprise as anything else, but the little smile that spreads over his face when he sees you is as soft and genuine as sunlight.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I just got off work. Are you hungry?’
You shrug. It’s only a couple of hours since you had breakfast, but then- ‘You just got off work?’
He nods, a silvery tuft of hair falling into his eyes. ‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘This looks good, but all their broths are vegetable.’
You glance at the menu. ‘It’s vegan hot pot.’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Is that why everything is in quotes? I did wonder.’
You glance up at him out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he is making fun of you, but his expression is entirely serene. ‘There’s a really good restaurant nearby,’ you offer. ‘Set menu.’
He looks back as if you have offered him the world. ‘Sounds good,’ he says. ‘Lead the way.’
*
You connect to the open wifi as soon as Xavier starts asking the waitress for an extra portion, sending Zayne a message to let him know that you have found Xavier and saved him from vegan hot pot. There is no response, but you weren’t expecting one, and you tuck your phone back into your bag.
‘What are you reading?’ Xavier asks suddenly. You look up and his eyes are zeroed in on your bag where, you realise belatedly, that a corner of your current paperback is currently sticking out. You remove the book and hand it over, watching as he turns it over in his long hands.
‘I think it might be yours,’ you admit. ‘I picked it up from one of the rooms downstairs- yours is the one with the books, right?’
He nods absently, flicking through a couple of pages. ‘I wondered where it had gone,’ he says. ‘I thought I must have left it in the park.’
You do not cringe, but it is a near thing. ‘Sorry. I should have asked.’
‘Hm?’ He looks up and his eyes are as wide as the moon. ‘Why are you sorry?’
‘Because I stole your book?’
‘Stealing implies malicious intent,’ he tilts his head, unblinking. ‘I do not necessarily think wanting to read about pirates counts as such.’ He pauses. ‘Unless you were looking for instructions?’
You shake your head and he hands the book back, apparently satisfied.
The food when it arrives, is good, though you do end up mutely sliding most of yours across the table towards the unfathomable black hole that is Xavier’s appetite. He asks once if you are sure and then accepts the offering for what it is. You ask the standardly polite questions about work, and try not to look too intense about listening to the answers. Every now and again his watch beeps – standard Hunter gear, you find yourself pointedly not staring, monitors fluctuations in metaflux. Nothing to see here – and he glances at it only to swipe across the screen with apparent disinterest. You know that Hunters are always supposed to be armed, but Xavier’s concealed carry seems to be very concealed. Even sitting you cannot spot the pull beneath the fabric of a holster anywhere on his torso. Not that you are looking. Only curious.
‘Is Hunter training particularly intense?’ You ask, mostly baffled as you watch him ask very softly and very politely for another portion of the beef.
He seems to consider this. ‘I suppose,’ he says slowly. ‘That would probably depend on what you would consider to be intense.’
You acknowledge this and hand over the rest of your portion. Xavier pauses, chopsticks poised over the bowl, and his expression sharpens so suddenly it is if someone somewhere has flicked a switch.
‘Wanderers,’ he says under his breath, so soft that you almost miss it.
Then- ‘What?’
‘Get under the table,’ he says. His voice is still soft but there is an unfamiliar steel beneath the feathers. ‘Don’t move until I tell you it is safe.’
‘But-’
His eyes catch yours and they are blazing, the blue of a sun gone supernova. ‘Now,’ he says, and when he stands there is a blade shimmering between his hands, sparks of white light like ripples around his fingers. Other customers are starting to look over, curious. ‘Please remain calm,’ he says loudly as if he is not standing there holding a sword.
It is only then that the distant sound of crashing reaches you, a faint roar that could almost be mistaken for a misfiring engine if you didn’t know better. Xavier takes off. You react more on instinct then anything else, scrambling out of the booth to follow him. You’re not thinking. Xavier is fast, but you keep pace and- there, less than a hundred paces from the restaurant, the flickering of a protofield and the shard-like tusks of a thunderoar. The people around are only just starting to react, screaming even as Xavier closes the distance.
He is as graceful as a dancer, pivoting on the ball of one foot to avoid the sweep of the wanderer’s tusks, his sword moving almost too fast to follow. You don’t know what you’re thinking. You’re unarmed. Except that you’re not thinking, only reacting as you scoop up a shard of rubble, hurling it at the thunderoar, hoping to distract it long enough for Xavier to take care of the rest.
That massive head pivots, mouth opening in a shriek. And then Xavier is there, blade singing thought the air toward the centre of it’s chest where the protocore is buried. The wanderer dissolves into fragments, light-like dust that fades around where Xavier is standing. He is barely even breathing hard, his expression one of steely resolve. But the protofield is still flickering, the edges bleeding into the world.
‘I told you to stay,’ he says. You’re not sure how you hear him, with the distance and the way that your blood is thundering in your ears, but it is as clear as if he is speaking to you across the breakfast bar.
‘I couldn’t,’ you say. The sentence hangs between you as if unfinished, but you do not know what else you could say.
He says, ‘The protofield is still active. The association will have received an alert by now. Stay here, I’m going to-’
You are already crossing the street. Every muscle in your body is tight with terror and adrenaline, and you can smell the bitter ozone of reality tearing at the seams, and Xavier beside you like a hero from the stories you used to tell. A prince searching for his beloved, a knight before a throne, a king in a field of flowers. You hold out your hand and he looks at it, eyes widening in confusion, and then he takes it.
You push your evol to the surface. It has been so long, but it is as familiar to you as breathing and it is hardly a second before you can feel Xavier there, a light sparking between your joined palms as you feel your heart stutter and slow to match his own.
‘You’re Anhausen class,’ Xavier says, his eyes on your hands.
‘Resonance,’ you confirm. You can feel the edges of his power clearly now, the brightness of it, and the way it strains against something invisible. ‘You have the light evol?’
‘There are two more wanderers inside the protofield,’ Xavier says. ‘Their protocores are what is currently stabilising it. Do you have a weapon?’ You shake your head and Xavier’s brow creases fractionally before he nods. ‘Access my evol,’ he says decisively. ‘And stay close.’
You don’t know how many times you have done this in your head. When you would still play games with Caleb and pretend you were characters in Deepspace Hunters IX, or when you would daydream in class about becoming a Hunter and being strong enough to fight back the monsters that lurked in the fringes of your nightmares. But stepping into a protofield is nothing. It is everything. It is static and your vestibular system suddenly deciding to clock out for the day, and feeling everything you just had for lunch at the back of your throat again. Reality ends and begins again and there is no break or sign that there was ever anything except for the new room around you where two wanderers are crawling out of the floor.
Xavier seems entirely unaffected by the protofield, the sword in his hand shimmering as he angles it back and starts running. Perhaps the protofield is affecting you more than you thought, but it is as if for a moment he simply- blinks- and he is across the room, swinging low and using the momentum to evade a swipe from the second thunderoar, the cat-like wanderer tensing as if ready to pounce.
You are reaching for Xavier’s evol before you can think, still feeling the hum of it like a second skin, and it is instinct that has you pushing it out in a blinding flash, distracting the wanderer as Xavier’s sword clinks off it’s armour. You try not to lose track of the third, stalking the perimeter of the domelike room as if sizing you both up for weakness. You direct the next flash of light towards it, hoping to put it off. There must be a way to use the light as a weapon rather than a distraction. Lumiere could sharpen light into a razors edge or throw it as a burning lance. You pull at Xavier’s evol again and this time try to sense it; the weft and weave of threads, the way that the photons come together. You could spend hours studying this. The infinite possibilities. But you do not have hours. Xavier uses light to play off his sword, to dazzle and deflect even as the thunderoar snarls and lunges at him again, teeth first.
Heat is a by-product of movement, of interaction and reactions, even down to a molecular level. To create heat, surely all you need to do is encourage the photons of Xavier’s evol to move. You try to imagine it like shaking a wasp in a jar, but light cannot be trapped by a jar, so what-
You send another frustrated pulse of light toward the third thunderoar who stalks closer, hunting with all the lazy self-assuredness of a large cat before it strikes. There is a smaller pulse of light from Xavier before he jumps, sword swinging out and cutting down, crippling the thunderoar he is fighting and you see him pull back to strike at the protocore-
You are distracted, and out of the corner of your eye all you see is a rush of movement, the crackling energy of the wanderer and the distinctive yellow-black tusks. You roll, hitting the ground with more force than intended and scrambling back up wishing you had a gun or even a sword- anything so that you didn’t feel so weak. The thunderoar swipes at you and you react between heartbeats, thinking redirect, your hands coming up to protect your face, Xavier’s evol pooling in the space between, resonating with yours, amplifying, and deflecting the swipe that would have torn your guts out, light shimmering like a shield before you. Your next lucid thought is, holy shit, and then Xavier is there, like a knight from a fairytale, sword singing through the air, slashing and twisting with his whole body as he forces the wanderer back a couple of paces with the intensity of his attack.
You cannot do much, but you hold that shield with everything you have, pushing more of your own evol into Xavier’s, flinging it out when you see the thunderoar throw it’s head forward to use that massive tusk, forcing it back. Deflect, you think. Redirect. It screams, teeth bared, the sound utterly unlike anything. It is the roar of a big cat and it is a violin staccato, and it is thunder and it is the eardrum-bursting pressure of the Deepspace tunnel. You hear those screams as echoes during storms, and you hear them in your memories when it was dragons roaring as the sky was torn apart. Deflect, you think, and pull the shield back to protect Xavier’s side as he lunges down to slash at the wanderer’s legs. You can feel the energy it takes, and you cannot get over how strong Xavier’s evol is, how easy it is to resonate with, your own slipping into the same frequency as though it has always been there.
You redirect the attacks you can using your makeshift shield, but there is barely any time at all and then Xavier is driving the point of his sword through the thunderoars side, and you are not in a cavernous room, but on a street in Linkon.
You lose your grip on your evol and the light shimmers out before you can even process the loss of it. You are shaking, you notice. Adrenaline. Fear. Xavier is looking down at you, and his eyes are a summer sky. ‘You handled the protofield well,’ he says. ‘I think I threw up the first time, but I can’t remember.’
‘You can’t remember?’ You ask, your voice shakier than you would like.
‘It was a while ago,’ he says as if he does not look barely twelve from some angles. ‘Are you hurt?’
You shake your head. Xavier bends down and picks up a shard of what could be glass and examines it. ‘The protocores broke,’ he says, blinking down at it, then tossing it to one side as if he is not holding one of the most valuable materials on the planet. He looks up. ‘Did you pay for lunch already?’
Baby's first taglist: @girl-math-aint-mathing @rockin20rosie @m00njinnie @belles-reads
summary: in which you upload a new socmed post and the lads boys react to the attention you receive on it.
ft. xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus & caleb
notes: soooo these are kinda KINDA barely toxic but i tried to tone it down as much as possible. do trust that the guys all #loveitoverhere. they would be ur biggest fan and support u in wtv bc i said so yes. also um caleb is like kinda really yandere-ish? in this one (so are xavier and sylus) (and kinda zayne and raf if you squint) (it's my weakness IM SORRY), mentions of possessiveness/jealousy, implied violence/stalking/kinda death? suggestive so MDNI ㅠㅠ
p.s. ignore the timestamps i don't wanna sleep hehe. also holy hell??? thank you for all the likes and reblogs and follows and and and...going to eat you all thank you so much you're all so lovely and sweet ily </3
a/n: the author (me)(rachel) does not condone the priorly illustrated acts (- -)(_ _) nor does the author (me again)(rachel again) condone allowing anyone to tell you how or what to post in any capacity (especially a partner...especially a man tsk tsk). the author (me last time)(rachel last time) DOES condone being confident and bad as fuckkk on your social medias (- -)(_ _) ty for reading hehe
Sylus's hips snapped forward again, burying his thick cock deep inside you with a wet slap. You were already a mess beneath him, your body slick with sweat, legs trembling as they wrapped around his waist. The diamond necklace he'd given you earlier that evening—your birthday gift—bounced against your chest with every thrust.
"Fuck, look at you," he growled, his breath hot against your ear as he slowed his pace just enough to make you whine. One hand braced on the mattress beside your head, the other sliding up to cup your breast, thumb flicking over your hardened nipple. "Wearing my gift while I fuck this pretty pussy. You like that, don't you? Feeling those diamonds on your skin every time I fill you up?"
You could only nod, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders, nails scraping down his back. The pleasure was building too fast, your walls clenching around him like they were trying to pull him deeper. "Say it," he demanded, pulling back almost all the way out, the tip of him teasing your entrance before slamming back in. The sudden fullness made you gasp, your back arching off the sheets. "Tell me how much you love it, sweetie. Tell me you're mine."
"I—oh god, Sylus," you stammered, your voice breaking as he ground his hips against yours, his fingers rubbing your clit in slow circles. "It's yours, all of me.… it feels so good, please don't stop."
He chuckled, dark and satisfied, leaning down to capture your lips in a hot kiss. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting like the whiskey you'd shared earlier during cake and candles. When he broke away, a string of saliva connected your lips for a second before he licked it clean. "Good girl. That's what I like to hear. You're taking me so well, sweetheart. So tight and wet for your birthday fuck. Bet you didn't expect this when you blew out those candles, huh? Wishing for my cock instead of presents?"
Your face blushed, but it only made you clench harder around him, drawing a hiss from his lips. He rewarded you by picking up speed, his thrusts deep and deliberate, the bed creaking under the force. The necklace swayed against your chest, You could feel every inch of him.
"Sylus… it's too much," you whimpered, even as your hips bucked up to meet him. "Too much? you can take it sweetheart" His hand left your breast to trail down your stomach, fingers finding your clit swollen and sensitive. He rubbed it lightly at first, then harder, matching the rhythm of his hips. "Look at this little thing. So puffy from me fucking you. You're dripping all over my cock—feel that? Hear how sloppy you are? That's all for me. My perfect girl, shining in her diamonds while I make her cum again."
You loved when he talked like this; filthy and sweet all at once, teasing you until you begged. "Please… more. I need more."
He grinned, fangs peeking in that predatory way that always sent shivers down your spine. "More? Greedy tonight, aren't you? But It's your birthday, so I'll give you everything." With that, he hooked your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half. The new angle let him drive even deeper, his cockhead kissing your cervix with every thurst. The neclace pressed into your skin now, the chain digging slightly as your breasts bounced with the force.
"Fuck, yes," you moaned, hands fisting the sheets. His pace was brutal, skin slapping against skin, the room filling with the sounds of your bodies. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping onto his chest
"That's it, take it deep. You feel so good, baby, so hot and tight around me. Like your pussy was made for my cock." He leaned in closer, his weight pinning you down, lips brushing your ear. "Imagine if anyone saw you like this. All dressed up in my gift, legs spread wide, getting pounded on your birthday. They'd be jealous. But you're mine. Only I get to see you like this, hear you scream my name."
You were close again, the coil in your belly tightening painfully. His fingers on your clit were merciless, circling faster now, pushing you toward the edge. "Sylus—I'm gonna… oh fuck, don't stop teasing me there."
"Teasing? This is me worshipping you, sweetheart." He nipped at your earlobe, voice dropping to a rumble. "Cum for me. Show me how much you love your present. Milk my cock like the good girl you are."
It hit you hard, orgasm crashing over you like a wave. Your walls spasmed around him, wetness that soaked his thighs. You cried out, but he didn't stop.
"Sylus, wait—too sensitive," you gasped, trying to push at his chest weakly. But he just grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand.
"No waiting, baby. We're just getting started." His eyes locked on yours, dark and intense. "You think one orgasm is enough for your birthday?"
He released your wrists only to flip you over onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so you were on all fours. The position made the necklace dangle forward, swinging as he positioned himself behind you.
"God, this view," he murmured, His palm clapped against your cheek lightly, not enough to hurt but enough to make you jolt. ""Ass up, sweetheart. We're not done. I wanna see that necklace dangle while you take me from behind."
He slid back in easily, the angle letting him go impossibly deep. You moaned into the pillow, fingers clutching the fabric as he started a steady rhythm. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back gently so you could see him in the bedside mirror, his muscles flexing.
"Watch us," he ordered, thrusting harder. "See how I own this pussy? How it sucks me in every time? You're so fucking perfect—tight, wet, taking every inch like you were born for it. Lucky aren't I? Getting to fuck the most beautiful girl in the world."
The praise made you blush "Harder… please, Sylus."
"Oh, I will." He released your hair to grip your hips with both hands, pounding into you with force. The bed shook, your body jolting forward with each impact. The necklace slapped against your skin "Feel that? That's me giving you everything. You deserve it, my sweet, slutty girl. Cum again for me. I want to feel you squeeze me dry."
You could feel the buildup raising as he pounds "Yes—fuck, yes. You're so big, filling me up. Don't stop, please."
"Never stopping. Not until you're screaming, not until you've had so many orgasms you can't count them." His hand snaked around to your front, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles. The dual sensation was overwhelming.
You came with a sob, vision blurring, pussy fluttering around his cock. He groaned, p, fucking you through until you were limp, oversensitive tears pricking your eyes.
"Good girl," he praised, slowing to a gentle rock, letting you catch your breath. But even that was too much. "Look at you, shaking. So sensitive now. These diamonds look so good on you, sparkling while I fuck you. Makes me want to ruin you all over again."
He pulled out, the sudden emptiness making you whine, and flipped you onto your back again. Before you could protest, he was between your thighs, spreading them wide. The necklace rested cool against your neck as you looked down at him
"Sylus… I can't," you breathed, but your hands were already threading through his hair, pulling him closer.
"You can, and you will." He kissed the inside of your thigh, teeth grazing the skin. "This pussy's mine to taste. All swollen and wet from me. Let me clean you up, baby. Taste how good we are together." His tongue flicked out, lapping at your folds slowly, deliberately avoiding your clit at first.
The sensation was electric, post-orgasm sensitivity making every lick feel like fire. You bucked against his mouth, but he held your hips down, teasing you with long, flat strokes. "Fuck—Sylus, it's too much. Your tongue… oh god."
He hummed against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core. "Too much? Then why are you grinding on my face? You love it. Love me eating this sweet pussy on your birthday." He sucked your folds into his mouth, then released with a pop, eyes meeting yours. "Tell me I'm right. Tell me you're my dirty little girl."
"Yes—fuck, yes. Eat me, please. Make me cum on your tongue." The words tumbled out, filthy and desperate, just how he liked.
Satisfied, he dove in fully, tongue thrusting inside curling to hit your walls. Then he moved to your clit, sucking hard, flicking with the tip of his tongue. Your legs clamped around his head, heels digging into his back.
"That's it, So fucking hot. Tasting myself on you. You're dripping again, baby. Can't get enough, can you?" His words were muffled, but they vibrated through you, pushing you closer.
"Sylus... oh—gentle," you gasped, but your hips lifted to him anyway.
He hummed, sucking lightly on your clit. "Gonna make you cum one more time, soft and sweet. You deserve it, sweetie, wearing my diamonds while I worship this pussy." His fingers spread you open, tongue flicking precisely, building you slowly now, the overstimulation easing into pure bliss.
It came gently, a warm rush that had you sighing in exhaustion, body relaxing into the sheets. He kissed his way up, settling beside you, pulling you into his arms, one arm banding around your waist, the other stroking your hair.
He kisses your forehead "Happy birthday, sweetheart." he whispered, "You're the best thing in my life."
the Beast's library @loveanddp - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
