Cw: Oral. Brat tamer Zayne. P in V. Dirty talk. 🔞MDNI🔞
A Protocore takes you and Zayne two years into the future, where future Zayne's behavior leaves present day Zayne silently reevaluating his entire existence from inside a very small closet.
Caleb here Xavier here Sylus here
"Yvonne. I'm begging you. Move it to Thursday."
"Your appointment was twenty minutes ago"
You were leaning over the reception desk, whispering while your eyes kept cutting to the main hallway.
"I know! I had a mission." You took a small step sideways, positioning yourself between her and the hall. Just in case. "A successful one. Very successful. But something came up and I need to drop something off at the Association right now."
Your hand pressed against your pocket. The Protocore was still there, solid and cold through the fabric. A white one. Pulled from a Wanderer less than an hour ago, which meant you were standing in the middle of Akso Hospital smelling like smoke and looking like a mess.
"Look. I'm ok, I don't need this appointment, when I get home, I ice whatever needs icing and I'll come back Thursday looking normal and healthy and I'll let him do his little checkup and everyone goes home happy." You pressed both palms flat on the desk. "Nobody has to know I came in today."
Yvonne folded her hands on top of her keyboard. "And if he asks why you cancelled?"
"Tell him I'm—" You paused. "Tell him I have food poisoning."
Yvonne's expression changed.
"I can't let him see me today"
"And why is that?"
"Because." You shifted your weight and immediately regretted it, a dull throb moving through your left side but you kept your face neutral. "He's going to look at me and know."
"Know what?"
"That I'm slightly—" you tilted your hand back and forth "bruised."
Yvonne's eyes moved to the tear in your sleeve.
"It's fine," you said. "I'm fine. I can still move around and I'm not bleeding from anything important. If Zayne finds out he's going to do the thing." You straightened slightly and squared your shoulders, dropping your voice into a flat imitation of his. "'This is not a minor concern. Your body is not a tactical asset you can simply override with willpower. Sit down and don't argue with me.'" You let your face go back to normal. "And then the staring. Yvonne, you know about the staring."
Yvonne pressed her lips together and very slowly raised one manicured finger to point it over her left shoulder.
You frowned. "Don't try to redirect me—"
She gave you a look. Wide eyes, like something was happening behind her that she could see and you could not.
"Why are you making that face," you asked "Are you okay? Is something wrong with your neck?"
Yvonne covered her mouth with a manila folder.
A chair in the corner moved.
It rotated slowly on its base. Dr. Zayne had a tablet on his knee. Coat perfect. Hair perfect. Expression completely neutral.
He looked at you.
You looked at him.
"That was a fairly good impression," his voice was exactly as low and measured as yours had been when you were doing it. The similarity was hideous. "But I don't rush my sentences."
Yvonne made a noise behind the folder that she converted, poorly, into a cough.
"Dr. Zayne." Your voice came out very small. "How long have you—"
"You are twenty three minutes," he said.
You looked at your watch, trying to avoid his stare "My watch says twenty one."
"Your watch is wrong." he stood and looked at you the way you'd been specifically trying to avoid being looked at, unhurried, starting at your torn sleeve and then back up to your face without any change in expression.
"You mentioned a mission"
"Yeah"
The folder was covering Yvonne's entire face now. Her shoulders were shaking.
He turned and started down the hallway toward his office at a pace that expected to be followed. "Since you're already here," he said, not looking back, "leaving would be wasteful."
"I have somewhere to b—."
"Yes and you are already 24 minutes late."
He didn't check over his shoulder. He simply walked, because the possibility that you wouldn't follow had apparently not entered his mind as something worth considering.
You stood there for a moment. The exit doors were fifteen feet to your left. Glass. Automatic. You'd be through them in four seconds.
You thought about what happened last time you ran. He'd shown up at your apartment forty minutes later with a medical bag.
Yvonne lowered the folder from her face. Her eyes were wet from the effort of not laughing. She mouthed something at you that looked like I tried.
You pointed at her and she gave you a small, apologetic wave before you followed Zayne down the hall. "You could at least slow down," you called after him.
"You could have been on time," Zayne said, without breaking stride.
Yvonne's laughter followed you all the way to his office door.
------
Today the silence in Zayne's office was not peaceful. In the Association's building it was always loud, always some radio crackling, some door slamming, someone having a crisis in the corridor and normally Zayne's office functioned as a kind of sensory decompression chamber. White walls. Clean air.
Today it felt like a holding cell.
You sat on the edge of the exam table and the paper underneath you crinkled every time you moved, which was constantly because you were not capable of sitting still when your face was this hot. You had tried, approximately forty seconds of total stillness before your left knee started bouncing. Your cheeks felt warm and that meant they were the color of something embarrassing.
Getting caught did that to you.
Getting caught specifically in the middle of mocking the way Zayne talked and telling Yvonne about his terrifying doctor stare.
He had his back to you. You had known him long enough to know that the silence didn't necessarily mean anger.
He turned around. Stethoscope already hanging around his neck "Deep breath"
You inhaled so fast it was almost a gasp and the metal of the stethoscope hit your skin. Cold. It was always cold. Years of checkups and you had never once successfully braced for the temperature.
Upper left. Upper right. You tracked the movement of the chest piece. Clinical. Impersonal. You were a patient, he was a doctor and this was a routine checkup and not in any way the specific recurring experience that had convinced you it might be safer for your general wellbeing to simply never be examined by Zayne again.
"Your heart rate is elevated."
Obviously.
The top button of his shirt was getting very familiar. Dark navy. Very professional. "It's just... adrenaline from the mission."
He made a sound. You did not look up.
Penlight next—he checked your pupils, which meant he was close again, you dealt with it by focusing very hard on the anatomical chart of the circulatory system on the wall behind him. You had extensive, unwanted knowledge of that chart at this point.
"Reflexes are fine." He moved to his tablet. "Lungs are clear. Aside from the laceration on your sleeve and your ongoing commitment to arriving late, you appear intact."
"Wonderful." You were already moving "Great news. Really good appointment, always a pleasure, I'll just—"
His hand appeared and he placed his palm against your upper arm—barely any pressure—and pushed you back onto the table. Your spine went straight and you looked up at him.
His brows were drawn in slightly when he set his tablet on the rolling tray.
"Do I make you uncomfortable?"
The question landed so far outside your expected conversational territory that your brain rejected it for a moment. "What?"
In the years you had known him, if you counted childhood, you had never heard him phrase something as though he was uncertain of the answer. Uncertain was the wrong word too. Zayne was never uncertain. But something under that question had an edge you couldn't name.
"I reviewed your appointment history," he continued, and your stomach did a slow drop because you knew where this was going and there was no good exit. "Over the last six months you've attempted to reschedule or cancel your routine checkups more than any other patient under my care."
"I've been really busy—"
"If my manner as a physician is— if the history between us makes it difficult to have a professional doctor-patient relationship I can make some arrangements. Dr. Hale handles several Hunter Association cases. She's thorough. Given your condition, I would need to remain as your cardiologist, which means you'd still see me on a reduced basis, but your primary care wouldn't—" something behind his eyes changed. "You wouldn't have to find reasons to avoid it."
"Zayne, stop."
You had never heard him ramble before.
"You're not making me uncomfortable." The words came out faster than you meant them to. "I don't want Dr. Hale. I don't want to be transferred to anyone." You looked for somewhere to rest your eyes and found nothing that worked. "Can we just— can we not do this right now?"
"You were negotiating with Yvonne to have your name removed from my schedule."
"I know what I was doing."
"Then explain it." he held your gaze, looking for a lie.
The honest answer was "because you make me feel like my ribcage is a bad fit for everything inside it, and I think your stethoscope is going to eventually give you evidence of something I have been working very hard to hide"
What you said was "Because of this."
You reached into your pocket and pulled out the Protocore. Held it up between you. It sat in your palm, throwing off a strange light.
"Look."
Zayne's gaze dropped toward your hand and you became acutely aware of how close he was standing. His shoulders blocked the rest of the room. If you inhaled you would be breathing air that had just come from him.
You could see the shadows under his eyes. He'd probably worked late again. The small shift in his expression wasn't something you could have described to anyone else. Just a slight draw of his brows and a tilt of his head that changed the light across his eyes.
"I've never seen one in this color." He extended one hand, long fingers open. "May I?"
"Yeah"
His fingertips touched the protocore.
But they touched your palm too—the side of your hand, just the briefest contact before the sound arrived. Not through your ears. Directly inside your skull, high and sharp and then the air was simply gone. Your lungs understood immediately that there was nothing to breathe and reacted accordingly in a moment of absolute panic before the wind hit.
A vacuum, pulling from every direction at once, until the ground disappeared and you hit something in a dull impact that rattled every thought out of your head.
You lay there for a moment and let your sense of direction reconstruct itself piece by piece.
Zayne was already on his knees beside you "Are you alright? Did you hit your head?"
"Fine," you tried to sound fine. "I'm fine. What happened—did it explode?"
"No." He stood and pulled you up in one clean motion "The room is intact, but—"
You looked up from the elbow you'd scraped on the way down, and looked around.
It was his office but the light was different. The clean white fluorescents were off, replaced by the warm amber glow of a single desk lamp. The air felt different too. Warmer.
There was a plant on the windowsill. A real one. Green and clearly watered with intention and care. In a space where Zayne usually kept a strict anti allergen policy.
His office felt wrong.
On his desk there was a picture frame. You leaned down to look.
It was a garden in winter, stone paths, bare trees, frost on the ground. Zayne was in a dark wool coat you'd never seen, a gray scarf loose around his neck, looking at the camera with a smile on his face. A real smile. One you had seen once or twice over the past few months.
You were in the picture too. Standing on your toes. Your arm looped around his neck, mouth pressed to his cheek.
You straightened up. You had no coherent thoughts. The inside of your head was filled with white noise, like a radio station that had lost its signal.
"Look at this."
Zayne was by the coffee table, staring down at something.
You went to him on autopilot. He was pointing at a newspaper, his finger rested on the top right corner.
"That's two years from now."
"Yes."
"Zayne," you panicked. "What do we do? How did this—"
Footsteps in the hallway. Two people, maybe three. Coming closer, not going away.
"My future self," he explained, "could walk through that door any minute."
He moved. Across the room in a few long strides, your wrist in his hand before you'd felt him reaching for you. He pulled you toward a tall wooden closet in the corner, pushed the door open with his shoulder and guided you inside, then he stepped in after you and drew the door shut.
The closet had not been designed for two people.
It had been designed for lab coats and medical encyclopedias. You pressed back into the hanging fabrics to give him room.
"Stop moving" he whispered.
"I'm sorry" you whispered back.
"The protocore," he said, dragging you back to the problem "We need it to go back"
"I don't know where it is"
He tilted his head toward the gap in the door and the motion brought his face closer to yours "I see it. Near the left leg of the desk."
"I'll go," you breathed. "Quick. In and out. He—you—whoever is in the hallway won't even—"
Your hand was already reaching for the door when his fingers closed around your wrist and brought your arm back.
"No"
"Zayne—"
"Listen."
The office door opened and footsteps moved through the office.
Future Zayne came in first.
He was the same but he looked like he hadn't slept in days, dark circles pressed deep beneath his eyes. He was holding himself together. Just barely, and visibly.
Behind him, softer footsteps followed. You.
She crossed to the window without rushing and stood there with her hands loosely clasped, watching him. Waiting.
"I was worried about you and you didn't care."
She said nothing.
"You were supposed to be gone a few days." He moved to his desk "I understand the mission was classified. I understand you couldn't give me details but you don't get to lie to me about your health."
He reached up and pulled his coat open, then pushed both hands through his hair "I've lost count of how many times I've been close to losing you. I'm trying my best to protect you and I can't... not when you're the one I'm fighting against." He exhaled, slow. "You have no idea what that does to me."
She crossed the room slowly and sat beside him on the edge of the desk, close enough that their arms touched. She reached over and covered his hand with hers before he turned his head and looked at her for a long moment.
Your throat tightened and he took her face in his hands to kiss her.
Inside the closet, Zayne's grip around your wrist went tight enough to hurt.
Outside, Zayne pulled back just enough to breathe and then went back in, slower this time, one hand sliding to the back of her neck. His coat came off. Hers followed, dropped onto the floor of his pristine office.
He moved behind her, his mouth finding the side of her neck, both arms wrapped around her.
"I missed you." Rough at the edges. Almost unrecognizable. "I've been going out of my mind for weeks."
His hands moved, her shirt came down off one shoulder, her bra with it and his fingers found her hard nipple and pinched , her head dropped back against his shoulder with a sharp hiss.
Beside you Zayne was losing his fucking mind. He turned his head away from them and his eyes found you instead.
The sounds outside filled the silence between you, her breath catching, his low exhales against her skin. Zayne was trapped between watching his future self handle you like a starving man or staring directly into your eyes while listening to the filthy moans leaving her lips outside.
You were completely speechless. Your mouth parted to say something—anything—but no sound came out. Your face felt like it was on fire.
"You have to stay quiet," Zayne murmured against her ear, his thumb moving in slow circles around her nipple. "Can you do that?"
Her answer came out soft and shameless"Yeah"
"Can you take your punishment like a good girl?" Another low murmur. His hand moved to her hip. "I'll reward you if you behave."
Present Zayne closed his eyes.
"Here?" she asked.
Future Zayne made a sound low in his chest. "I can't wait."
The Zayne squeezed beside you stopped moving. His face was flushed so red it looked ready to explode, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his neck were standing out like steel cables.
She turned around and sank to her knees in front of him. She reached up, slowly pulling down his zipper to let his thick, fully erect cock spring free.
The sound that left present Zayne was barely audible —a short, compressed exhale, like all the air had been taken from him at once. His free hand went to the wall beside him.
"Zayne," you whispered. "you have to breathe."
You grabbed his hand on your wrist —before he could do something catastrophic —and pressed your fingers through his. He held on.
"Do I need to fuck the brat out of you again?" future Zayne's voice sent a wave of dizziness straight to your head.
"Mmm..." she hummed against his bare flesh. She didn't argue. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss right to the weeping tip of his cock, before sliding her lips down and taking him deep into her throat.
He reached down and fisted her hair with a grip so firm and aggressive it looked painful, forcing her to take him all the way to the base. She made a choked, muffled sound around his cock and your eyes fluttered shut.
"Are you sure about that?" he growled down at her.
He began to fuck her throat, hips rolling forward as he took complete control of her mouth. The wet, filthy sounds of her choking, swallowing, and taking every inch of him filled the office.
"This is a serious violation," present Zayne started, barely a whisper "Of medical protocol. Multiple protocols. I am — this is gross misconduct. If the board—"
"Zayne—"
"I don't speak to patients like that." his eyes were fixed on the ceiling of the closet. "I am an attending physician. I do not use that kind of language. I do not call patients—"
"Zayne. Stop talking."
He couldn't stop. But despite his horrified, clinical rambling and the deep blush radiating through his skin, you couldn't help but notice the prominent tent straining against the front of his trousers.
"Good fucking girl" future Zayne praised her as he petted her hair while ruining her mouth. "Taking it so well for me... such a sweet, obedient little mouth..."
Every word of filthy praise made present Zayne flinch. The heat coming off him had nowhere to go. Neither did yours. You were both standing in it, hands locked together, not looking at each other, listening to every sound from the other side of the door.
Zayne kept the same deep rhythm, she had tears running down her face but not from distress because her hands were still gripping his thighs like she was holding on by choice.
He reached down with his thumb and wiped one away. Carefully. Gently. Like he was checking on a patient.
While doing what he was doing.
The contrast was so specifically him that you almost laughed. You didn't. Mostly because of what he said next.
"Look at you. Are you going to behave from now on or do you want me to collect every one of these—" his thumb dragged beneath her eye again, "and use them—fuck—to stroke myself in front of you next time you decide to be difficult."
You became aware of several things simultaneously. The heat moving to your pussy. The fact that your teeth were in your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The motionless presence of Zayne against your shoulder.
You did not look at him this time. You were not going to look at him.
"I —" His voice came out hot against the side of your neck. "That is — the use of lacrimal fluid — I would never —"
"Jesus " you whispered.
"He's threatening to use ocular secretions as —" his brain was clearly trying to cope with what he'd just heard.
Outside, she was nodding. Enthusiastically.
Something against your hip moved. You were both pretending it wasn't there but that pretense was getting less convincing by the minute.
Future Zayne pulled out of her mouth slowly. "Up"
He got his hands under her arms and pulled her to her feet "Let's see," his hands moved to the hem of her skirt "if you're as desperate here."
Patterns of frost trail from Zayne's hand and then dissolve against the heat of his skin.
"He's going to—"
"Yes."
"On the desk."
"Yes."
"My desk."
He pushed the skirt up to her waist, his thumb dragged up her inner thigh and stopped half an inch from where she needed it and then said, very quietly, "There she is, my pretty needy pussy"
He worked her open with his fingers, watching her face the whole time. "Tell me what this is"
"Zaynie—"
"Use your words."
"It's yours, It's—please—it's yours—"
"It's mine," he agreed. "And it doesn't go four weeks without me because you decided to be a brat. Understood?"
"Yes—god—yes—"
"Good." He pulled his fingers back and she made an absolutely destroyed noise. "Then ask me properly."
"Please, Zayne. I need you to fuck me. Please."
He looked at her for one more second and then pushed inside.
One deep thrust that drove all the air out of her lungs and moved his desk two inches.
"Four weeks," he said again, each word landing with a thrust.
She was past words, only making sounds.
"This is what you get when you think your care is optional."
Her eyes rolled back.
"Eyes on me" he ordered "You're going to look at me the entire time and the next time you think about lying to me—" a deep, grinding roll of his hips made her sob, "you're going to remember what I'm giving you."
"Yes—Zaynie—please—"
"Please what." Still moving. Still that same rhythm.
"Harder—"
"You want it harder?"
"Please—"
"You don't deserve harder. What you deserve," he pulled back until only the tip of his cock remained inside "is to feel exactly how much your body missed me and think about why that happened."
"I know why—I know—"
"Tell me."
"Because I was—because I didn't—"
"Because you were being a brat," he said simply, and drove back in, hard.
Crack. A slap to her pussy.
The sound was loud enough that you actually jumped.
Zayne's hand left yours. His palms hit the closet doors. They swung open and he walked out.
You stepped out behind him and the four of you looked at each other.
Future Zayne looked at present Zayne. The two of them stared at each other with an expression you could only describe as mutually horrified recognition.
Present Zayne spoke first.
"You need a haircut," he said.
Future Zayne blinked. "I — what?"
"The back. It's uneven."
Future you, still on the desk, raised her hand slightly"What the fuck?"
Everyone looked at her.
"Are you—" she pointed her finger toward you and Zayne.
You tried to explain. "It was a protocore, a white one. We touched it and ended up here. We were in the closet."
She stared at you. "For how long?"
"A while."
"How long is a while?"
You looked at the floor.
"The whole—"
"The whole thing," you confirmed.
"Including—"
"Yes."
"And when he said the thing about the—"
"Yes."
"Great, that's great."
Present Zayne looked at future you. "Are you ok?"
"I'm great" she said, very flatly. "Do you mind?"
"Right." Present Zayne looked at his hands briefly like he was checking they were still there. "Can I ask one thing, just one?"
Future you looked at him.
"Is this— do you—"
The White Protocore pulsed from under the desk. You grabbed it and then grabbed his leg. Looked at your future self still sitting on the desk looking at him with an expression you recognized as pity?.
"She's going to be just fine" she told him and you held the Protocore tighter.
White. Wind. Gone.
You landed and stayed on your knees for a moment. The protocore dissolved the moment it hit the ground.
Zayne was on one knee beside you, one hand still on the floor where he'd caught himself.
Eventually you sat back on your heels.
Zayne straightened up. Slowly.
"We're back"
Brilliant. Very useful contribution.
"We are"
"Are you okay," you said.
"I'm fine," he said. Instantly.
"Okay."
"It would be helpful to have some time to—"
"I'm gonna go"
He looked up.
"I have to head back to HQ" you said, getting your jacket, moving toward the door because if you didn't he was going to combust and you were going to watch it happen.
"Right, yes. Can we—"
You turned around.
He was looking at his desk. Ears still bright red. "It's nothing, drive safe."
The door clicked shut behind you and you stood in the hallway for a few seconds.
Then you walked to the elevator, pressed the button, stared at the doors and tried not to think about a future version of you getting railed on his desk.
Tag list for this series: @valkori3s @crimsonrubie @young-adult-summer @aetherrx @zayniacforreal @skzlover143 @moonlight-jasmine7 @sakuraneko-sakupanda-chan @applesanchor @syqxen @hwangintakswifey @opalesquegirl
Part 1 with the other 5 and the art that inspired this.
🔞CW: Dry humping. Dirty talk. Self love. Smut.🔞
Infold, give us our wolf back! Please!
A special thanks to @stardustsirens, I love your beautiful brain 😚
Twenty minutes. You'd been gone twenty minutes before you turned around, halfway to work, because your work folder was still sitting on the kitchen counter.
Valko had stayed the night, though not the way anyone would assume. You'd cooked too late, ended up on the couch watching movies until midnight and the idea of him driving home just to come back in a few hours was ridiculous. So he'd stayed. Folded that huge body of his onto your couch—which was built for exactly one normal sized human—insisting he was fine even though you both knew his neck would hate him for it in the morning. He hadn't so much as brought up sharing your bed. That line was still there between you, respected without either of you having to say so out loud.
Your living room was empty now. The throw blanket sat balled up at one end of the couch, still warm, still carrying that earthy scent that clung to him. You figured he'd finally given up trying to get comfortable and left for home.
Things had been tight between you two for weeks — not bad tight, just like the kind that builds when you're close to someone in every way but one. Curling up next to him on that couch last night, close enough to feel him breathing, had taken more out of you than you wanted to admit. You'd gone to your own bed after and tossed for hours, finally giving up and finishing yourself off against your pillow just to get some sleep.
You grabbed the folder off the counter, shoved it in your bag, turned toward the door already dreading the way back to work.
Your foot stopped.
Through the crack in your bedroom door came a sound — low, cut off at the edges like it hadn't meant to get out. A hitch of breath, rough with something needy.
You don't move. For a few long seconds you just stand there, blood rushing in your ears, telling yourself you imagined it. Then it comes again—louder, unmistakable. A deep, broken whine bleeding through the door, underneath it the slow, rhythmic creak of your mattress.
Something hot drops straight to your navel.
Your feet move before you decide to let them, carrying you to the gap where the door hinges open. You don't need to push it. You can see everything
Valko is on your bed, completely stripped of the restraint he usually carries around you.
On all fours, every muscle in his back straining with each roll of his hips. Both your pillows are underneath him. One is pinned between his thick, heavy thighs. The other is crushed against his chest like he's holding onto it for dear life.
The fat tip of his cock is already leaking clear precum, smearing wetly against the fabric with every thrust. The muscles of his ass bunch and flex rhythmically, his tail swishing low and frantic from side to side, brushing against his calves like he can't control it.
His nose is buried deep into one specific corner of the pillow, taking big lunges of air—sniffing the hell out of it. Strands of saliva string from his parted lips, his eyes are squeezed shut so tight his eyelashes tremble. He looks like he's desperately trying to engrave that scent into the deepest part of his memory.
The heat that floods your face is scorching and mortifying.
That's where you'd been last night. Grinding against that exact spot, face buried in your own sheets with his name stuck in your throat, thinking thoughts you'd never planned on anyone knowing about. He has his nose pressed right there. Breathing you in like it's the first clean air he's found in days.
The hallway feels like it's closing in. You can't move. The folder is shaking in your hand and you can't make yourself look away.
Valko moves his hips down again and the groan that tears out of him is nothing like his usual voice. It's scraped raw, stripped of every careful thing he usually puts between himself and the world.
"Fuck—" The word drags out of him slow and broken. His face presses deeper into the pillow, lips parting against the fabric, inhaling so hard it pulls into his mouth. "Smells so good. So fucking sweet"
Your stomach drops.
When he pulls back to thrust again you get an unobstructed view of him, and your mouth goes dry. He's huge, veins mapping his cock in thick ridges, the head flushed a deep red and slick with everything he's been leaking onto your pillow.
"There you go," he breathes, eyes still squeezed shut, hips rolling down in a slow, grinding push. He's talking to the pillow. He's talking to you—or the idea of you, the ghost of you he's got his hands on. "Take it just like that. Let me get all the way inside that pretty cunt, puppy."
He makes that sound again—a high, needy whine that has no business coming out of something so big—and his ears flatten tight against his skull. His rhythm stutters, slow grinds breaking into something harder and more desperate, the whole bed frame groaning with it.
"Such a good pup," he mutters, tail thrashing wild against the mattress, fingers curling into your pillow. His voice is getting rougher, darker, words spilling out like he can't stop them. "Gonna stretch you out so nice. Fill you up with everything I've been—" A sharp, punched out groan. "You'd take it, wouldn't you? Every single bit of it."
His thighs grip the pillow tightly, his whole body going rigid as he grinds down and holds it there. His knuckles are stark white, fingers curled past the point of grip, something closer to desperation made physical. You can see the effort it's taking him to hold back. Every thick vein along the back of his hands stands out in rigid relief, branching up his wrists, mapping the strain all the way to where his forearms flex with each movement.
With every snap of his hips the tension climbs higher. Up his biceps and across his broad shoulders, the whole architecture of him pulled tight. He is holding the pillow like letting go for even a second would mean losing the last thread of you he has access to.
Like if his grip slips, your scent goes with it.
His hands have never looked like this. You've seen them steady holding a weapon, calm giving an order, certain in every situation that called for certainty. Right now they're shaking slightly. Not from weakness.
But from the effort of not having the real thing.
The ache between your thighs is unbearable and the urge hits you like something physical, pressing into your sternum until your body stops listening to your brain entirely. You want to tell him yes. You want to walk into that room and pull those pillows out from under him and put yourself there instead.
Your foot moves forward one step.
That's all it takes. The tiny shift in air carries your scent right through the gap in the door—laced now with the edge of your arousal—and delivers it straight to him.
Valko goes completely still.
His ears snap upright, swiveling toward the door, and his head follows a half second later. Through the narrow crack his eyes find yours instantly, pupils blown so wide the gold of his irises is almost gone. The room sits heavy with the smell of sex and the sound of both of you breathing.
He doesn't cover himself and your eyes drop without your permission.
The sight of you watching him—your scent hitting him fresh and full—is what does it. You watch it happen. His cock swells further, skin pulled tight, a low growl tearing out of his chest and his hips give one last involuntary roll forward.
He cums with his eyes locked on yours the entire time.
He stares straight through the gap in the door, unblinking, holding your gaze with an intensity that makes your legs feel unreliable, as the first thick streak of white paints your pillow. Another spasm rolls through him, another rope of cum landing heavy over the exact spot your scent had soaked into the fabric last night. Over and over until the last bead clings to the tip and stretches thin before finally dropping.
His chest heaves and his tongue drags slowly across his lower lip and then his canines like he's tasting the air. His tail gives one long, heavy thump against the mattress.
He's still staring a hole right through you.
You are completely fucked.
And while we're here @ekay-i .... PLEASE🙏🏻. Valko deserves a spot in the pillow humpers art. i am begging on my knees 🧎🏻♀️🫣
Oh im so pissed. I literally have friends going to AX that wont get to meet Valko bc CN girlies couldn’t prioritize nonsensical complaints over legitimate ones
“Oh you switched up” i’m so sorry that some of y’all only needed five seconds to be convinced and I needed five minutes. Y’all need to chill with this crap.
Second, I’m already seeing Applecrow ppl say this man will be in their new trio… is my man Zayne finally free from the “holy trinity”? I have a feeling he is…
As someone who wasn’t as pessimistic about what this would do to the pool rates and didn’t feel as firm on the opinion that we didn’t need a six love interest to some people, I’m personally just not excited. I say this knowing full well that this game has managed to make me love every single love interest before in some capacity so I doubt they’re gonna drop the ball on this one, but… right now I just think it’s corny looking.🤷🏻♀️
Also genuinely I thought this fandom agreed that puppy boy was Caleb’s thing🙃
Also btw have been struggling to write because im going through shit but also my last project was a Caleb fic and it has genuinely been so hard to engage with anything remotely involved with him since this year started and by extension the fandom as a whole. I miss what it was like to be a LADS player in 2025. It currently is just so insufferable that every damn conversation is about his fuckass trope. I dont even want to care anymore. Yall got your baby sister cards can yall shut up now??
I just want to say… Zayne’s new card is a reference to Pride and Prejudice. One of Caleb’s book reccomendations was Sense and Sensibility. Snowapple crumbs? Caleb and Zayne are Jane Austen fans confirmed.
Also if Caleb’s card is a reference to Wuthering Heights, as a person who avidly loved that book when I read it, then Caleb’s card actually sucks, I’m sorry. Why would the references be so strong, the influences of the time periods of the stories from their outfits to even their dialects, and Caleb’s to have MC in a vaguely 1940’s dress with no clear cinematic reference??? Because all the other cards were so easily identifiable and Caleb’s is genuinely causing debates. Like, whatever it was supposed to be based off I don’t think even Infold knows, because… I can’t figure it out even after research, none of the popular theories make a lot of sense.
We talked so much about the prospect of Caleb being a panty snatcher, jerking off into MC’s panties, stealing her laundry and just soiling the shit out if her good pairs with his cum…
Have we considered that (with an MC that is of more similar proportions to Caleb) he might also be… wearing them?🧐
Like, lets just talk about the prospect that after so long of taking and sniffing and jerking into them, he gets a little more curious and shimmies them on, even though he’s spilling out of them in awkward ways and they’re tight in areas that make him walk funny, but he put them on bc he wonders about literally every experience you ever have. It’s this perverted, misguided effort to feel close to you without ever being close to you, and the worst part is with such a perfect fat ass he lowkey pulls them off.
It’s not uncommon for ppl to make content playing at this idea of generally masculine male characters wearing women’s thongs and shit, like, I foremost think of Leon Kennedy, but I don’t think we truly think about it unironically, because, consider for a second a big, handsome guy like Caleb who is so unbelievably freaked that he decides stealing your underwear and stashing it in his work desk at the Farspace Fleet isn’t enough risk for him.
It doesn’t make him feel naughty enough, so he starts wearing your print pattern cottons and your itchy lace under his uniform, knowing if anyone ever found out he’d become a full on mockery, and yet the possibility brings him this strange rush, and of course, there’s one person that’s eventually gonna catch him: you.
Eventually you’ll notice them riding up his hips beneath the waistline of his pants, or maybe you’ll catch him accidentally when he’s changing. You’ll see him with some ridiculous logo across his stupid, plump ass, and there’s no time to hide it when you corner him before he can cover himself back up.
And you’re gonna make him pay for all your lost intimates, and for looking fucking better in them than you do! You’ll get him in nothing but those panties, brain all fried and dizzy with a mix of shame and lust when you start fondling his balls as they try and slip out under the gusset, and he moans like the bitch he’s dressed like, even when you remind him how absolutely humiliating this would be if his subordinates found out. You take pictures, you take videos as you stroke him through the fabric, and you ride him and edge him until he’s a whimpering mess because that’s what it’s gonna take for you to forgive him, and if Caleb wants to cum in your panties sooo bad, he’ll cum in your panties alright.
Cw: Smut. Oral. P in V. Thigh riding. Size kink. Panty sniffer Caleb Jealous Xavier. It includes links to 🌽 videos on X for visual examples on what was sent. 🔞 MDNI🔞
Sylus/Xavier/Rafayel/Zayne/Caleb
Yeah*sigh*I'm ovulating again. Enjoy 😝
The blue light of your phone screen is the only thing cutting through the darkness of your bedroom. You really should have been asleep an hour ago, instead, you’re spiraling down a rabbit hole you didn't even know existed.
Size kink.
You’d never really thought about it before, not until you started dating Sylus and tonight you were just scrolling, looking for something to satisfy the empty ache Sylus left all week.
This video is something you had never seen before or even thought was possible. You watch, mesmerized by the way the woman’s stomach subtly shifts a visible bulge as he stretches her out.
Heat pools instantly between your thighs, making your breath hitch and a dizzying sensation of fullness hit your gut. He's always so careful with you, so agonizingly gentle, as if you’re something precious he might break if he breathes too hard. But looking at this... a dark part of your brain wonders what it would feel like if he didn't hold back.
"Holy shit..." you whisper to the empty room.
Your hand moves instinctively, fingers sliding down to find slick heat. The video is playing on a loop. Bulge. Stretch. Deep. Repeat. You watch it while your imagination runs wild, replacing the stranger on the screen with the man who owns your heart. You’re picturing his heavy weight pinning you down, his eyes blown wide, filling you until you can’t even scream.
You’re chasing a peak that feels miles away until, suddenly, it isn't. You hit your first orgasm with a stifled gasp, back arching off the mattress, only to find yourself immediately chasing the second one, body trembling and spent in the wake of the first.
By the time the second wave of pleasure ebbs away, you’re a puddle of limbs and heavy eyelids. You’re half conscious, drifting in that beautiful limbo between wakefulness and dreams. In a daze of post orgasmic euphoria, you squint at the screen, your thumb hovering over the comment section.
"How do I send him this without actually sending it to him 😳"
You tap 'send' with a clumsy thumb. You meant to just post it as a thought, a digital scream into the void. But as your eyes flutter shut, your hand twitches a final, involuntary spasm of exhausted muscle. Your thumb slips. It slides across the 'Share' icon, hovers over the very first contact at the top of your recent list, and taps.
Sent.
You don't hear the subtle whoosh of the outgoing message. Delivered directly to the man who at this very moment is probably staring at a security feed or sipping red wine.
Sylus.
You just fall into a deep, blissful sleep, completely unaware that you've just lit a fuse.
“Come on, sweetie, don’t give up on me now" Thrust. The impact is heavy, forcing a breathless gasp from your lungs. “You can take it, can’t you?”
He isn't being the gentle, careful man you know. Not today. His hand is hooked firmly behind your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, forcing you to watch the unmistakable, fat bulge stretching the skin of your lower abdomen, proof to just how deep he’s buried himself inside you.
“You wanted this, now you have to take it and you are going to watch.”
And there it is. The reality of it. It’s visceral. It’s exactly what you saw in that video, but it’s a thousand times more intense because it’s him. It’s real.
Your vision swima and just as the shock of it all starts to settle, he shifts. He changes the angle of his hips in a calculated move that hits your G spot dead on. An uninhibited scream tears from your throat, echoing through the room.
“I've been trying to behave,” he says, and the words come out rougher than he probably intended, an edge of frustration bleeding through his usual composure “But you make it so difficult... fuck... by sending me your filthy little thoughts.”
His hand settles against your belly, firm and heavy, and the second he presses down, your body reacts with a sharp inhale. You tense instinctively, muscles coiling around him, but you don't pull away. You can't.
“Can you feel me here?” he asks, breath coming in uneven bursts. He’s buried balls deep and for a split second, you see a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. You make a face, a strange, overwhelmed expression of fullness, and he looks like he might actually pull back to give you a moment to breathe. He thinks he’s pushing too hard.
He’s wrong.
Don't you dare.
Driven by a desperation you didn't know you possessed, you move your hips in a searching rhythm, pressing his hand down harder against your stomach. You want the pressure. You want to feel the exact point where he meets your skin from the inside.
He lets out a loud groan at the sensation. Your narrow walls clamp down on him, tighter than they've ever been. Every millimeter of space between you feels like it’s disappearing, leaving nothing but friction and heat.
You don't have the words to tell him that you never want him to stop, so your body does the talking. You cling to him, legs wrapping around his waist as he holds you there, keeping you exactly where you are until your breathing turns unsteady.
Until your body softens in momentary surrender and tightens again a second later, as if you're fighting a war with yourself, trying to decide whether to let go or to hold on tighter.
In the end, you don't choose. You do both.
The world dissolves into a hot haze of pleasure. It couldn't be called an orgasm because this feels like a total system failure. You’re sobbing his name or maybe you’re just gasping for air, you can’t tell anymore as waves of pleasure crash over you, violent and unrelenting. Your pussy seizes around him in long pulses, milking him, begging for the very thing that’s pushing you past your limit.
He follows you a few seconds later, burying himself soooo deep you feel the hot rush of him filling you.
Slowly, the fog begins to lift, leaving you in a state of blissful, heavy lethargy. The hand that was just pressing so ruthlessly into your belly softens, fingers tracing lazy circles over your skin.
"You really are a menace." he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.
The shame you expected to feel, the embarrassment of that accidental video is nowhere to be found. Instead, there is only a sense of immense satisfaction.
"Next time," he whispers into your hair "don't bother sending a link. Just tell me. I'll give you everything you desire. Every single time."
The problem with being in love with a man like Xavier is that your brain is constantly a minefield of "what ifs."
He’s incredible, truly, but you’ve noticed the way he pulls back sometimes. When he’s brooding or when that possessive jealousy starts to prickle at him, he becomes almost too careful. Like he’s afraid he might actually break you if he lets go of that restraint.
So, naturally, you’ve been doing a little "research" to keep the inspiration alive.
Now, you’re sitting on the edge of your bathtub, scrolling through your feed, a habit that’s becoming a bit of a vice, when a video catches your eye. A girl pinned to a mattress, her head pressed down by her partner as he fucks her from behind. Hard. The sound of her moans echoes in your ears through your headphones and suddenly the bathroom feels about ten degrees too hot.
God, yes.
You quickly save the link to your "later" folder, a digital stash of things you want him to eventually try, and then scribble a quick, thirsty comment on the video "This but with my boyfriend dressed as Lumiere 🤤 " and set your phone down.
Buzz. Buzz.
A notification lights up the screen. It’s him.
[Xavier]: Found a new hot pot place. Apparently, the broth is spicy enough to kill a Wanderer. Want to go tonight? Please say yes so I can stop thinking about food and start thinking about you.
A soft laugh escapes you. He’s so predictable, yet so devastatingly charming when he wants to be. Your answer is an immediate "sure" because you’d say yes to a lukewarm bowl of water if he was the one serving it.
But he always forgets to look at the menu and ends up ordering something way too spicy or something you're not in the mood for, so you look for the restaurant's menu.
You see the link. Tap it. Copy. Paste. Add "Look at the options! The spicy broth looks insane." Send.
Funny thing is, you don't actually copy the menu's URL, you just cut it. You don't even realize you just sent him the very un culinary link to the video you were just watching to fuel your own delusions.
Little typing bubbles appear. They dance for a long time. They disappear. They reappear.
He's so indecisive.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
"Lumiere?" the name sounds like a curse "You wanted Lumiere to pin you down?"
Your face is pressed so firmly into the mattress that the fabric feels like a part of your own skin, the scent of laundry detergent mixing with the heat of the moment. Every time he thrusts into you, the world tilts, your vision blurring into white light and dark shadows. The Xavier who kisses your forehead and cuddles with you is buried somewhere deep inside the man currently fucking you breathless.
"Xavie..." you try to speak, but his name dies in your throat as he shifts his weight.
"Tell me," he demands, losing the battle with his own restraint. He hits you hard, a deep, soul shaking thrust that forces a broken moan from your lips. "Tell me you don't need a costume to feel this."
You try to answer, to tell him he's being ridiculous...
Smack!
The sting of his palm against your ass makes you gasp, your fingers clawing at the mattress for purchase.
"You sent it to me on purpose," he mutters as he leans down, his chest pressing hard against your back. "You wanted to see me like this, didn't you? You wanted to see if I could be as rough as him."
He doesn't want an answer. He doesn't wait for one. He just wants to hear you whimper his name when he hits that perfect spot.
His hand presses your face down even harder into the mattress, muffling your cries. It's everything you were craving when you were scrolling through your phone earlier, but the reality is a thousand times better.
You start to move, trying to meet him halfway, trying to grind back against him to find the friction that will push you over the edge.
"Faster..." you beg, trying to turn your head to tell him that there is no Lumiere, there is only him, but he just presses you back down, his thumb grazing your hip bone with trembling pressure.
"Shhhhhh, just a little bit more," he lets out a long groan, his forehead dropping to rest against the back of your neck for a fleeting second before he surges upward again. "You should see the way your pussy is taking my cock right now, so greedy. Just for me."
His hand shifts. It leaves the back of your head to find the column of your throat. His thumb and middle finger curl around your neck not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he is in total control.
He stills for a heartbeat, his middle finger softly tapping the pulsing vein in your neck. "Every beat belongs to me tonight"
You just nod, a jerky movement, because you are standing on the very edge of a precipice, and the fall is coming. The tension in your lower belly is wound so tight it’s almost painful.
"Say it," he breathes, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his words a warm, humid ghost of a sensation, his control fraying at the edges.
"Yours," you finally whisper, like secret you’ve been holding in your lungs for far too long, finally allowed to breathe.
The moment the word leaves your lips, he loses the last of his mercy.
He pulls back almost entirely, leaving you aching and empty for a fraction of a second only to drive back in, bottomless and bruising. It’s a cycle of withdrawal and overwhelming fullness that leaves you reeling.
"Give me what's mine" the command vibrates through your entire body.
The world dissolves into white light as your head falls forward, muscles spasming in the violent quake of your climax, but he catches your hair, tugging just enough to force your head up, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and swirling with a hunger that could swallow the stars.
"Good girl," he whispers against your parted, trembling lips.
He thrusts one last time, deep and final, spilling molten heat as your name breaks from his lips, torn in half by bliss before he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. For now, the jealousy is gone. There is only the quiet, heavy reality of being his.
The video catches your eye instantly. The lighting is a soft purple, casting a surreal glow over the two people on screen. A girl is on top, her movements slow and agonizingly deliberate as she drags her pussy over her partners cock, the rhythm of it making your cunt clench.
Tonight you are in a "no filter" mood. You need to share this. You need to tell Tara.
With a smirk, you tap the share icon, copy the link, and switch over to your messages. You find Tara’s profile pic or so you think and start typing with the kind of unhinged energy only a best friend can appreciate.
You and Tara have long since abandoned the concept of "boundaries" when it comes to your filthy late night chats.
“Omg Tara, look at this. Raf’s cock is so pretty, I swear if he’d just let me do this to him, I’d never leave the bedroom again 🥵💦”
You hit send with a satisfied whoosh and let out a long, dramatic sigh. Silence follows. For a few minutes you go back to scrolling, blissfully unaware that you have just dropped a digital bomb into the inbox of a man who is already struggling to maintain his composure.
Your phone vibrates.
It’s not a "LOL" or a "Damn" from Tara.
It’s a notification from Rafayel.
Rafayel: Is that so?
Your heart skips a beat. You frown, squinting at the name at the top of the chat.
Wait.
Your face goes from pale to a shade of red that would put a sunset to shame. You stare at the screen, wanting to physically crawl inside the phone and disappear forever. You want to delete it. You want to throw the phone out the window. You want to move to a different planet.
But then, the little typing bubbles appear again.
Rafayel: Don't just sit there blushing, cutie. I'm coming to your place and you are going to show me exactly what you want"
🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧
You’ve lost track of time. Your thighs are starting to ache, every muscle in your legs feels tight, strained from holding yourself upright, yet you keep moving. You have to. The friction is the only thing keeping you grounded.
You’re straddling him, your knees digging into the soft linens, focused on the way your cunt drags over his cock. Slippery. Hot. Wet.
Every time you slide down, the underside of him, that thick ridge presses ruthlessly against your clit. You can feel the vein running along his length pulse in perfect synch with your clit.
Thump thump. Thump thump.
"Slow down..." he groans, gripping your hips "You're going to... fuuuuck... you're going to kill me"
The friction is creating a heat of its own, a sliding friction that makes your head spin. You watch slightly delirious, as the light from the moon filters through the window, catching the sheen of sweat on his pale skin and the way his hair is plastered to his forehead. He looks wrecked. He looks beautiful. He looks like he belongs entirely to you.
But his hands are far from weak. They are heavy weights anchored to your hips, and he uses them to sabotage you. Just when you think you’ve found a rhythm that might actually save you, he tightens his grip, forcing your hips to slow, dragging the slide of your pussy out into a long, shallow glide.
It’s cruel. A sadistic kind of torture, making the night feel endless, as if the clock has stopped just to watch you suffer.
He wants to stretch this out. He wants to milk every drop of anticipation from your veins until your entire body begins to tremble, not from pleasure, but from the weight of the climax that refuses to arrive. He wants to push you to that edge where even your silence sounds filthy, where the quiet between your breaths is thick with the unspoken things you want to do to him.
Once he’s satisfied with the slow pace, his hands begin to wander. They trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your breasts, learning your body the way a sinner learns to pray. Like hunger learning the art of restraint just long enough to make the eventual feast mean something.
You slide back just a fraction, settling the heat of your pussy directly over his balls and then you reach down.
Your fingers wrap around the base of his cock, just like you saw in that video. You begin to stroke him while simultaneously rotating your hips in a circular grind over the heavy fullness of his balls.
The sound that tears from his throat is something unhuman, a vibration that feels like it's coming from the depths of the ocean.
Your name is caught between his teeth in a soft, sinful exhale. He sounds undone, completely unraveled by the sight of you taking exactly what you claimed you wanted in that accidental text.
He’s right there, on the edge of an unravelling collapse.
And because you are just like him, a creature of beautiful, chaotic impulse, you don't let him have it. Not yet.
You release his cock, hand slipping away just as the tension reaches its peak, and drag your soaked cunt back up the entire length of him in one loooong slide.
It feels like a collision of two fires.
In your desperation to feel everything you let your entire weight drop. The clench of your pussy as you cum wraps around the underside of his cock, squeezing him with a force that leaves him absolutely helpless.
He has no choice but to follow you into the fire.
Spurts of his cum paint the pale skin of his stomach, the liquid warmth spreading in thick, white streaks, pooling in his belly button.
For a few seconds, neither of you moves. There is only the sound of your breathing and the humid scent of your shared exhaustion.
“Was that pretty enough for you, cutie?” he teases, though his hand trembles slightly as he reaches up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingers on your cheek, like he’s constantly checking to make sure you haven't vanished into the night. "Or do we need to do it again?"
It’s late, way past the time Zayne would usually be nudging you to sleep but he’s still tucked away in his office, probably buried under a mountain of medical charts or surgical reports.
Your eyes are glued to your phone screen, watching a VIDEO of a girl grinding against a man’s thigh, bodies pressed together, his hands steady even as she buries her face in the crook of his neck. The guy in the video is wearing pajamas that look disturbingly similar to the ones Zayne is wearing right now.
Suddenly, the empty space in your bed feels a little too vast, your mind drifting to the office down the hall, aching to be that girl, to climb onto his Zayne's lap while he’s buried in medical charts and just... fuck yourself stupid.
You want to reach down and touch yourself but you’re a loud sleeper and an even louder moaner. If you start now, there’s no way he won't hear you through the walls, and you aren't quite ready for that kind of intimacy yet. So, you settle for a bit of digital venting. With a flushed face, you type out a quick comment on the video: "God, I wish I could do this while he's working..."
You go to save the link to your "Filthy Things" folder for a proper session tomorrow morning, but just as your thumb hovers over the screen, your phone starts vibrating. It’s Simone. She’s calling, probably to gossip about something trivial. In your rush to swipe the call and answer her, your finger taps the wrong folder.
And because Zayne is a man who is always, always connected to his devices for work... he’s going to see the notification the exact second it pops up.
🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺
It didn't take long. After that little "digital accident," the silence between you two wasn't awkward so much as it was heavy. Charged. He didn't even tease you about the comment. He didn't even blush. He just looked at you with those piercing eyes, a tiny, knowing quirk at the corner of his mouth, and silently commanded you to come to him.
And now, here you are. Perched on his lap, doing the same thing you saw on that video. Your lower half is completely bare, your thighs hugging his muscular one as you press yourself flush against him.
The friction is driving you completely insane.
Zayne, however, is a man of terrifying discipline.
His left hand is braced on your lower back, while his right hand moves across his keyboard. He’s actually working. He’s reviewing files, typing out notes, behaving as if you aren't currently trying to melt into his lap. Every so often, he’ll pause, not to stop you, but to lean in. His breath, cool and smelling faintly of mint, brushes against the shell of your ear, sending a violent shiver down your spine.
"Ah... Zayne..." you whimper against his neck as you press yourself harder against him. The sound is loud, far too loud for his quiet office and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.
"Hush now," he doesn't even look away from the monitor, though you notice the slight tightening of his jaw. "I need to focus. These reports won't write themselves."
He’s being difficult. He’s being a tease. And you love him for it.
You try to be "good." You force yourself to still when he has to write something long on his computer. You sit there, trembling slightly, waiting for him to acknowledge the havoc you're wreaking on his concentration.
A moment passes. The only sound is the soft click clack of the keyboard. Then, you feel his hand slide from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer, a subtle command for you to keep going.
"Good girl," he whispers, the words a warm caress against your ear.
His expression is completely professional, but the way his fingers linger on your skin tells a completely different story. He’s still working, yes but he’s also letting you feel exactly how much of a distraction you really are.
Every time your thighs tense up, every time you desperately bite your lower lip to stifle a moan that threatens to shatter the silence, the air thickens with indecency.
He’s struggling. You aren't blind. You can feel the insistent twitch of his cock beneath you, reacting to every open mouthed kiss you press against the pulse of his neck, the sharp line of his collarbone, and the smooth expanse of his Adam's apple. He’s trying to maintain that surgeon’s calm, but his body is betraying him with every shuddering breath you take.
You’re right on the edge. Your clit is catching perfectly against the fabric of his pajamas, the material already damp and clinging to you from the amount of arousal you're leaking.
"Look at me."
His voice cuts through the air, forcing your gaze up. He wants to see the exact moment your eyes glaze over, the moment your breath hitches and tells the truth that your lips are trying so hard to hide.
When his hand slides up to cup your jaw, it isn't the gentle, comforting touch you're used to during a quiet movie on the couch. It's different. It's possessive. It’s a disciplined kind of dominance, a reminder that while he is the composed Zayne in the daylight, there is a much darker man caged behind that professional composure and you are the only one who knows how to let him out.
"You are close, aren't you, love?" he whispers, his lips hovering so close to yours that you can feel the heat of his breath.
You can barely manage a nod, your lungs feeling too small for the air you're trying to pull in. You're breathing directly into his slightly parted mouth.
"Cum for me, then," he exhales, a rare flush creeping up his cheeks, betraying just how much this is affecting him too.
He shifts his thigh, bouncing it up and down in a rhythmic motion that catches your clit perfectly.
The world tilts. You feel your eyes lose focus and you can't tell if it's the shaking of your limbs or the pounding of your heart that's making you tremble so violently.
"Zaynie... Zayne..."
His name becomes your entire vocabulary, there are no words left, only the sound of his name on your lips and the crashing sensation of finally, finally letting go.
You are flicking through a never ending stream of mindless clips and memes. It’s supposed to be a quiet afternoon, just a bit of scrolling to kill the time until Caleb comes back, but then there...
A VIDEO pops up. It’s not your usual aesthetic travel vlog or a cooking hack.
You freeze, your heart doing a weird, little skip in your chest. You know you should probably swipe past it, but your eyes are glued to the screen. It’s a girl, her lace panties completely drenched. The guy in the video isn't even taking them off, he’s just sliding the tip of his cock against her through the wet lace.
A sudden warmth blooms deep in your belly, spreading down until it feels like you’re melting into the cushions. God, you’ve been craving that. The teasing, the slow, agonizing buildup. You’ve spent so much money on delicate, expensive little sets, thinking maybe Caleb would appreciate the way they look on you, but hes a fucking dog. He doesn't do "slow." He usually just rips them or tugs them off with impatience, going straight for the heat of you. You just want him to play with you like that. To linger.
Your inhibitions are a little frayed from the visual, and before your brain can catch up to your impulse, your thumbs are flying. You tap the comment section, the screen a mess of unhinged messages from strangers, and you add your own little confession: “I really need him to play with me like this, but he prefers to eat it raw from the start😢”
You hit send, a tiny, embarrassed flush creeping up your neck, and immediately swipe the video away, feeling a bit silly for being so vulnerable to a bunch of internet strangers.
You toss the phone onto the cushion next to you a second later, completely oblivious to one mortifying detail. He’d logged into his account on your phone earlier when his own battery died, and you hadn't bothered to switch back.
In his office, the most dangerous man in Skyhaven is about to watch, in explicit detail, how you want to be ruined.
🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷
It turns out your assessment of him was spot on. The man is a fucking dog.
He hasn't taken your underwear off. That’s the part that’s driving you absolutely insane. The delicate lace is currently soaked, clinging to your pussy like a second, translucent layer of skin. He’s been working his tongue against the fabric, licks so long and heavy they feel like they’re reaching deep inside you. You’ve already been hit by two earth shattering, toe curling orgasms, your vision blurring every time his mouth finds your clit through the damp cloth. He hasn't even slowed down. If anything, it's getting worse.
“This is the reason I usually take off those pretty panties you wear” he presses his face into you, his broad tongue sweeping up in one stroke against your entire slit. You let out a choked, broken sound, fingers tangling desperately in his dark hair, trying to push him away just to catch your breath.
“Your scent is so fucking addictive,” he groans against your skin, “Especially after wearing them all day... knowing you've been walking around, smelling like this, just waiting for me.”
Then, he says something that makes your heart skip a beat not out of fear, but out of pure shock.
“You have no idea, do you?” he pants, nose brushing against your clit. “Last two years of High School... I spent them stroking my cock raw just to the smell of your panties. Thinking about you. Wishing you were right there."
Your vision blurs. Your hips jerk upward involuntarily as a third wave of pleasure crashes over you. You cum hard, your entire body shaking as you spill yourself directly onto his tongue, voice breaking into a high, desperate sob of his name.
He doesn't pull away. He just drinks you in, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he tastes exactly what he's been craving.
The moment your legs stop trembling he hooks his fingers into the soaked gusset and drags it to the side, baring your swollen folds and your pulsing clit, sensitive from his relentless attention.
He doesn't thrust in. He doesn't go for the full stretch you’ve been silently praying for. Instead, he slides the drooling tip of his cock over your slit. He isn't even entering you yet, he's just... slapping it against your clit, teasing the very edge of your tolerance.
You wanted the lace, the play, the slow burn... but God, you also wanted him to fuck you until you couldn't remember your name. You wanted the stretch.
But Caleb is a man who listens. Or rather, he's a man who has spent a lifetime studying every detail of your desires and right now he is giving you exactly what you asked for.
He leans down, his eyes dark, watching the way your face contorts with pleasure and frustration. He doesn't give you the release of a full thrust, he just feeds you the tip. He slides just the head of his cock into your pussy, a teasing invasion that barely makes a dent.
The reaction is instantaneous. Your walls react to him like a living thing, clenching around him, desperately trying to suck him deeper, to pull the rest of him in. The sensation is so perfectly matched that a synchronized moan breaks from both of you.
He pulls out just a fraction and then he thrusts the tip back in. Over and over again.
“Please,” you whimper, the word sounding pathetic even to your own ears. “Baby, please...”
You’re trying to force him to go deeper. But he’s in total control. His left hand is working the length of his cock, pumping with a desperate rhythm, while his right hand finds your clit.
His eyes are pinned to yours, watching every flicker of emotion on your face as if he’s trying to memorize the way you fall apart.
And then, the teasing ends.
His mushroom tip, still nestled just inside your entrance, begins to pulse. Warm, thick spurts of cum hit your sensitive walls, flooding the tiny space he’s occupied.
Your pussy clenches around the tip of his cock, trying to suck every last drop out of him while his hand squeezes the rest of his length, forcing the remainder of his seed into you, filling you up until his cum starts to leak out.
He finally collapses against you, the weight of his body pressing you deep into the mattress.
"You're so loud when you're happy," he murmurs before pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple, then your cheek, before finally settling his lips against yours in a kiss that tastes of salt and everything you are to him.
He pulls back just a bit, his gaze dropping to where the soaked lace of your panties still clings to your thighs, then back up to your eyes. There’s a flicker of that obsessive intensity returning to his expression.
"There isn't a single thing in this world you could ask for that wouldn't make me crawl to you. So don't hold back, Pips."
