All of my stories can be found on my ao3. I’m too lazy to bring all of my stories to tumblr. As of now I’m only been writing for Love & Deep Space, but I also have fics for JJK, and MHA. I’m currently juggling 5 wips so I’m just trying to go where the inspiration flows!
Please note: You must have an Ao3 account to read them. Ao3 was recently scraped to train ai so I unfortunately had to private my stories.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Check out the rest of my Horny thoughts list here.
The soft clink of Zayne's spoon against his mug was the loudest sound in the kitchen.
He sat at the island with his sleeves rolled twice to mid forearm, a mug of coffee cooling between his hands. A stack of patient files from Akso Hospital rested beside him, untouched. He hadn't looked at a single page in nearly ten minutes.
His eyes were locked entirely on you. From his seat, he watched as you moved between the pantry and the counter, searching for something you'd apparently misplaced. Every now and then, the oversized sweater you were wearing—his sweater— shifted as you reached for a shelf, revealing a glimpse of baby blue lace before the fabric fell back into place.
He lifted his coffee and took a slow sip.
Outside, nothing about him changed. His expression remained calm, composed. Only the subtle tightening of his jaw gave away the tension building behind his temple. His gaze lingered on the curve of your hip, where the delicate strap of your panties sat high, biting softly into your flesh.
"You've been rearranging the same three jars on that shelf for the last five minutes." his tone carried its usual dry professionalism, though there was a faint pause before he continued.
"If you're looking for the tea, it's in the cabinet below. If you're looking for something else, this is a remarkably inefficient way of finding it."
You glanced over your shoulder.
A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you turned and leaned against the counter, folding your arms across your chest. The movement intentionally compressing your chest, pushing the lace of your bra into a clearer view beneath the wide, slouching neckline.
"Maybe I'm admiring your organizational system, Dr. Zayne, or maybe I'm waiting for you to finish working."
"My work was finished the moment you walked into the kitchen wearing that."
Zayne set his mug down with a quiet click.
His eyes slowly scanned you from your collarbone down to your bare thighs. There was no irritation in his voice, despite what he was saying.
"You're making it very difficult to enjoy a quiet evening," he added. "A clear disruption."
"Am I?" you shifted against the counter, the fabric of the sweater slipping just an inch further off your right shoulder, exposing the scalloped edge of the blue strap. "You could always look away."
"That's not a realistic option."
He pushed himself to his feet.
There was nothing hurried about the way he moved. There never was. Everything Zayne did carried the same deliberate steadiness he brought to every part of his life, as though rushing simply wasn't in his nature.
He rounded the island at an unhurried pace, his attention fixed entirely on you.
"Besides," he said, stopping in front of you, "I suspect that wasn't the outcome you were hoping for."
He stepped closer, planting his hands on either side of you as though to steady himself there, close enough to narrow the space between you without actually touching, while his eyes lingered on your face with a focus that made it difficult to remember what either of you had been talking about a moment ago.
"You've been walking around in that all evening," he said, his attention drifting briefly before returning to your eyes, "and unless I'm mistaken, you chose that particular color knowing exactly how distracting it would be."
A smile tugged at your lips, small and innocent enough to be unconvincing.
"I just thought it looked nice."
The look he gave you suggested he found that explanation deeply improbable, though there was a trace of amusement beneath the skepticism that softened the severity of it.
"I'm sure that's what you're telling yourself."
The response earned a quiet laugh, and for a moment neither of you looked away, the silence stretching comfortably between you as though neither felt any urgency to fill it.
"Sounds like a self control problem," you said, tilting your head slightly.
Something shifted in his expression then—not enough to call it a smile, but enough to suggest he was fighting one—as he held your gaze for another second before exhaling through his nose.
"An interesting theory," he replied, his voice calm despite the challenge in yours, "although I suspect you're considerably more interested in testing it than proving it."
"That's a bold assumption, Dr."
"Not really," he said, the amusement in his eyes becoming impossible to miss now. "You've spent hours waiting for me to notice, and I think we're both aware that strategy has been remarkably successful."
He remained where he was, making no move to close the distance between you. His gaze drifted over you with quiet deliberation before returning to your face, as if he were perfectly aware of the effect the silence was having and had decided not to rescue you from it.
The delay was becoming unbearable.
"Zayne..."
His name left your lips softer than intended.
"Patience," he said, the word low and unhurried. "It's an important skill."
You let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like frustration.
"I don't think you're being very fair."
"No," he agreed easily, "probably not."
Only then did he move.
His hand rose between you, the backs of his fingers brushing lightly along your collarbone as he reached for the edge of your sweater. The gesture was unhurried, almost absentminded in its precision, and somehow that made it worse.
With a small tug, he eased the fabric farther down your arms until it gathered at your elbows, leaving you to glare at him while he regarded the result with entirely too much satisfaction.
You were left standing in just your lingerie.
And he didn't try to take it off. He never did.
"You always leave it on," you managed to say, voice trembling.
A faint smile touched his mouth
"Why would I remove something that suits you so well?" Zayne’s fingers hooked under the top edge of the lace bra cup, pulling the fabric down until the tight elastic lodged beneath your breasts, baring your already hard nipples to the cool air of the room.
Before you could think of a response, he lifted you onto the counter with effortless ease. The cold surface contrasted sharply with the warmth that had settled beneath your skin, drawing a quiet gasp from you as you steadied yourself against the edge.
He stepped between your knees, his hand sliding down your stomach, passing the sensitive dip of your navel until his fingers met the barrier of your panties. He looked down at how the blue lace stretched over your mound, already darkening with a damp patch from your arousal.
With a firm tug he pulled them entirely to the side, wedging the fabric sharply against your hip, completely exposing your glistening slit.
His fingers instantly found your drenched core and he slid two fingers inside you without warning, stretching you open, his thumb pressing firmly on your engorged clit.
You cried out and he watched your face, reading the flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes rolled back, treating your pleasure with the absolute focus of a man obsessed with every detail of your anatomy.
"Eyes on me"
You forced your eyes open, blinking through tears of friction and pleasure. He was towering over you, still fully dressed and looking impossibly neat save for a slightly askew tie. Meanwhile, you were almost naked on the cold counter, breasts spilling over blue lace.
He let go of your underwear to undo his belt and unzip his trousers, freeing and stroking his thick, fully erect cock, which throbbed with a heavy vein against his stomach.
There was no wasted movement. He slid his fingers out of you to grip the side of your underwear again, ensuring the fabric was cleared entirely from his path.
"Hold onto me"
You wrapped your legs tightly around him, your hands gripping the back of his neck. Zayne guided his tip to your dripping hole and slowly buried his dick inside you.
The fullness was overwhelming. You gasped, your mouth opening against his shoulder as he began to move. He gripped your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to hold you still against the counter as he slammed into you. His pace was relentless—deep strokes that bottomed out against your cervix, the wet, slapping sound of his skin hitting yours filling the space between you.
"Zayne, oh god, faster —"
"No. You wanted to disrupt my schedule, now we're doing this my way."
"S' too deep, baby "
"It's exactly where I belong, you were made to be stretched out like this." his eyes dropped to the junction where your bodies met and reached down with one hand, his cool fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, pulling them even tighter against your hip, still refusing to take them off. "You're soaking your pretty-fuck- pretty panties with your own mess."
""I don't care....harder..."
"You're so needy. If I go any harder, sweetheart, you're going to break."
"Break me," you begged, completely undone, your hips beginning to match his rhythm.
The submission in your voice almost had him coming on the spot.
"I'm—I'm close, I'm —"
"Hold it," his eyes were completely black, blown out with lust "Say my name, tell me who is filling you up."
"Zayne... Zayne, Zay....!"
That sudden, tight squeeze of you coming around him was exactly what he needed. He let out a rough sound against your neck—losing all his usual control—and on the last stroke, he buried himself so deep your hips slammed together.
A few minutes later he pulled out of you with a soft, wet sound. By the time he fastened his belt, his breathing had already begun to settle, the brief loss of control disappearing behind the calm exterior he wore so effortlessly.
Your bra was still pulled down beneath your breasts, your panties were still hooked tightly over your hip and something quietly satisfied flickered across his expression.
"Don't take it off yet," the words were delivered with the same measured certainty he used when he already expected to be obeyed. "I want to look at you exactly like this while I finish my coffee. You can clean yourself up when I'm done."
The neon sign above the shop flickered in shades of pink and purple, casting a garish glow across the wet pavement. Y/N stood frozen on the sidewalk, her eyes tracing the words "Velvet & Vice" in elegant script. The storefront looked deceptively innocent—black windows, a sleek black door, nothing like the seedy back-alley shops she'd imagined. Still, heat crept up her neck and settled in her cheeks.
"Second thoughts already?"
Cayla's voice came from somewhere above and behind her, amused and warm. A hand landed on her shoulder, spinning her around with effortless strength. At six-foot-two, Cayla towered over her, those distinctive purple eyes gleaming with mischief. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, showing off the sharp angles of her face. She wore her usual black and orange DAA flight jacket over a crisp white top, black pants hugging long legs.
"I didn't say anything," Y/N managed.
"You didn't have to." Cayla's grin stretched wide, all charm and confidence. "Your face does this thing where you look like you've swallowed a lemon. It's adorable."
"I do not—"
"You absolutely do." Cayla squeezed her shoulder once, then released her. "Come on, pipsqueak. You said you wanted to explore. I'm just here to guide the way."
Cayla moved past her, pushing open the black door with practiced ease. A bell chimed overhead—something soft and melodic, not the intrusive jingle Y/N expected. Warm air rushed to meet them, carrying scents of vanilla and something cleaner, almost clinical beneath it.
The interior surprised her. Spacious and well-lit, with gleaming hardwood floors and display cases arranged like an upscale boutique rather than whatever cramped dungeon she'd conjured in her imagination. Racks of lingerie in silk and lace lined one wall. Glass cases held an array of objects in various shapes, sizes, and colors. The lighting was warm, inviting even.
And empty. Mostly.
A woman behind the counter glanced up from her tablet. Middle-aged, with short silver hair and a nose ring, she wore a black apron over a band t-shirt. Her expression remained professional, welcoming without being intrusive.
"Welcome to Velvet & Vice. First time?" The question directed at Y/N, though her eyes briefly flicked to Cayla.
"Is it that obvious?" Y/N asked.
"Only because you're still standing in the doorway." The woman smiled. "I'm Morgan. Take your time, look around. Let me know if you have questions."
Cayla's hand pressed against the small of her back, warm and insistent. "We will. Thank you."
She guided Y/N forward, away from the entrance and toward the first display case. The touch lingered longer than necessary, fingers trailing up her spine before falling away. Y/N's skin tingled in their wake.
"See anything that catches your eye?" Cayla asked.
Inside the case, an array of vibrators in pastel colors sat arranged by size. Some sleek and minimal, others with rabbit ears or curved tips. A few had remote controls. Y/N's face burned hotter.
"I don't—" She stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "I don't know what I'm looking at."
"That's okay." Cayla leaned down, her lips dangerously close to Y/N's ear. "That's what I'm here for. See this one?" She tapped the glass above a slim purple device. "Bullet vibrator. Good for beginners. Small, not intimidating. Easy to hide."
The words washed over Y/N, low and instructive. Her stomach tightened.
"And this one?" Cayla moved to another, a curved wand with a rounded head. "G-spot stimulator. The curve hits the spot inside that makes your toes curl. See the angle? Perfect for reaching."
"Cayla." Y/N's voice came out strangled.
"What? You wanted to learn." Cayla's grin was audible. "Knowledge is power, pipsqueak."
They moved through the displays like that, Cayla providing commentary on each item with the same casual authority she used discussing aircraft specs. Wand massagers. Dildos in various sizes—from modest to frankly alarming. Cock rings. Anal plugs in graduated sizes. Y/N's ears rang with the explicit descriptions, her face burning so hot she worried she might spontaneously combust.
"And these," Cayla paused at a wall of bondage equipment, "are for when you really want to surrender control."
Handcuffs in leather and metal. Rope in silk and hemp. Blindfolds and ball gags and spreader bars. Y/N's eyes went wide.
"You've used these?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Cayla's expression shifted, something darker passing through those purple eyes. "Many times. Not always on myself."
The implication hung in the air between them. Y/N's mouth went dry.
"Morgan," Cayla called, not looking away from Y/N. "Can you help us with something?"
The shop owner approached, her footsteps quiet on the hardwood. "What can I help you find?"
"We're looking for nipple clamps. Adjustable ones. Something that won't pinch too hard right away but can be tightened." Cayla's voice remained conversational, as if ordering coffee. "And a remote-controlled vibrator. Preferably something that can be worn... discreetly."
Y/N wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.
"Right this way." Morgan led them to a different section, pulling out a tray from beneath a display. "These are our best-sellers. Fully adjustable screws, silicone-coated tips for comfort, and a connecting chain for added stimulation."
She set out the clamps, then reached for another case. "And for the vibrator—" She produced a small, curved device in pink silicone. "This one sits against the clit and inside, stays in place during movement, and has a range of thirty feet. Multiple vibration patterns. Very quiet."
"Perfect." Cayla plucked the vibrator from the tray, turning it over in her hands. "What do you think, Y/N? Want to try it?"
"Now?"
"Why not? Morgan has batteries."
Morgan, bless her, remained entirely professional. "There's a testing station in the back. You're welcome to feel the vibrations in your hand before purchasing."
"Hand works." Cayla flipped the device, locating the button. A soft hum filled the space between them. "Feel."
She pressed the vibrator against Y/N's palm. The sensation buzzed through her skin, surprisingly strong for such a small thing. Y/N stared at it, imagining it elsewhere, and felt heat pool low in her belly.
"Good, right?" Cayla asked. "And it gets stronger."
She clicked through the settings, each one more intense. Y/N's hand buzzed with vibration, her thoughts scattering.
"We'll take it," Cayla decided. "And the clamps. And—" She turned, surveying the store with a calculating eye. "What else catches your eye, pipsqueak? You said anything you want. I meant it."
Y/N's gaze swept the displays, landing on a section she'd been avoiding. Restraints. Silk ties in various colors. Her stomach clenched.
"Those," she whispered. "The red ones."
Cayla followed her gaze and smiled. "Excellent choice."
---
The shopping bag dangled from Y/N's fingers as they walked through the mall. Black, discreet, with the store logo in small silver letters. But Y/N knew what was inside. Everyone knew what was inside. Or at least she imagined they did.
"Stop fidgeting," Cayla murmured beside her. "No one's looking."
"Everyone's looking."
"They're not. You're projecting." Cayla's hand brushed her hip, then dipped toward the bag. "Let me check something."
Before Y/N could protest, Cayla reached inside, fingers rustling through the packaging. Her hand emerged holding the remote-controlled vibrator, which she examined with exaggerated interest.
"Cayla!" Y/N snatched for it, but Cayla held it above her head, utilizing her full height advantage.
"Just checking the features." Those purple eyes glittered. "Want me to turn it on?"
"We're in public!"
"Exactly." Cayla lowered her voice, leaning close. "Imagine wearing this right now. Walking through the mall with it buzzing against you. You'd have to keep your face neutral, your pace steady. No one would know except us."
Y/N's thighs pressed together involuntarily. "You're evil."
"I'm thorough." Cayla dropped the device back in the bag, her hand grazing Y/N's wrist. "Patience. We're almost home."
The drive home stretched endlessly. Y/N sat in the passenger seat of Cayla's sleek black car, the shopping bag on her lap. Every few minutes, Cayla's hand left the steering wheel to rest on her thigh, squeezing lightly.
"You're thinking about it," Cayla observed.
"I'm not."
"Your face says otherwise." A red light. Cayla turned to face her fully. "What specifically are you imagining? The vibrator? The clamps? My fingers inside you while you beg?"
"Cayla." Her name came out breathless.
"Traffic's terrible today." Cayla turned back to the road, her hand sliding higher on Y/N's thigh. "Tell me what you want, and I'll make it happen."
Y/N stared out the window, watching the buildings of Linkon City blur past. Her heart hammered against her ribs. "I want—"
"Yes?"
"I want you to stop making me say it."
A low laugh. "Never."
The car pulled into their building's underground lot. Cayla parked with precision, killing the engine in one smooth motion. For a moment, neither moved. The silence pressed down, heavy with promise.
Then Cayla spoke. "Bring the bag."
They rode the elevator in charged quiet. Cayla stood close, her presence overwhelming in the small space. Y/N could smell her perfume—something warm and slightly spicy—and feel the heat radiating from her body. The shopping bag weighed heavy in her hands.
The elevator doors opened. Their apartment stretched before them, familiar and strange all at once. Cayla's hand found the small of her back again, propelling her forward.
"Open it," Cayla commanded the second they crossed the threshold. "Don't even take off your shoes."
Y/N stood in the entryway, bag in hand. "Here?"
"Here. Now." Cayla leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching. "Show me what you bought."
Swallowing hard, Y/N reached into the bag. She pulled out the items one by one, setting them on the narrow console table. The vibrator. The nipple clamps. The silk ties. A bottle of lubricant Cayla had added at the last moment. Each item clattered against the wood, impossibly loud in the silence.
"All of them," Cayla prompted. "There's one more."
Y/N's hand closed around the final object. She'd grabbed it without thinking, drawn to the smooth silicone and curved shape. A dildo, larger than anything she'd used before. The girth intimidated her.
"That one." Cayla pushed off the wall, closing the distance between them. "Why that one?"
"I don't know."
"Try again."
Y/N looked down at the silicone cock in her hand. It was thick, realistically veined, a deep purple that matched Cayla's eyes. "I wanted to know what it would feel like. To be filled like that."
Cayla's breath caught audibly. "Good answer."
Purple eyes dropped to Y/N's mouth. She leaned in, stopping mere inches away. Y/N could feel her warmth, could almost taste her breath.
"Tell me what else you want," Cayla whispered. "And I'll give it to you. Anything you want, pipsqueak. Anything."
Y/N's grip tightened on the dildo. "I want—"
The words died in her throat as Cayla's mouth claimed hers. The kiss was demanding, hungry. A level three at least. Cayla's tongue swept inside, tasting and taking. Her hands came up to frame Y/N's face, angling her exactly where she wanted her.
Y/N dropped the dildo. It hit the floor with a thud.
Cayla pulled back, her breathing ragged. "Bedroom. Now. Bring everything."
She didn't wait for a response, striding down the hallway with purpose. Y/N gathered the items, clutching them to her chest, and followed.
The bedroom was dim, the evening light filtering through gauzy curtains. Cayla stood beside the bed, shedding her flight jacket. Underneath, her white top stretched across defined muscles. She pulled it over her head in one fluid motion, revealing a simple black sports bra.
"Your turn," she said. "Slowly."
Y/N set the items on the nightstand. Her fingers trembled as she unbuttoned her blouse. One button. Two. Three. Cayla watched with hooded eyes, her gaze tracking each inch of revealed skin.
"Good," Cayla murmured. "Keep going."
The blouse fell to the floor. Y/N reached for her skirt, but Cayla crossed the distance between them. Her hands covered Y/N's, stilling them.
"Let me." Cayla's voice had dropped to a sultry register. "You've been so good today. So brave. Walking through that store with your face on fire, asking for what you wanted."
She unzipped the skirt slowly, dragging the moment out. The fabric pooled at Y/N's feet, leaving her in just her bra and underwear. Cayla's hands slid up her sides, leaving trails of fire.
"But the bravest part?" Cayla's lips brushed her ear. "Was knowing what you really wanted. And asking for it anyway."
Y/N shivered.
"Lie down," Cayla ordered. "On your back."
Y/N obeyed, the cool sheets a shock against her heated skin. Cayla stood over her, drinking her in. Then she reached for the silk ties.
"Arms above your head."
Y/N raised her arms. Cayla wrapped the silk around her wrists, binding them to the headboard. The restraint was snug, secure, but not uncomfortable.
"Color?" Cayla asked.
"Green."
Cayla smiled. "Good girl."
The praise shot straight between Y/N's thighs. She squirmed against her bonds, testing them.
Cayla reached for the nipple clamps. "These might feel intense at first. You'll tell me if it's too much."
Y/N nodded.
Cayla's fingers found the clasp of her bra. She undid it one-handed, a practiced motion. The fabric fell away, exposing Y/N's breasts. Cayla's eyes darkened at the sight.
"You're beautiful," she breathed. "Every inch of you."
She bent down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Y/N's sternum. Then lower, to the swell of her breast. Her tongue traced a path to Y/N's nipple, circling the peak before drawing it into her mouth.
Y/N arched off the bed. "Oh—"
Cayla sucked harder, her hand coming up to palm Y/N's other breast. She kneaded the flesh, rolling the nipple between her fingers. The dual sensation made Y/N whimper.
When Cayla pulled back, Y/N's nipple stood hard and wet. Cayla reached for the first clamp.
"Deep breath."
The clamp closed around Y/N's nipple. Pressure, not pain. Cayla adjusted the screw until it sat snug, then bent to give the same treatment to the other side.
Both clamps in place, the connecting chain draped between them. Cayla tugged it lightly, testing. Y/N gasped at the sharp spike of pleasure-pain.
"Still green?"
"Green."
Cayla smiled. "Perfect."
She kissed her way down Y/N's body, pausing to appreciate each dip and curve. When she reached Y/N's underwear, she didn't remove them. Instead, she pressed her mouth against the fabric, breathing hot air against Y/N's core.
"Cayla, please—"
"Please what?" Cayla's voice vibrated against her. "Tell me."
"Touch me. I need—"
"You need what?"
"Your mouth. On me. Please."
Cayla hooked her fingers in Y/N's underwear and pulled them down. She tossed them aside, then settled between Y/N's thighs. Her breath ghosted over Y/N's exposed folds.
"Look at you," Cayla murmured. "So wet already. Your pussy is fucking glistening."
She leaned in and dragged her tongue through Y/N's slit. One long, slow lick from entrance to clit. Y/N moaned, her hands straining against the silk ties.
Cayla did it again. And again. Each pass of her tongue gathered more wetness, spread it across Y/N's swollen flesh. The obscene sounds filled the room—wet, slick noises that made Y/N's face burn.
"You taste so fucking good," Cayla groaned against her. "I could do this for hours."
She sealed her mouth over Y/N's clit and sucked. The suction was firm, rhythmic, devastating. Y/N's thighs trembled on either side of Cayla's head.
"More, please, more—"
Cayla released her clit with a wet pop. "Greedy girl. I haven't even fucked you with my tongue yet."
She licked lower, circling Y/N's entrance before pushing inside. Her tongue thrust in and out, mimicking what she'd soon do with the dildo. Y/N's hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the sensation.
Cayla fucked her with her tongue until Y/N was whimpering constantly. Then she pulled back and reached for the vibrator.
"Let's test this purchase properly."
She turned the device on, cycling through the settings until she found the lowest intensity. Then she pressed it directly against Y/N's clit.
Y/N screamed.
Cayla held it there, unmoving, letting the vibration do its work. "Color?"
"Green, green, green—"
Cayla increased the intensity. Y/N's back arched, her breasts jiggling with the movement, the chain between the clamps swaying.
"Look at these perfect tits," Cayla said, reaching up to palm one. She weighed it in her hand, squeezing the flesh. "I could play with them all night."
She tugged the clamp chain again, harder this time. The pain-pleasure shot through Y/N's body, blending with the vibrations against her clit.
"I'm going to—"
"Not yet." Cayla pulled the vibrator away.
Y/N sobbed. "Cayla, please—"
"Patience, pipsqueak." Cayla's purple eyes gleamed. "We have all night. And I intend to use every single toy."
She picked up the dildo, the thick purple one Y/N had selected. She positioned it at Y/N's entrance.
"Deep breath."
Y/N inhaled. Cayla pushed inside.
The stretch was intense. Y/N had never taken anything this thick before. Her walls burned as they adjusted.
"You're doing so well," Cayla praised. "Taking it so good. Such a good girl."
She pushed deeper, inch by inch, until the dildo sat fully inside. Y/N felt impossibly full.
"How does that feel?"
"Big. It's so big."
Cayla's smile was almost tender. "I know. You're taking it so well. My perfect girl."
She began to thrust, slow and deep. The dildo dragged against Y/N's walls, hitting spots that made her see stars.
"Faster, please—"
Cayla obliged, increasing her pace. The wet sounds of fucking filled the room. Y/N strained against her bonds, wanting to touch, to grab, to hold.
"More, I need more—"
Cayla added the vibrator back, pressing it to Y/N's clit. The dual sensation—the thick dildo fucking her and the intense vibration—was overwhelming.
"Come for me," Cayla commanded. "Be a good girl and come all over this cock."
Y/N shattered. Her orgasm crashed through her in waves, her walls clenching around the dildo, her body convulsing against the bed. Cayla worked her through it, not stopping until Y/N lay limp and trembling.
"Beautiful," Cayla murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Y/N's inner thigh. "Absolutely beautiful."
She withdrew the dildo and set it aside. Then she reached up to undo the silk ties, freeing Y/N's hands.
Y/N flexed her fingers, then reached for Cayla. "Your turn."
Cayla's purple eyes darkened. "Who said we were done with you?"
She reached for the shopping bag, pulling out the last item Y/N had forgotten—a second dildo, this one even larger than the first.
caleb and nonMC!reader in an loveless arranged marriage, where he's secretly in hopeless love with her
warnings. angst fest, eventual fluff, failing marriages, misunderstandings, suggestive content, jealousy, stalking/following, caleb getting rejected, reader in denial, feelings are hard
preview. "Why wouldn't I be romantic? I'm your husband." He's been doing that lately--dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they're nothing. Somehow always when you're least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he's either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he's doing. You're willing to bet on the latter.
wc. 7.4k
Your husband does not love you. He doesn’t love anyone except for one, and it is not you.
You used to like romance. You’d fantasize about who your beloved forever would be in your room, kicking your feet childishly at the thought of someone loving you so purely. So innocently. You wondered what kind of person they’d be, what kinds of foods they’d like, what their family is like. You wondered which holiday would be their favorite, whether they’d want children, whether they’d have a time-consuming job. But really, none of it mattered, because you only wanted someone by your side.
So when you were told you’d be put into an arranged marriage, you tried to be hopeful. An embarrassing, pathetic hope that maybe this man could love you the way men love in books and movies if you tried hard enough.
Caleb Xia is not a loving person. You realized this the moment he stepped into the room with cold, lifeless eyes that seemed to stare straight through you as if the wall was worth more than your presence. He’d smiled, but it felt stiff. Awkward. But you’re sure yours was the same.
Still, his eyes were beautiful. Your hope flickered like a small stubborn flame in your chest that you wanted to guard against the blizzard. The marriage was simple. You showed up to the courthouse in a knee-length white dress, constantly adjusting at the pearls around your neck anxiously while he signed the papers. Once he was done, he’d simply slid it over to you, evidently avoiding your eyes.
“Are you sure?” you’d asked meekly, as if speaking any louder than a whisper would shatter your heart. You weren’t sure if you were asking him or yourself. Not that it mattered, much.
He spared you a soft smile. Pity, maybe, with how his eyes remained empty, but you took it anyway.
A starved man does not beg for more. The flame remained.
The only reason he married you was because MC had gotten married to another childhood friend of theirs. When he mentioned it, you thought nothing of it at first. But when the only photo he’d put up throughout your entire house was one of him and her as children, while your awkwardly situated courthouse picture sat beside it, you knew. He didn’t stop to stare at your photo, ever. Not any of the photos. Only hers.
The final blow to the puny flame remaining in your heart was when you’d finally initiated physical contact. To perform the marital duty, he’d hovered above you in just his pants while you stared up at him in your thin pajamas that did little to hide what was beneath it. There was no setting the mood. The air was cold, the room dull because only your half had any semblance of effort that had gone into decorating it. When he kissed you, it felt more like his lips were simply touching yours gently. Almost tapping it.
It felt like nothing.
This was not romantic at all.
“Are you okay? Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back with a furrow in his brows—probably because you were lying lifelessly while holding your breath. You wondered how he could ask something so softly when his eyes remained so muted. Maybe not softly. Maybe just quiet.
“It’s okay.” You wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he was the only semblance of warmth in the freezing room.
But when his hand slid up your shirt, resting atop of your stomach, you stopped breathing again. He stopped as well. Your gazes met silently, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. A dull, slow stop. And then suddenly, he was off you, clambering to pull his shirt back on as you sat up in confusion, eyes wide.
“I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”
The flame went out.
Were you really so distasteful? So disgusting that he didn’t want to lay his hands on his own wife? Or was it that you were just too different from her? Should you be offended? Are you even offended? Relieved? Hurt?
Does it even matter?
Once you were sure he’s gone, you cried yourself to sleep.
The next few years are a blur that you wish had somehow gone even faster. The days are a bore. He’s away for weeks—maybe even months—at a time. In those periods of time, the house feels like a maze not meant for only one person. At the same time, maybe it’s better he’s away.
Caleb Xia is not a mean person. On paper, he’s a decent husband. He cleans, cooks, and never complains if you ask him to do something. He smiles, nods, and goes on his way. Yet, it feels more like a vaguely close roommate than a husband. The two of you eat in silence, watch TV in silence, and even go to bed in different rooms. You suppose you can’t complain—it’s not like you put in much effort to get to know him well anyway.
The only thing he does that even comes close to romance is bringing you flowers. You’d told him once that you wished the house had space for a garden to plant them, and he’d brought you a bouquet later that week. Since then, he brings them every few weeks routinely. They appear in the vase beside the couch as if they’ve just magically appeared.
They’re pretty, you think.
Resentment builds, slowly but surely, probably on both ends as in most marriages. This kind of life is killing you inside. This lonely, aimless life in a house that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, in a bed that feels too large.
“I want to work,” you say one day, picking at your food blankly. “I have an interview tomorrow, so I won’t be here for most of the day from now on if I get it.”
A fork clatters from across the table. “What? Why?”
You don’t necessarily have to work given Caleb’s plentiful paycheck, but you want to anyway because you can’t stand being in that gigantic house all by yourself. But of course, how could you tell this to the man in front of you? The man you don’t even know the favorite color of?
“It’s a regular office job.”
“I didn’t ask what it was,” he blurts, eyes narrowing in concern. “I’m asking why? Do I not give you enough money? You know you have access to everything on the card, right?”
You shrug. “It’s not about the money…I just think I need something to do throughout the day.”
“What about picking up another hobby?”
“I’ve exhausted most of them.”
“Then traveling?”
“By myself?” you frown. “It’s not like you’re ever here.”
You’re not sure why the words slip through your teeth, but they do, and the disdain is apparent. He seems surprised at first, blinking, before his shoulder slump again and the corners of his lips twitch downward. For some reason, it makes you feel—good? Alive, more so. So you keep talking. “You’re always working. You even missed my friend’s wedding after I told her we’d be there.”
He shoots back immediately, brows tight. “That was a special case—it was an emergency.”
“That’s fine,” you chew slowly on your food. “But I don’t want to wait around all day for you to get back.”
“You shouldn’t work if you don’t have to. I make more than enough.”
“Again, not the point.”
His lips tighten, pursing. “What will your family think if they hear that I’m making you work after I told them that I’d take care of you?”
You snort. “Is this what you call ‘taking care of’?”
Immediately, you can tell that you’ve struck a nerve. And for some reason, it feels good again. Like you’re alive, again. Maybe you just like pissing him off. His expression shifts momentarily to something you can’t recognize before it settles disapprovingly and silence befalls the both of you. You like when he doesn’t have that stupid smile he always has. The fake, lifeless smile he’d given you when you first met. You’d rather he just be upset, just like this. He looks like he wants to say something, but then shuts his mouth, swallowing the lump in his throat.
His phone rings, slicing the tension in the air like a knife. Caleb glances at the caller ID for a split second before he’s already on his feet, pacing to the sink to put his plates away in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. Let me know how the interview goes..”
You stare at your plate, listening to his feet pad around in a hurry. “Is it MC?”
He whips his head around. “What?”
You stand from your seat to dump your food into the sink, ignoring the slight clench in your chest. He’s always been this way. Jumping at any opportunity to be useful to her, while he leaves everyone else in the dust. “Nevermind. Go.”
Once you hear the front door shut, you slump into the couch face first, hoping it swallows you whole before he comes back. This has to be some sort of humiliation ritual. Perhaps you committed a grave sin in your past life, because you’re not sure what you could’ve possibly done to warrant such a feeling. The sunset seeps through the window planes and hits half of your face, bathing you in a warmth that had been missing from the rest of the house. The heat makes you sleepy, and you soon find your eyelids drooping shut, gazing lazily at a photo of the two of you on the coffee table. You don’t remember when it was taken, but in it, you genuinely look like you’re almost enjoying yourself. You can’t tell with him, though. You can never really tell.
“Stupid Xia,” you mutter as you fall deep into slumber.
When you awake again, the sun has fully set. There’s a blanket draped over you and when you blink away the blots in your vision, you’re met face to face with a fresh vase of flowers on the coffee table. They smell nice.
Damn it.
Sometimes, you wish he was just an asshole.
You learn about him through the photo albums he has stashed away in the attic. It’s not like you were looking for them. You’d only been cleaning when they managed to topple right into your hands, and since he always says whatever’s his is yours, you figure you might as well satisfy your curiosity. There’s less than you expected, unfortunately. Most photos are taken by him, but there’s a few in between where he’s the subject. Him at his birthday party, his graduation ceremony, him packing for college, and the day he left for the DAA.
It’s odd. You forget he was a normal teenager at one point, and not a high ranking colonel.
The pictures are through his eyes. Before you can stop, you find yourself becoming engrossed in lacing the photos together into some semblance of a story in your head. You see his childhood home and the model planes he enjoys building. His outings with MC and his grandmother. His last minute halloween costumes. Him and his friends carrying out a prank on someone. His studies. His likes. His dislikes.
Caleb Xia is a charming person. If you hadn’t met the way you did, you think you might’ve liked him a little more.
When you ask him a question regarding one of the photos at dinner, he nearly chokes on his food. You quirk a brow in response. “Was I not supposed to see them?”
“No, it’s fine if you look…” he mumbles, taking a sip of water to gather himself. You squint—are his ears pink? You didn’t know he was capable of doing something kinda adorable. “It’s just a little embarrassing.”
“Like the picture of your airplane swim trunks from when you were a kid–”
He coughs again, and you snicker.
You think he’s tolerable—just a bit.
Weeks pass. Life gets a little easier with your job and more to do—it might even be a bit fun. With your new friends at your workplace and a new sense of accomplishment, the less you stress about your loveless marriage and the more you appreciate what you have. Your interactions with Caleb become less forced. Not because you’ve somehow managed to miraculously understand how his brain functions, but because you put less weight on what you say. It’s hard to see someone as intimidating when you’ve seen a photo of them in a stupid halloween costume. He seems to notice the change too.
[Caleb Xia]: I got us fried chicken for dinner. Don’t be too late so it doesn’t get cold :)
Your mouth waters. It’s nice, almost. Emphasis on the almost.
Outside, the evening chill hits your cheeks, sharp enough to wake you up and wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. The street is busy but not crowded, as the sun has just set. A couple laughs too loudly across the road. Somewhere, a bus exhales.
You start down your usual route.
At first, it’s nothing. Just footsteps. Not out of place. People exist. People walk. People go home.
But something’s off. Your gut insists on it, and it’s hard to ignore.
You slow slightly, just enough to be subtle. The footsteps slow too.
Your fingers tighten around your bag.
Coincidence, surely.
You don’t turn around, yet. Turning means you have to see something and acknowledge that it’s real. Instead, you adjust your pace again. Faster this time.
The footsteps quicken, dropping your heart to your stomach.
Your eyes dart around you anxiously. It’s dark. Streetlamps are guiding your path home, and though the neighborhood is nice, it’s empty. Well, except for you and the footsteps that seemingly sound like they’re getting ever so closer every few seconds. You throat feels dry.
Phone. You need to tell someone. Even if you’re wrong—even if it’s just a hunch.
[You]: Still there?
[Caleb Xia]: Yea. why?
[You]: I think there’s someone following me
Your message sends, and for a moment air doesn’t enter your lungs.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
[Caleb Xia]: I’m coming.
You don’t know how he’s going to find you, but you don’t bother questioning it at the moment. You swallow, and your throat is dry enough that it hurts. The streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement, and it’s hard to discern whether something is just a shadow or something else in the dark.
You don’t turn around.
Your legs carry you as fast as you can go without breaking into a sprint, and your grip tightens around your phone until your fingers ache. Hurry, you think. Hurry up, Caleb.
A car passes.
He’s closer now, whoever it is.
Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs feel like they’ve forgotten how.
Suddenly, a car turns the corner too fast, tires kissing the curb before readjusting and you nearly jump out of your own skin. The tint on the car makes it too difficult to see inside, not that you’d be able to see much regardless due to the dark. It slows to a stop as it sees you, and you think if this isn’t who you’re expecting, it might actually be the end for you.
The passenger door swings open.
“Get in.”
Relief floods your body when you hear his voice and you stumble to clamber in.
Relief?
This is Caleb Xia you’re talking about. Now that you think about it, you’re unsure why he was the first you contacted instead of the police. Your fingers had tapped on his profile faster than you could think. Was it just because he was at the top of your contacts? Was it because he was near? It must be, right? It had been instinctual. Your body had reacted—and it had somehow worked out.
Regardless, you can’t possibly deny how relieved you feel right now.
You wonder if this is how MC always feels. It must be nice to know that someone so reliable is always at her beck and call, right? To come running at just a few words—maybe she wouldn’t have had to walk home in the first place. Maybe he would’ve driven her. You feel sick. This isn’t what you should be thinking about right now. Right now, you need to report it to the police and take a much needed nap.
A part of you is envious of her.
“You should’ve called me earlier.”
The chicken doesn’t look as appetizing anymore even despite it sitting before you in all its crispy fried glory. The growling in your stomach from earlier is replaced by a slight pain, and it’s difficult to tell if you’ve only lost your appetite or if it’s a different kind of anxiousness. He watches you from across the table with a perplexed frown while you pick at the chicken aimlessly, nodding blankly.
“I’ll report it first thing in the morning,” Caleb sighs. “I should pick you up from work from now own. Or I’ll call you a taxi if I can’t.”
You nod again.
“Are you okay?”
Ah, he’s asking that again. You hate when he does.
You tilt your head. “I’m just sort of in shock, I think.”
“I know, but you should eat at least a bit. Here.” He holds a piece of chicken on a fork to your face and you scrunch your nose. He smirks. “Here comes the airplane?”
“I might vomit all over you.” A half lie.
He replies instantly. “Then I’ll clean it. Eat.”
For a reason that you just attribute to exhaustion, you don’t bother arguing. Instead, you pop it into your mouth, cheeks dusting pink at the intimacy of the act. He hums in approval and you try your best not to choke. Why was he feeding you—a grown woman? And why were you letting him?
How bizarre. This whole day is bizarre.
At least you’re home—thanks to him.
“Thank you,” you mumble softly. “For getting there so fast.”
He looks almost offended, shaking his head. “Don’t thank me, it was a given. I’m just happy you thought to call me. I was worried you wouldn’t.”
Why did you call him? Well, you suppose he is your husband at the end of the day. One who has eyes for another, but your husband nonetheless. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He stops for a moment, as if in thought, and then smiles sheepishly. Not the annoying fake smile he puts on for show, but one that’s riddled with guilt. Shame. You want to know why. “Just assumed you wouldn’t.”
Strangely, the words make your chest tight.
Your eyes meet his usual striking violets, shoulders slumping as you look away once the eye contact feels too intense. “I’m glad I did.”
You barely catch the tips of his ears turning pink.
Caleb keeps his word for the months following the event. You never have reason to pass by that street again on foot, and although you continue to insist it’s not necessary, having him as your private driver of sorts does feel kind of nice. You think eventually, you’ve come to call him more than a stranger. He’s easier to talk to. Funnier than you thought, actually, when he’s not being annoying to tease you.
You’d never tell him that though, of course.
You blink warily, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand when a ray of sunlight escapes through the shades of your bedroom and hit your face. However, it’s not what awakes you. Rather, it’s the insistent buzzing of your phone on your bedside table, which you barely manage to snatch without falling off the edge of the bed.
[Caleb (husband)]: morning sleepinghead, you awake?
[Caleb (husband)]: Come eat breakfast :> made apple juice too
[Caleb (husband)]: I better hear you shuffling around in your room in the next few minutes or i’ll have to come drag you out.. :)
Caleb Xia, you find, nags a lot.
“Sleep well?” he chuckles when you finally emerge, still half-awake despite being fully dressed. You scratch the back of your neck, yawning as you perch yourself on one of the chairs at the counter where he’s standing with an apron tied neatly behind him. If you were just a tad bit more awake, you’d have a field day making a snide comment about it.
“Mm.”
He laughs again, gently. Did he always sound so soft?
“You can always quit your job, y’know,” he shrugs, placing a plate of breakfast foods in front of you. It smells immaculate, as usual. “Offer’s always on the table.”
You shove a forkful of eggs into your mouth, squinting at him. “Why do you wanth me shoo be unemployed sho bad? My parentsh don’t care.”
“It’s not about your family…It just doesn’t seem necessary.”
“I like working. Just not waking up so early.”
“I only want you to avoid overextending yourself if you don’t have to,” he pops a tomato into his own mouth. “I make enough for you to get whatever you want, don’t I?”
“But I want my own money, too.”
“My money is your money. This is the least I can do.”
“Careful,” you snort. “You sound dangerously close to being romantic.”
He tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I be romantic? I’m your husband.”
This time, you really choke on your food, coughing as he quickly hands you the apple juice. He’s been doing that lately—dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they’re nothing. Somehow always when you’re least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he’s either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he’s doing.
You’re willing to bet on the latter.
Caleb Xia, as you figure out in the time you spend with him in his car on the way to work, has terrible taste in films.
“That movie is awful. There’s no way that’s your favorite.”
He gasps dramatically and you don’t bother suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. “Hey, don’t judge before you try it.”
“I’d like it if I never had to try it, actually.”
The smile adorning your lips falls in an instant the car slows to a stop. You find yourself growing disappointed when you arrive at your workplace, because it means you’ll have to leave him. You want to scold yourself for thinking such preposterous thoughts. What are you? A teenager who’s hanging out with a boy for the first time?
You’re married, for god’s sake.
Then again, so what if his company isn’t so bad? What if you think he’s a bit more to you than tolerable? Isn’t that allowed? He’s your husband, after all. If it doesn’t feel so bad, maybe you could let yourself reprise and enjoy it while it lasts.
“Ah, right, I should tell you—I’ll be leaving this weekend for work.”
Ah, nevermind. Reality has a way of slapping you across the face when you least expect it.
“How long?”
“A few weeks at best,” he pauses, voice quieter. “Months, if I’m unlucky.”
You really despise the subtle aching in your chest.
You hate how easily it slips in. How, for a second, it makes the flame that’s gone out years ago flicker, as if these moments could mean more than they do. They don’t. You know they don’t. They aren’t yours to keep. None of it is.
The warmth, the ease, the way he looks at you like this—like you’re something he actually cares about—it’s all fake. Stolen. You’re just standing in the space where someone else is supposed to be.
You press your lips together, forcing the feeling down before it can spread any further. Get a grip.
His palm pats the top of your head, making your cheeks heat against your will. With a grin, he nods. But it’s stiff. The slight crinkle between his brows. Upset. Upset? “I’ll see you tonight.”
It’s like he knows what you’re thinking before you know yourself.
“Who said I want to?”
“You wound me.”
As soon as you enter the building, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.
[Caleb (husband)]: I know you’re at work, but…
[Caleb (husband)]: Movie night tn ?? i can make us popcorn :D
[Caleb (husband)]: And yes we’re watching my fav so you can stop calling it bad :>
[Caleb (husband)]: Last hurrah before i leave
This is dangerous, you think. Really, really dangerous.
You seriously hope you don’t fall for him, if it isn’t too late already.
A few hours later, the living room is dimly lit with soft lights, the low hum of something playing in the background as Caleb sets everything up. The bowl of popcorn ends up a little too full, a few pieces spilling onto the counter as he carries it over, muttering something under his breath as he munches on the ones that are about to spill over. You sink into the couch, watching him move around the room—adjusting the volume and flipping through options he’s already decided on.
It’s strange, how easy it feels. How normal.
You don’t realize you’re staring until he glances over.
So you look away quickly, fixing your gaze on the screen. But a few seconds pass, and you can feel his attention still lingering.
You pretend not to notice.
What are you doing? What are either of you doing?
You don’t say anything, swallowing the question down into the pit in your stomach.
The movie stars a side character with a passionate devotion to his family, who reminds you of Caleb. Oddly enough, the resemblance is almost uncanny. You kind of want to root for him but also want him to lose terribly. You huff quietly. “He’s so intense.”
Caleb glances over, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “What? You wouldn’t want someone like that?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I mean… he’s a bit much.”
A pause.
“…but it comes from a good place. I like him.”
He stills.
You pick at a piece of popcorn, rolling it between your fingers. “He reminds me of you a little.”
“Yeah?”
You shrug, still not quite looking at him. “Yeah.” A small breath escapes you before you can stop it. “MC is really lucky to have you.”
He goes quiet. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you.
“…Lucky,” he repeats, almost to himself.
You hesitate, then ruin it by saying more. "I mean, you're always there for her, you know? If she calls, you come running. Everyone wants someone like that."
It was supposed to come off lightheartedly, but it only digs the hole deeper.
Something in his expression shifts. His smile fades, his face losing its usual ease as it drops to something you’ve never seen on him before. It contorts in phases. Surprise, and then confusion, and finally into one you prefer the least.
Panic. Something is wrong.
You wish you’d just shut up. The long pause makes you wish you were just a fly on the wall right now.
“Is this why?” he blinks, and his eyes glisten with something you haven’t seen from him. Void of the usual emptiness but replaced with something fuller. Heavier. “Is this why you hate me so much? Because of MC?”
Huh?
“Fuck,” one hand pulls at the roots of his hair, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he attempts to hide his face from you. “I’m a moron. I should’ve known.”
What? Despite your hands growing clammy, you feel cold. Like the blood is draining from your face.
“You must hate me so much.”
When did you ever hate him? You’ve loathed him, certainly, when he’d disappear for weeks on end leaving you all alone in this cold, lifeless house. You’ve wanted to punch your balled up fists into his chest, knowing that it wouldn’t phase him in the slightest simply to alleviate some of your own anger. You’ve wanted to run away a multitude of times. But hate? Have you ever hated Caleb? Can you hate Caleb?
“Caleb.”
“This is my fault. I should’ve been more aware. It’s so obvious now, I feel like an idiot.”
“Caleb.”
“I thought you just hated me because this isn’t a marriage you wanted,” his voice cracks, and he’s burying his face into his palms. “I thought staying away from you was what you wanted. Shit, I’m so stupid.”
“Caleb,” you say, more firmly this time, and he finally looks at you. There’s a watery film over his usually lifeless eyes, glistening against the light of the TV screen, and it makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. You don’t like seeing him like this. You thought you would, but you don’t.
His voice is a mere whisper now. He looks like he wants to vomit out a million words at once, but there’s three specific ones that linger on his tongue. Is this what they call a woman's intuition? You’re not sure how, but in the moment, it feels like you’re in his head. For the first time in the 4 years you’ve been wed to Caleb Xia, you feel like you can understand him.
A victory that doesn’t feel like one at all.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your hands in his, holding them in front of his chest. “I don’t love her—not as a woman. I haven’t in a long time. She and Zayne are like my family, and I’d be a terrible person not to be happy for them. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you. I’m so sorry.”
Your heart doesn’t seem to be beating anymore.
The air is too thick. Like liquid entering your lungs.
Caleb opens his mouth and then shuts it again, his words stuck in the back of his throat. You’re not sure if you want to hear what he wants to say. The words hold too much value, too many years of hurt, and you don’t know how you’ll react. You don’t want to acknowledge any of this as real, because if it is, what was all of this for? What were the years you spent holed up in your room meant to achieve? Were you just being a fool? And in that case, would you even want to know?
No. You don’t.
So instead, you kiss him.
A wordless, messy kiss. Though he’s taken aback at first, he’s quick to slot his mouth against yours eagerly, hands flying to your waist to pull you closer as if a man starved. It’s desperate. Different from the kiss you shared with him at the courthouse, or for transactional purposes. His mouth feels hot against yours, and when his tongue swipes against your lip, you let him in.
You climb onto his lap, straddling him as he presses you flush against him. The movie is long forgotten. His hair weeds through the crevices between your fingers and he deepens the kiss as if he’s trying to physically become one with you. His heart hammers against your own like a timer, warning you of what this could mean, but you don’t care.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he mumbles against you, and then you’re suddenly being lifted up to your room with his hands supporting your thighs around his waist. But even those few seconds aren’t worth staying apart for, because he’s kissing your neck, mouthing at spots that have you pursing your lips to avoid making any embarrassing sounds. He lets you down gently onto the middle of your bed and follows suit, pushing you onto your back.
You’re here again.
He’s looming over you, face flushed in a deep red this time. He’ll ask if you’re okay. If this is okay. And then he’ll take off his shirt and his hand will slide up yours. It’ll be better this time, because it’s not out of some twisted sense of duty. Desire pulses at your core, but you can’t help but shake off this curdling feeling in your chest, as if you want to hurl. You wait for what you expect, eyes never leaving his.
Instead, he breathes sharply. “I love you.”
The world stops.
“You don’t have to say anything back that I don’t deserve. I just want you to know,” he whispers.
Can anyone love someone like you—much less, your husband? You start breathing again because you have to, staring up at him as if he’s gone insane. In fact, you think you’ve gone insane. Kissing him, lying beneath him, enjoying his presence, looking forward to his breakfasts, letting him drop you off at work, feeling disappointed that he’s leaving—you’ve most definitely died and come back as another person, because this is not you.
This is Caleb Xia. He is an unloving person. He cannot love. But what happens if he does? With tears stinging at his eyes, watching you with a mix of pure adoration and sorrow, he’s telling you he loves you. Love is a strong word, isn’t it? But he means it. He loves you. Caleb loves you. You want to call him a liar, but he’s not.
You want to cry into his chest and run away at the same time.
The flame flickers, and you panic. Not because you despise him, or because his confession is one you don’t want to accept, but because this flame is not one you welcome with open arms anymore. It’s too easy to hurt. Too easy to shrink, yet somehow impossible to destroy.
“I can’t,” you croak. “Not right now.”
Even Caleb can’t mask the hurt that deepens his frown, as if you’ve torn his heart straight from his chest. For a man with so much power, he’s never looked more powerless than he does now.
It feels too vulnerable. Open. As if you’re naked and he’s fully clothed, when it’s infact the exact opposite. You don’t want to open up to him again. You don’t want him to snuff out that small flame you have that never seems to go out no matter how much you douse it in water. Or maybe you do?
He forces a crooked smile, strained against his very will and nods before leaving the room. As the door slips shut, he doesn’t turn to look at you. “Sleep tight.”
You don’t get much sleep that night at all.
Morning comes anyway.
And then another.
And another.
His absence returns, but this time because you’re the one avoiding him. You leave earlier than usual, linger longer at work, find excuses in the smallest things—emails, errands, anything that keeps you just a little out of sync with him. When you do cross paths, it’s brief. Polite. A short good morning or a quick goodnight. It’s easier that way.
You tell yourself this is what you wanted—to put distance back where it belongs. Whatever that night was, whatever flame flickered between you, it will fade. It must fade.
He isn’t yours. Even if he says he is, there’s too much pain--too many years of resentment built up that you don’t know what to do with.
You catch yourself thinking about it at mundane times—standing in line, walking home, staring at your coworkers chatting amongst themselves. The apartment feels different already, like it’s preparing to be emptier. As cold as it was a few months ago, when he was still Caleb Xia, and not just Caleb.
You take the time away from him to reset. To think, but not too much. You find yourself flipping through his photo albums again, smiling when you flip to a particularly embarrassing one. You hear him shuffling outside your room, probably packing for his business trip. You’re aware of what he risks everytime he disappears for weeks at a time—not only his life, but the lives of his men—and you don’t know how he bears to leave home everytime he does.
But he always comes back. He has to.
You suppose it’s for the best for now. And when he returns, things will return to normal. The house won’t be as awkward as it is. The two of you will slip into your usual routine of a loveless marriage, and you’ll find other avenues in life to derive joy from. So will he.
The front door shuts faster than you anticipated.
He’s gone.
This is fine.
This is what you wanted.
The house is empty again. You pace to the living room, and surprisingly, a fresh bouquet of flowers is propped inside their usual vase. You lift the vase into your hands, letting the scent of the flowers waft into your nose. They smell good. New. Sort of like the detergent he uses when doing the laundry.
You set the vase back down, nails pressing faint crescents into your skin.
His face when you last saw him keeps flickering in your mind. So much hurt. Raw with fear.
“I love you.”
You want to tell him he doesn’t. You want to remind yourself that this is your husband. Your heartless, cunning husband who kills people for a living—who doesn’t care about anyone but his family.
But you’re his family, aren’t you?
You can still smell his cologne in the air.
You must’ve missed it from the glint of the sunlight in the glass coffee table—there’s a small shimmer of something sitting beside the vase. With a quirked brow, you pick it up. He usually never leaves trash lying around.
You nearly drop it.
His wedding band.
Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. Your heart pounds as you realize that you're shaking, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at the object in your hands.
No.
He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave it.
The ring sits in your palm like a brick that weighs your entire body down. This isn’t something you can pretend will reset when he comes back.
This means no more quiet dinners. No more stupid arguments over movies he insists are good. No more messages waiting for you when you’re at work. No more him, standing at the counter every morning with a pan in his hand. No more him.
And worst of all, no more chance to fix it. To tell him your side of the story.
Your body moves before your mind catches up.
You wrench the front door open, not bothering to lock it behind you as your feet hit the pavement with just your socks. The air burns your throat as you run, lungs screaming, heart still pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage.
He can’t leave.
The stinging beneath your feet go unregistered as you clutch the ring so tightly that it feels like it might dig into your flesh.
Just forward, you hiss to yourself. Faster. You turn corner after corner, your body begging you to stop overexerting yourself, but you can’t bother to care. You don’t even register where you’re going, but you need to go somewhere. It feels like ages and seconds at the same time, as you beg nobody in particular for one more chance.
A chance for what, you're not sure.
Reconciliation? Love? Understanding?
Is any of that possible? And if not, why are you running like your very life depends on it?
The ring digs further into your skin, and you realize it doesn't matter as long as you find who it belongs to. Him. Caleb. The reason and bane of your existence, and apparently what has you running across the entire town in hopes of bringing him back.
Finally, you slam into something solid.
The impact knocks the breath out of you, your grip loosening as the ring nearly slips from your fingers. A hand catches your arms before you can stumble back too far, steadying you with a familiar scent that somehow lets you breathe again.
“Hey—watch it—oh.”
You freeze in place, breath hitching as you look up. Standing right in front of you, he appears slightly disheveled, one hand still gripping your arm while the other awkwardly balances a paper bag of groceries. Caleb blinks, his eyes immediately scanning over your frame before landing on your feet. “Why are you here? Are you okay? And where are your shoes, it’s dangerou—”
“Don’t go, Caleb,” you sniffle, tears already stinging at your eyes as your body finally has a chance to rest, though it doesn’t feel much better. “Please don’t go.”
He stares at you as if you've grown a third eye, nearly dropping his bag of groceries at your pleas. Even the tips of his ears turn red, flustered. "What are you--"
“Why did you leave the ring? Did you lie?” About loving me?
His expression falls, attention honing in on the ring gripped in your fist. Something seems to click in his head, and immediately, he shakes his head. “No, of course not, I was going to leave a note. I just went out to get groceries before I left—”
“So you were going to leave the ring?”
“Well, yes, but can we–”
“Do you not like me anymore?” you blurt, finger bunching at the fabric of his sleeve. “Is it because I ignored you for a week?”
He almost looks offended. “Of course I still like you.”
“Then why?”
His voice softens, as if speaking too loud will scare you away. Hesitantly, he sheepishly releases your arms. Instead, he slowly takes your hand in his, lips pursing as he sighs. His palm feels rough with calluses from the work he does, but light as feathers against your skin. His touch is gentle, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I figured there was no reason for me to tie you to me anymore. I won’t force you to be with someone you can’t even stand to be around. Someone you hate. It’d be selfish.”
Your words tumble out before you can process them. “I don’t hate you.”
Finally, with your hand in his, the world feels okay again. This feeling tells you you’re screwed, but you don’t care.
“I’ve been mad at you, and I don’t know what to do with your feelings because they make no sense, but I don’t hate you,” you mutter. “You’re just too confusing.”
“...Confusing?”
“I just—I don’t know what to do, Caleb,” you wipe vigorously at your eyes with your free hand, head falling to avoid looking him at him. “I don’t know what to think about you. How to feel about you.”
His eyes ease, and you feel him squeeze your fingers. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
“Do you love me?”
“I don’t know.”
Caleb has always been better at reading you than yourself. A flash of hurt ripples across his face, but his eyes maintain its soft glimmer—because he knows. Even if you say you don’t know, he knows. He also knows that you’re afraid of those words, and he doesn’t blame you for it.
So instead, he asks something else. “What am I to you?”
You want to call him a million things. The man who left you by yourself, the man who refused to touch you for so many years, the man who’d chosen to sleep in the guest bedroom just to avoid taking up space in yours. He’s felt awful, inconsiderate, and cold. But he’s also the man who’s gotten you flowers, the man who’d break four speeding laws to make you feel safe, the man who makes sure you’re never hungry, the man who folds your laundry neatly and organizes it color-coded in your closet. The man who you wish you could slap across the face and hold close to you at the same time. The man who’s made you feel alone yet so cared for all at once.
You like him, you think. In some strange way that’s never been covered in the romantic films you used to clutch onto like a life line, you like him. The ‘L’ word teeters on the tip of your tongue like a marble rolling around to decide what these emotions settling in your heart really are, but it doesn’t really matter. All you know is that you need him. You want him. You want him to hold your face and kiss you tenderly, like he did that night. You want him to do it again and again until you can’t breathe, and all you can feel is him. You want to eat dinner with him every night and wake up in the morning to his stupid apron. You want to go grocery shopping with him. You want to fall asleep watching a movie in his arms.
“What am I to you?”
Tears fall down your cheeks in fat globs and you try your hardest not to let your voice crack. “My husband.”
His eyes widen for a moment, and then his lips split into a wide grin that resembles the lovesick expression of a teenage boy who’s holding hands for the first time. Caleb drops his grocery bag to his feet and reaches either hands to the sides of your face, cradling you gingerly as he guides you closer. Before you’re even registering it, he brushes a strand of hair out of your forehead and presses a soft but firm kiss to your temple, where you can feel him smile against your skin.
“Who am I to say no my wife?”
Your marriage is a messy, complicated jumble of emotions. The confusion. The fear. The warmth. It’s not perfect. It never will be. And despite it all, you don’t want it any other way, because Caleb Xia is a loving person.
taglist. @inzanekillian @someonestopsoren @sweetieelilii @3rdslide2heaven @gabburabbu @moltensceptergambit @cherrysherryblossom @younbeanz @txtworlddom @glitterykingdomheart @applebrat9 @ephemeraleb @cherrybomb5000 @chartreuxxlikesboba @corvusmemoriae @toorulee @ilovecoffe8 @cordidy @younghideoutberserker @yesbiaswrecked @madnesslusy @bypanana @noosummert @littleappleorchard @anyeeyna @xie-hua (I apologize if I didn't add you! I always struggle with tagging on tumblr lol!)
inspired by this ask that sweet @rafayelkisses left, i love ur brain so much mwah
"Slap me."
The words, spoken in his husky, wanting voice, makes your movements falter on his lap.
"What?"
Sylus groans, one large hand cupping your ass and forcing you right back into an unforgiving rhythm on his cock.
"You heard me, sweetie." His nose brushes along your neck before he pulls back. One eyes pulses with need so intense it makes your cheeks warm. "Slap me. On the face."
Your fingers curl against his shoulders. You bite your lip as you rise and fall on his length, each thrust dragging a rough sound from his throat.
Slowly, you lift your hand.
Your fingers twitch with hesitation before your palm connects with his cheek. It's not gentle by any means. But it isn't hard, either.
Sylus exhales sharply, his aether core immediately flaring brighter. His grip on your skin tightens, jaw flexing as he starts meeting your thrusts until his mushroom tip is bullying your cervix.
"Harder," he growls.
You mewl, nails raking down his chest, unable to think of anything coherent for a brief second.
"S-Sy—!"
Sylus, impatient in a way he usually never is, allows his hand to come down on your ass cheek, hard.
The provoking slap rings out alongside the wet sounds of your joining, and the sting makes you gasp. His fingers immediately squeeze the tender flesh afterwards, as if daring you to give him exactly what he's asking for.
Fine.
You lift your hand and smack it across his cheek with real effort this time, hard enough that his head turns from the force. When he looks back at you, his cheek is blooming pink.
Or maybe he's just blushing.
"F-Fuck, kitten," he moans, the sound quite needy from someone who had been so demanding only seconds ago.
He leans forward to steal a kiss, but the moment his lips crash into yours, his cock throbs violently inside you. Sylus shudders as he cums, trembling against your mouth.
apocalypse - one
undergroundboxer!kuna x reader [soulmate au]
warnings [mdni] - angst | implied trauma | mean sukuna
wc - 7.3k
series masterlist
∞
ryomen sukuna knew three things about his soulmate.
she drank too much caffeine, she slept curled on her side whenever anxiety crawled beneath her skin and whenever she read for hours on end or colored, the noise in his head quieted enough to let him breathe.
it was fucking irritating.
the first time she got under his skin, it was in the middle of his first match.
he’d nearly put his fist through the guy, rage sitting ugly beneath his ribs as blood pooled in his mouth and sweat dripped down his spine.
then suddenly, he was overcome with serenity he’d never experienced before.
a calmness that wasn’t his own, never his own.
something soft slipped beneath his skin then, warm and quiet in a way he wasn’t used to. like somebody had pressed cold hands against the back of his neck after years of burning where he stood.
he’d won that match.
“again?” toji muttered from across the gym, cigarette balanced lazily between scarred fingers.
sukuna rolled his jaw once before slamming another punch into the heavy bag hard enough for the chains overhead to rattle violently.
“fuck off.”
toji smirked, tongue peaking out to lick at the scar against his lip.
the gym smelled like rust, sweat and the metallic ting of blood that both men were used to. it was a shitty set up buried beneath the city in the lower levels of an abandoned parking structure. it barely looked legal from the outside and the inside wasn't much better.
the concrete floors, flickering lights and men all too violent to exist comfortably above ground.
and it was the place ryomen sukuna felt alive.
sukuna had been fighting since he was fifteen and filled with a rage even he couldn’t understand.
toji found him bloody outside a convenience store after some older guys tried jumping him for gambling money.
it was clear they didn’t get the money but sukuna took that fire in his gaze out on them.
sukuna still recalled the way toji looked down at him, droplets cascading down his sharp features and dark hair, damp cigarette hanging from his mouth while blood dripped steadily from sukuna’s split brow.
“you fight like an animal,” toji began, taking a drag of his fading cig before tilting his head at the salmon haired boy, “what if i told you that you could beat the shit out of guys every day and get paid for it?”
a fucking dream is what that was. he gets to utilize his anger and he could finally get out of his father’s house.
how could sukuna even say no?
somehow, it turned into this.
years later, ryomen sukuna had become the name whispered through underground rings across the city. not because he was the biggest or the strongest, but because he was cruel.
there was something deeply unsettling about the way sukuna fought.
controlled, almost lazy sometimes. like violence came so naturally to him that he didn’t even need to think about it.
people feared men who fought emotionally.
they feared ryomen sukuna more because he never did.
most nights, he fought beneath screaming neon lights while crowds chanted his name loud enough to shake the walls.
they bet on him like he was a sure thing and fuck, did he get a shitload of money from it.
he’d leave each night, beaten and bruised with a duffel of cash hanging off his shoulder.
he was living the dream.
that was until he arrived home, in his apartment downtown, and sat in silence while somebody else’s emotions bled quietly into his chest.
a girl he’d never met yet somehow knew like the back of his hand, all too intimately.
he knew she liked coffee because of the bursts of energy he’d feel during mornings where he usually slept in because his fights usually carried into the night.
he knew she did yoga often because his muscles weren’t as sore as they would get when he was younger and god knows it wasn’t his doing. he didn’t stretch nearly as much as toji nagged at him to.
he also knew that she despised him.
that one was obvious.
their bond always sharpened after his fights. her irritation sat bright and hot beneath his ribs every time he came home bruised and bloody.
sometimes he couldn’t differentiate between his own rage and hers.
maybe they were more alike than he thought.
truthfully, sukuna didn’t know how to do things any differently and frankly, he didn’t care enough to.
he hated this whole soulmates shit. why would the universe ever pair two people together with the utmost certainty that they were perfect for each other?
and what fucking masacre did this girl commit to be bonded with him of all people?
violence was the only thing sukuna had ever been good at and he wouldn’t change that for anyone, especially some girl who was almost a mere figment of his imagination.
he did that sometimes. pretended that he was a non-existent and that he was merely hallucinating her.
non-existents made up a very small part of the population and they were essentially humans who didn’t have soulmates. like toji was.
lucky bastard.
sometimes sukuna believed toji was lying because he’d get this distant look on his face some days, kind of like himself when he felt his own soulmate torment him.
so maybe he was a late bloomer?
either way, he was in a better situation than sukuna was.
“your girl’s pissed again?” toji commented dryly from where he leaned against the boxing ring ropes, head tilted with a knowingness sukuna hated.
toji was the one sukuna had to confide in because who else did he have?
when he was overwhelmed as a young teenager about his soulmate, toji would be the one he would reluctantly go to. the older man had taken him under his wing, so yes, he did trust him more than anyone.
he also knew that toji cared about him in his own fucked up way.
sukuna’s knuckles ached tonight, phantom annoyance curling beneath his skin that didn’t belong to him. it was her.
probably studying somewhere in the city while silently wishing death upon him.
the thought almost made him grin.
throughout the years, pissing her off became a hobby of some sort, though he knew she didn’t find it nearly as amusing as he did.
“at least you know she’s got personality.” toji stated once more as sukuna finally stopped punching and turned to shoot the man a glare.
“shut the fuck up.”
toji huffed out a laugh, “god help you both when you finally meet.”
the thought made sukuna freeze momentarily.
it was almost sad.
usually, at least from what sukuna knew, people usually couldn’t wait to meet their soulmates.
then there was sukuna, filled with dread at the mere idea.
sukuna hated even talking about the bond.
he hated how aware he was of her.
because despite everything, the distance and never seeing her to begin with, she felt woven into him already, like a haunting.
some nights, when his insomnia clawed violently at his nerves after fights, he’d feel her wrap her arms around herself beneath warm blankets god knows where.
and sleep came easier those nights.
he couldn’t explain it and truthfully, he didn’t like to think about it.
he hated talking about her because the truth was ugly.
that he didn’t particularly hate her. which is exactly why he knew meeting her would ruin everything.
naturally, his solution was to sabotage everything which is why he started to sleep around with non-existents whenever he got the chance.
and he knew what it did to her.
good. he hoped it made her despise him enough to never want anything to do with him, whether they meet now or twenty years down the line.
sukuna didn’t want anything to do with her.
∞
you hated downtown on friday nights.
it was always too loud and all too crowded.
neon signs bled into rain-slick streets while bass-heavy music spilled from every open doorway along the block.
girls stumbled across sidewalks in tiny dresses and tall heels, drunken laughter cutting through the humid summer night air while taxis lined the streets endlessly.
the city looked beautiful after dark, but you still wanted to be everywhere but here.
“stop looking at people with that judgy look of yours.” shoko muttered beside you, nudging your shoulder lightly as the three of you crossed the street.
“i’m not judging, i’m just looking around…” you defended with a huff as you hugged yourself protectively, little kitten heels clicking against the pavement.
“you are judging,” utahime confirmed, “it’s your classic disgusted and glare-ey look.”
“well excuse me, you’re the ones who brought me to crackhead-ville.” you glared at the two girls as shoko rolled her eeys before hooking her arm through yours anyway.
she pulled you towards the entrance of yet another overcrowded building downtown.
apparently, tonight’s party was being held somewhere above an abandoned old bar. or beneath it.
either way, something you found entirely too ominous but you were too distracted when shoko was explaining to actually disagree.
your soulmate had spent the entire evening restless beneath your skin. not angry but worse.
aware.
you felt him constantly tonight.
a steady pulse of adrenaline humming through your bloodstream that didn’t belong to you.
your chest had felt tight since leaving the penthouse, some strange tension settling low in your stomach like your body was anticipating something before your mind could catch up.
it was unsettling.
you blamed the lack of sleep, or rather, you blamed him. you blamed him for it all.
“ew, ew…” you muttered as shoko pulled you through the door into what you could only describe as chaos.
warmth and noise hit you instantly.
bodies crowded wall to wall beneath flashing lights while music shook violently through the floorboards.
cigarette smoke lingered in the air despite the open windows somewhere deeper inside the space.
you physically recoiled.
“oh my god,” utahime muttered beside you, laughing softly at the expression painting your features, “you look horrified.”
“i am horrified!”
shoko snorted, “rich kids.”
you threw her a glare before the three of you squeezed through the crowd until you reached a quieter section tucked near the back of the room.
a curved leather couch sat half-empty beneath dim red lights, thankfully far enough from the speakers that your skull stopped vibrating the second you sat down.
you exhaled deeply, chest deflating as you blinked up at your friends who were looking at you with amusement.
“drinks?” utahime questioned as shoko nodded eagerly while you merely hummed, shoulders tense as you gazed around the sea of bodies.
utahime disappeared toward the bar while shoko took a seat beside you, the leather beneath you sticky in a way that had you shuddering, sitting at the very edge of the couch.
fuck, you hated this and you couldn’t explain why.
yes, you hated parties in general but you just felt wrong.
“you’re being weird tonight.” shoko observed, eyes narrowed on your tense figure.
you frowned faintly, “i know…i feel weird.”
your skin felt like it was buzzing, chest vibrating in a way it usually wasn’t.
it wasn’t necessarily bad, but simply off.
you felt your soulmate more than ever tonight, you were almost hyperaware.
he felt electric.
every emotion coming from him felt sharper somehow, close enough that you could almost mistake them for your own.
your pulse kept jumping for no reason.
fuck, you hated this.
“is it devils dick?” shoko casually asked as your eyes closed momentarily.
how would you explain that it was both yes and no.
yes, the bond felt different tonight.
but no, it wasn’t muscle aches or phantom pain you were feeling on his end, though you didn't want to speak too soon.
it was a friday after all. friday nights usually meant bruised ribs by saturday morning.
“oh my god, guys!” hime stood before you, handing shoko her drink before placing a water bottle in your hand, “everyone’s saying gojo and his crew are gonna be here!”
your eyes rolled gently, very much aware of utahime’s obsession with those random illegitimate fighters.
underground fights happened constantly throughout the city.
illegal betting rings buried beneath clubs and abandoned buildings, violent enough that respectable people pretended they didn’t exist despite everyone secretly knowing otherwise.
your father even told you how known politicians and well known figures even placed bets they hid from the public.
and lately, there was one name that everyone kept talking about-
“do you think sukuna would show up?” shoko questioned, eyes wide with excitement, taking a sip of her cherry vodka as you looked between the two girls.
ryomen sukuna.
you’d heard it constantly from utahime the past few months.
uathime, shoko, sora and percy often went on double dates to these underground fights you had zero interest in.
you were very much used to fifth wheeling alongside your friends, that wasn’t the issue. the issue was rooted in the prospect of spending the night in a filthy underground boxing ring riddled with people and violence alike. yuck.
still, amongst all the fighters utahime gushed about, ryomen sukuna seemed to be the most known.
the undefeated underground fighter with pink hair and a snake tattoo across his shoulders and collarbones.
people were terrified of him just as equally as they were obsessed with him.
“percy says sukuna knocked his opponent unconscious in under thirty seconds last week!” shoko stated, taking another sip as utahime nodded frantically.
“he’s insane!” utahime gushed, “like, gojo is obviously a show off and just cares about the clout he gets but sukuna? he’s terrifying…”
utahime continued, you were sure. you could see her mouth moving but you didn’t-couldn’t register the words she'd uttered.
the world around you turned hazy, just enough to feel like everything slowed in a way that definitely wasn’t normal.
your heartbeat stopped, not metaphorically, but physically.
a sharp wave of adrenaline crashed violently into your chest hard enough to steal the breath straight from your lungs.
you went still, every muscle in your body tightening instinctively.
you could see both of the girls leaning towards you, brows furrowed in concern, mouths moving and uttering words you knew were dipped in concern. you couldn’t hear any of it.
you swallowed hard, eyes darting up and around you, as if a siren was luring you towards the crowd, come to me, come, come.
fuck, were you drugged or something?
your heartbeat stuttered painfully beneath your ribs, once, twice then again.
you felt like you’d been dropped underwater while everyone else remained above the surface.
the bond felt raw and entirely too overwhelming.
it felt like standing at the edge of something life-altering, like your soul had recognized something before your mind could catch up to it.
for the first time since you’d first felt your soulmate, he didn’t feel far away.
you had grown used to the idea of him, something intangible and not truly real.
merely a ghost haunting the edges of your nervous system, phantom bruises in the middle of lectures and an adrenaline rush at three in the morning.
he was the deep-seated exhaustion that riddled your body but didn’t belong to you.
but this felt real. close enough to touch.
the sensation crawled slowly beneath your skin, winding around your ribs like invisible string being pulled tighter and tighter and tighter until you thought you might choke on it.
the realization hit your bloodstream like a drug.
he was here, you knew it. you could feel it in your bones.
your eyes darted towards the door that had swung open, summer air rushing inside alongside four figures dressed almost entirely in black.
the first thing you noticed was height.
they all carried themselves with the same dangerous sort of confidence, the kind that came from men who had never truly feared consequences before.
one of them had snowy white locks, the tallest of the bunch, bright enough to catch beneath the flashing lights, sunglasses balanced lazily across his nose despite the fact that it was nearly midnight.
another stood beside him, quieter with shoulder length black locks with stretched gauges in his ears and sharp eyes that swept across the room once before settling into bored indifference.
the third one was shorter than the rest but still tall, black locks in two spiked buns with a joint resting between plump pink lips, eyes hooded in a way that exposed that joint not being his first of the night.
they were all attractive in a way that felt almost unfair and dangerous.
people moved out of their path without being asked.
your eyes turned to the one trailing just a step behind them and your breath caught so violently, it hurt.
the salmon colored locks gave him away.
ryomen sukuna.
tattoos curled dark against tan skin disappearing beneath the collar of a black shirt that stretched across broad shoulders.
even from where you stood, you could see the dried blood and bruises across his knuckles.
he looked nothing like what you’d imagined from shoko’s descriptions.
and simultaneously, exactly like it too.
something deep inside you snapped taut, your stomach dropping.
you could tell he was dazed too, jaw locked and eyes blinking at a slow pace, eyes looking around the sea of bodies.
the soulmate bond surged so hard beneath your ribs, you physically recoiled, fingers gripping the edge of the leather couch.
oh god. no, no, no.
oh my god…
“oh my god,” utahime whispered beside you, though unlike you, she sounded impressed rather than horrified.
shoko looked moments away from passing out entirely.
“that’s him!” she breathed out quietly.
you couldn’t answer, breath stilling and hands trembling.
because sukuna had stopped walking.
fuck, the realization came slowly enough to feel cruel.
maroon eyes met your own and the room around you dissolved entirely. the music became muffled noise, lights blurring and the crowd disappeared.
all you could see was him. him. him. him.
he was all you could see, feel and you knew all he could see was you.
sukuna felt it the second he stepped through the doorway.
you.
the bond snapped violently alive beneath his skin hard enough that his entire body locked for half a second mid-step.
he almost thought someone had drugged him until he remembered he hadn’t even drank anything yet.
then what was this feeling?
his eyes locked on yours and he felt the most alive he’d felt in his life.
something even the ring and the violence couldn't offer.
there you were, all too pretty and wide eyed.
he barely heard gojo speak beside him anymore, the lanky man rambling on about some idiot from last week’s fight who apparently called him out on twitter after.
sukuna ignored him completely because across the room sat a girl staring at him like she’d seen a ghost.
and in some ways, he was your ghost.
he haunted you and lived under your skin in ways he was sure you didn’t appreciate in the slightest.
his soulmate.
years of phantom feelings crashed together all at once so violently, it almost made him sick.
because the realization hit him harder than he’d anticipated and yes, he had anticipated this.
the moment he’d meet his soulmate.
well, he dreaded more than anticipated it.
it hit him hard because he realized that he knew this girl.
sukuna had never met you, yet, he bet he knew you more than the two girls hovering over you. more than fucking anyone.
you were the girl whose stress bled into his bones during finals week, the girl who wrapped her arms around herself at night and somehow lulled him to sleep from miles away.
you were real.
and you looked soft.
that was the first thing he took note of.
soft skin, soft wide eyes, soft pink shimmery gloss coating your plush lips he recognized only through phantom warmth he’d felt against his own skin before.
his soulmate was a pretty little thing, so pretty it almost made his chest ache. in your tiny skirt and halter top.
far too fucking pretty to belong anywhere near him.
“sukuna?”
choso’s voice cut through the haze faintly and sukuna snapped out of it, gaze finally leaving hers to glance at his friend who tilted his head towards the other side of the room.
sukuna resisted the urge to glance at you as he made his way across the room.
fuck, fuck, fuck!
this couldn’t be happening, this was a fucking nightmare.
just as he made it across the room, he felt it.
warm fingertips brushing his own skin despite his hands at his sides.
his pulse stuttered once.
his gaze snapped to yours once more and your eyes widened instantly when you noticed his hand drift to his neck where your own hand was resting.
slowly and carefully, sukuna lifted his own hand.
his fingers brushed lightly against the side of his jaw, a barely there touch.
yet, across the room, your breath hitched sharply as warmth bloomed against your own jawline seconds later.
not imagined or coincidence. it was all real, so so real.
your stomach twisted violently.
oh no. no no no no.
shoko was gazing at you, “what’s wrong?!”
you couldn’t answer, eyes stuck on a pair of crimson that held you hostage.
her eyes narrowed as both her and utahime followed your gaze before catching sukuna’s eyes on you.
then they both looked between you both a total of five times before realization hit.
“wait,” shoko whispered harshly, hand shooting out to grip your arm, “WAIT.”
utahime’s jaw physically fell open, “holy shit…”
your heartbeat pounded so violently, you thought you might faint right then and there beneath the flashing red lights.
what you despised most is that it made sense.
of course it was him. a violent and dangerous underground fighter, fuck, that explained everything so perfectly.
if fate was a person, you’d have her by the neck right now.
because sukuna was still staring at you, as if he knew you already and perhaps, he did.
then horrifyingly, he smirked.
and suddenly, you understood exactly why the entire city feared ryomen sukuna.
sukuna moved before he could really think about it, jaw clenched but determined.
one second he stood on the other side of the room and the next, his body was already weaving through the crowd toward you like the bond itself had wrapped invisible fingers around his spine and dragged him to you. you. his soulmate.
people moved instantly to let him pass.
you took note of that immediately.
you noticed the way conversations died around him, the way bodies shifted out of his path and nobody dared touch him, even accidentally.
it was fear, you realized. people feared him.
the recognition made your stomach twist.
“oh my god,” shoko whispered harshly beside you, nails digging into your arm, “he’s coming over here!”
“i can see that.” you hissed back faintly, though your voice barely sounded like your own.
fuck, you should leave. you should absolutely leave.
except, you couldn’t move, body drilled to where you sat, frozen in place while ryomen fucking sukuna rossed the room toward you like some predator chasing prey.
closer and closer and closer.
until suddenly, all his 6’4 glory was towering above you.
your breath caught embarrassingly hard.
up close, he was worse.
taller than you’d imagined and broader too.
there were faint bruises scattered along his jawline beneath the dim lights, on the very spot that you woke up feeling sore. fresh cuts healed across his knuckles.
and his eyes, god, they looked at you with the same recognition burning through your own chest.
sukuna looked down at you for a moment too long.
fuck, you were even more ethereal up close.
that thought hit him first and annoyingly hardest.
his pretty little soulmate sitting curled into the edge of a leather couch looking at him with wide doe eyes, almost expectantly with a mix of fear and restraint.
“hey.”
his voice slid down your spine like smoke.
low, dangerous and rough in a way even your mind couldn’t conjure up.
fuck, was this really happening?
your throat tightened instantly, “hi.”
the word left you horrifyingly softer than you’d intended and sukuna’s lips twitched at the sound.
your voice was his favorite sound, instantly.
“um,” shoko hummed, eyes wide as she shared a glance with utahime, “we’ll give you two a second.”
you almost wanted to yell in protest, but the two girls were already shuffling away, shooting you encouraging looks.
as you glanced up at the dangerous man once more, you felt your heart still in a way you hadn’t ever felt before.
not in fear or apprehension but calm.
he made you feel calm, your body stilling and quieting in a way you hadn’t expected.
regretfully, fuck, you despised it, but when that gentleness overcame you and you looked up at him…
his disheveled pink locks, his handsome rugged features and his dark eyes, all of it was him.
and you felt stupid for trying to deny that this man was your soulmate.
who else would it be?
“i’m sukuna,” he stated lowly, moving to take a seat beside you, leaving an appreciative distance between you, “ryomen sukuna.”
your name left you softly with a nod.
as you gazed at each other, the same realization overcame you both.
even with barely an introduction, you knew each other.
while sukuna had only fond memories of what you’d done for him, your mind was riddled with poisonous ones.
this was the man who often trained in the middle of the night, filling you with soreness and a rush of adrenaline that left you sleepless most nights.
he was the one who fucked other girls knowing what that put you through.
your heart clenched.
beyond all those things, he was the one who hugged himself to sleep after that one night of utter hell.
he was the one who held a hot water bottle to his stomach when your cramps left you nauseated and pained in bed.
as much as you wanted to forget those things, to snap yourself out of the sad patheticness that riddled you, how could you?
how could you when those were the only memories that kept your hope that he wasn’t a total monster alive?
your eyes travelled along his bloodied knuckles, “you get those a lot.”
sukuna’s fists instinctively clenched at the attention.
“and you burn yourself with whatever you do your hair with at least twice a week.”
your eyes widened instantly.
“and you get punched like every other day!”
sukuna’s mouth twitched and you hated how your eyes drifted towards the movement and your heart stuttered.
“barely.” sukuna stated cooly, a small smirk painting his features.
your eyes drifted toward him again before you could stop yourself.
and then you remembered.
every phantom feeling, every sleepless night and every ache.
all attached to him.
the violence, the pain, the girls.
your jaw tightened, "you’re not exactly the best person to be connected to, you know.”
sukuna’s expression didn’t shift much, still cool, but you felt it.
the hollow drop in your stomach that wasn’t yours. guilt.
real and immediate, it almost made you laugh in disbelief.
of course he felt guilty, he had to know he was a fucking nightmare.
sukuna leaned back slightly, jaw working once as his gaze flickered away from yours for half a second, “yeah, i bet.”
your brows lifted, “that’s it?”
his eyes returned to yours, low and indifferent.
you scoffed, anger bubbling up so quickly, it nearly startled you, “that’s all you have to say?”
sukuna let out a breath through his nose, “what do you want me to say?”
“oh, i don’t know,” you let out a sharp little laugh that held not an ounce of humor, “maybe sorry would be a good place to start?!”
sukuna’s head tilted, “sorry.”
you stared at him in utter disbelief before a laugh left you once more, this time softer and dripped in something worse than anger, “wow…”
sukuna’s eyes borrowed, “what?”
“you’re unbelievable is what!”
“you asked for sorry.”
“not like that!” you nsapped, voice rising just enough to have your cheeks flushing, “not like you’re apologizing for stepping on my shoe!”
his expression hardened slightly and you felt it immediately, the irritation beginning to curl beneath his skin.
ugh, you hated how the closeness made both your emotions so heightened.
“you have no idea what you put me through,” you continued, voice trembling despite you rbest efforts, “none.”
sukuna’s gaze darkened, “don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“act like i wasn’t there too.”
you blinked at him, something hot and ugly twisting in your chest.
was he for real?
“you were there?” you repeated quietly, “you were there?”
his jaw clenched, “don’t-”
“no, please,” you leaned forward slightly, anger sharpening every word, “explain it to me. because to my knowledge, you were the one making my life miserable while i was the one trying to keep us both sane!”
sukuna looked at you for a long moment, jaw clenching and unclenching.
the lights washed over his face in flashes of red, making him look even more unreal than he already did.
“you think i wanted this?” he stated more than asked and your heart clenched.
hurt shot through you, your eyes growing glassy against your will because you knew he wasn’t referring to the pain he’d put you through.
he meant the soulmate thing in general, fate as a whole.
he didn’t want you.
you bit the inside of your cheek, willing your tears to stay in your eyes before breathing out, “no. but neither did i.”
silence settled between you then, not peaceful but loaded.
sukuna could physically feel your hurt and his eyes dropped briefly to your hands where they trembled in your lap.
your fingers curled instantly, too proud as you hid the movement.
it was too late. he’d seen it.
even worse, he’d felt it.
“i didn’t know.” he stated lowly and you froze.
your eyes flickered up, “what?”
his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, expression unreadable.
“at first,” he clarified, “i didn’t know what it did to you.”
your chest tightening, knowing what he was referring to and his words didn’t soothe you in the slightest.
“and after?”
in fact, it made it all worse.
especially as he said nothing.
your face fell slightly, all the anger in you cooling into something quieter and melancholic.
“after, you knew.”
his gaze remained on you as his fingers flexed once against his thigh, “yeah, i knew.”
your eyes burned and you hated yourself for it.
you hated that it still hurt despite knowing already, you hated that hearing him say it aloud made it real in a way the bond never had.
“why?” you asked, the one word absolutely humiliating as much as it was devastating.
sukuna looked away first and somehow, that hurt too, “because it was easier.”
your lips parted faintly, “easier?”
he lout out a grunt, “if you hated me, you wouldn’t look for me.”
the words settled between you like something deadly.
for a second, you genuinely couldn’t speak.
then you did, “that is the stupidest, shittiest thing i’ve ever heard.”
hsi eyes snapped back to yours, scowling, “careful.”
“oh, fuck you!” you hissed lowly, “you don’t get to do that! you don’t get to hurt me on purpose and then act like it was some noble sacrifice.”
his jaw tightened, “it wasn’t noble.”
“yeah, no shit.”
“it was necessary.”
you laughed once, incredulous, “necessary? well, congrats, you got what you wanted, i absolutely fucking despise you.”
sukuna’s jaw clenched, eyes glaring at you, “good. because you don’t know shit about me, this saves us both the hassle.”
“i don’t know you?” you shot back, “i know you more than anyone, probably. i know your body hurts more often than they don’t. i know you clench your jaw when you’re mad. i know you can’t sleep because of your nightmares and unless somebody practcially forces your nervous system to shut down, you could go days without it. i know you’re so angry at the fucking world, it makes you so hateful.”
sukuna went still, too still.
you swallowed hard, eyes burning once more, “and i know that for years, i was the one cleaning up the damage you left behind.”
his eyes darkened, “cleaning up?”
“yes,” your voice cracked despite yourself, “me. i was the one hugging myself to sleep because you wouldn’t. i was the one stretching every morning because your body always felt like fucking concrete. i was the one coloring like a goddamn toddler at three in the morning because it was the only thing that made your anger stop choking me!”
sukuna said nothing and you hated that even more.
you wanted him to argue back, to answer, to fucking care.
“do you know how pathetic that feels?” you whispered, “taking care of someone who kept hurting me?”
his expression shifted, barely, but you felt it again.
the guilt, even deeper this time.
sukuna looked at you like he wanted to say something cruel and couldn’t quite manage it, settling with, “you didn’t have to do all that.”
your laugh came out watery, tears now trickling down your heated cheeks.
fuck, you felt nauseous, you felt so fucking sick.
“yeah, i know that now.”
something passed across his face then, a flicker of pain so quick, you almost missed it.
but the bond didn’t allow you to miss anything. you felt it bloom in your own chest, sharp and unwanted. his.
for one terrible second, you almost let it soften you.
almost.
because there it was again.
that tiny, stupid sliver of hope you’d spend years nurturing because it was the only thing that kept you mildly sane.
the one that whispered that maybe he wasn't all cruelty. maybe there was something beneath all that violence and pain.
maybe the boy who held a hot water bottle to his stomach when your cramps got bad had to exist somewhere inside the man sitting in front of you.
you looked at him then, through your blurry vision, really and truly looked.
the hard line of his jaw, the coldness in his eyes and the casual arrogance sitting across his shoulders like armor.
and that hope crumbled quietly inside your chest.
not dramatically or all at once, but piece by piece, like something old finally accepting it had been dead for a long time.
utter disappointment filled you then. you should have known better.
this shouldn't be surprising.
sukuna had spent years telling you exactly who he was, painting you the worst image of himself and you had hoped it was just that.
the worst of himself.
except the worst was all of him.
sukuna was cruel. not because he didn’t know better but because he did.
because he’d known what hurt you and decided hurting you was easier than wanting you.
you swallowed around the ache in your throat, suddenly exhausted in a way a thousand years of sleep couldn’t fix.
all you wanted was to be home now, cuddled up with ani in your room alone.
“right,” you whispered, nodding once to yourself.
sukuna’s brows pulled together slightly, “right what?”
you pushed yourself to your feet, smoothing trembling hands over the front of your skirt because you needed something to do. anything that didn’t involve looking at him.
“this was enlightening.”
his eyes narrowed, “sit down.”
the command sparked something sharp beneath your ribs, the thorn twisting in your heart.
you let out a hollow laugh, “fuck you.”
his jaw flexed, “don’t make a scene.”
your name left him then and you hated the way your stomach fluttered at the melody of it in his voice.
fuck, your heart hurt.
because he was your soulmate. yours.
because some sick, twisted part of you had expected the universe to redeem itself when you finally found him.
you expected the first moment to feel like every story you’d grown up hearing, witnessed amongst your friends.
warmth, recognition and relief.
instead, you were standing in front of the man who had turned your body into a battlefield and your heart into collateral damage.
“i hope i never see you again.”
something flickered across his face then and you didn’t stay long enough to decipher it.
you turned around, the crowd swallowing you almost immediately as you walked away.
music slammed back into your skull, bodies pressing close as you pushed through them with shaking hands and blurred vision.
your chest felt too tight, lungs too small for the oxygen your body ached for.
behind you, you felt sukuna rise before you saw it. the immediate pull.
his presence growing closer and your heart stuttered stupidly.
some miserable, pathetic part of you sparked alive at the thought before you could kill it.
maybe he did care.
maybe he was going to take back all the words he regretted, that he would stop you and apologize properly this time.
he would say what you’ve been waiting years to feel.
the thought was so humiliating, it almost made you sick.
“fuck are you lookin’ at?!”
you heard his voice aimed at the crowd of people that were watching you both, probably since your conversation on the couch.
you shoved through the door and stepped into the narrow hallway outside the main room, the music muffling instantly behind you.
the air was cooler here, damp with rain and cigarette smoke, blue neon bleeding through the cracked windows at the end of the corridor.
you took in a breath like you hadn’t breathed in days, eyes shutting as your heart hammered against your chest, trying to simply process everything that had taken place.
“hey.” his voice followed you out and you froze, heart stilling.
stupid, traitorous thing.
you turned slowly, eyes fluttering open.
sukuna stood a few feet away, tall and shadowed beneath the hallway light.
away from the party, he seemed even more dangerous. less like a person and more like a warning your body had spent seven years failing to understand.
he was an enigma.
for one breath, neither of you spoke.
your hope stood there too, fragile and shaking, fucking pitiful.
waiting.
sukuna’s gaze dragged over your face once, catching on the wetness beneath your eyes and his expression tightened faintly.
say it, you thought bitterly.
say sorry! say you didn’t mean it!
say something!
his jaw worked once, “no one can know.”
your brows furrowed, the hope dying cleanly.
“excuse me?”
sukuna stepped closer, voice lower now.
his mouth opened to clarify when his gaze met your own once more.
your wide glassy eyes. your pretty face that was streaked with tears, your plump bitten lips.
the little sniffles that left you, making his ribs ache.
and suddenly, he froze, the words stuck in his throat.
fuck, he had to get it together.
“about this.”
your lips parted faintly, “about us?”
the word us felt absolutely pathetic in your mouth.
all too soft and hopeful. undeserved, even.
something in his eyes shifted at the sound of it but it was gone before you could hold onto it.
“there is no us.”
oh. you actually felt that one.
not through the bond, nor as some phantom ache borrowed from him.
the pain was yours, all yours.
you laughed once, quiet and disbelieving as you took a small step back, “wow…”
sukuna followed you, taking one step forward as his jaw clenched, “listen to me-”
“no,” you shook your head slowly, voice trembling, “no, i think i understand perfectly.”
sukuna’s eyes darkened, “you really don’t.”
“oh my god,” you shook your head, “i can’t believe i thought-”
you stopped, humiliation burning up your throat.
sukuna stared, taking a step closer, his chest now brushing your chin, “thought what?”
his voice was almost desperate and you swallowed, blinking hard, “nothing.”
his face tightened and he felt it anyway, of course he did.
the hope and hurt.
the fact that some tiny, unbearable part of you had wanted him to come after you because he simply couldn’t let you leave.
sukuna looked away first as you took a step back. fucking coward.
“it’s dangerous.” he stated as you stared at the side of his face.
“dangerous?”
“yes.”
“for who?”
his gaze cut back to yours, “for you.”
you almost laugh but he continued before you could.
“people know me and if they know about you, they’ll use you. you make me weak.”
the words landed colder than you'd expected.
sukuna watched you closely, as if waiting for the fear to register and maybe it did.
somewhere deep, deep down, but anger got there first.
“so that’s what this is?” you whispered, tears leaving you without you noticing, “damage control?”
his silence was answer enough and you nodded faintly, tears burning hot once more.
“right.”
“you need to keep your mouth shut about it.”
you flinched before you could stop yourself and sukuna paused, regret flashing through instantly.
“don’t talk to me like that.” you stated lowly and his jaw clenched.
“i’m trying to keep you safe.”
“oh, how big of you.”
the hallway seemed to shrink around you both.
outside, rain tapped gently against the glass.
inside, bass thudded like a second heartbeat through the walls.
you looked at him then, this man that fate had tied to you with an invisible string and cruelty dressed up as destiny. and for the first time since you’d felt him at sixteen, you stopped wondering what it would be like to find him.
because now you knew and god, you wish you didn’t.
it felt like losing something you’d never even had.
“is that all?” you questioned lowly, clearing your throat once.
sukuna stared at you, nose flaring and throat bobbing once, “yeah.”
another piece of you gave out as you nodded, “okay.”
the word was so calm, it made his eyes sharpen.
you turned away, walking past him but his hand caught your wirst before you could take full step.
skin met skin and the bond went silent, completely and utterly silent.
no buzzing or aching or distance.
just him, all warm and real. terribly real.
your breath hitched at his touch. it was the first time he’d ever touched you.
sukuna froze too, fingers wrapped around your wrist like he’d touched fire and couldn’t make himself pull away.
for one second, just one, all the cruelty fell quiet.
and you felt him beneath it, scared and lonely, wanting and waiting.
you felt it and you hated him for letting you feel it now.
slowly, you looked down at his hand then back up at him, “let go.”
his grip tightened by a fraction, “this is the best thing for the both of us.”
your face crumpled before you could stop it.
you pulled your wrist free and this time, he let you.
“oh, trust me, not having to be stuck with you? i couldn’t agree more.” venom laced your words as sukuna’s expression changed, tightened and you felt the hurt then.
sharp and immediate and you were glad for it.
you turned and walked away then, tears streaming down your cheeks and a sob left you as soon as you were out of his vicinity.
for the first time, the bond didn't feel like a thread pulling you closer…
it felt like noose.
∞
an | was so late with this but had the worst past few days so SORRY! anyways PLSSS lmk what u think cuz i'm iffy abt the direction of this BUT this is lowk my fav thing i've written omg! this is kinda like a prologue pt2, next chapters will deffo be longer! i cannot wait to write more of these two and sukuna's a dick but bear w him ! also each chapter in the masterlist will be titled a song and i recommend listening to it while reading for the vibes 🫡
also lowk need toji BAD i wanna give him some lore so lmk if u want a one-shot of him in this au!
zayne believes in consequences. so, when you decide not to behave tonight, he simply delivers your punishment.
right now, you’re hovering over his lap, your thighs shaking so hard you can barely keep your balance. he’s already used his stupidly long fingers to make you cum three times, leaving your cunt feeling raw, dripping wet and so sensitive that the friction of your own movement feels like a shock.
and now your punishment, it seems, is to ride his cock until you fucking can’t.
“z-zayne...i don’t...i can’t,” you whimper, tears stinging your eyes. you try to lower yourself but the head of his cock stretches your aching walls so intensely that you immediately freeze, crying out from the sheer fullness of him.
zayne lies perfectly still beneath you. he looks up at your flushed face, his expression entirely calm with a slight upturn of his lips, even though his own cock is twitching inside you, tip leaking with pre cum.
without a word, he reaches over to the nightstand. the familiar clink of his stethoscope makes your heart race.
“sit still,” zayne says, voice low and steady.
he puts the earpieces in and then the freezing steel of the stethoscope presses right against your bare chest.
the icy metal against your flushed hot skin makes you gasp. your cunt instantly clamps down, squeezing his cock like a vice. a heavy groan escapes zayne as you tighten around him.
“your pulse is too fast,” zayne murmurs, his eyes locked onto your face, reading every flicker of your expression. “your heart is pounding. it’s all for me, yes?”
the audacity to even ask, you think.
“because of you,” you sob, trying to lift your lips to escape this agonizing pleasure. “p-please... zayne, let me stop..”
“no,” zayne replies softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. oh fuck you. you want to say it out so badly, but you precisely know what position that’d leave you in, so you don’t.
his thick cock buries itself completely inside your soaking wet cunt, bottoming out inside you. a broken, breathless wail escapes your lips as you slump against his chestt, completely ruined by the friction.
zayne keeps the stethoscope pressed firmly over your racing heart listening to the chaotic, rapid thumping spike to a dangerous peak as he fills you to the brim.
“you brought this on yourself,” zayne whispers against your ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. “now, stay right there. let me listen to your heart race for me.”
What Caleb does to make you stop overworking yourself (very self indulgent of me tbh) also kinda my first time writing smut 🫣
Caleb - Overstimulation/Cervix kisses
Caleb forced you to hold your own legs up and open, your knees up by your ears with your nails digging into your skin. Each time you let go Caleb would slap your cunt turning you into the pathetic mess that now lay before him. His pace punishing. You'd lost count of how many times you'd been forced to cum in the last hour. Your cheeks were almost as wet as the mess inbetween you both.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry- Fuck! I won't do it again!" You cried, feeling the familiar pressure slowly building up again in your stomach. A white ring of cum was slowly getting more prominent around his cock.
"You already went agaisnt your word, how can I trust you'll keep this one?" He punctuated each word with a thrust, somehow each one deeper than the last. The sounds he was pulling out of you were pornagraphic. The room was filled with its own symphony, your cries combined with the squelching coming from every thrust.
Another sob tore from your throat as your nails dug into his biceps. The necklace you'd give him dangling above you swinging back and forth as if it was trying to hypnotize you.
"Those tears won't work on me this time," He purred leaning down to kiss a tear from your face. "I'm just holding you accountable pips." He grabbed your face with one hand sticking two fingers into your mouth.
"Mmph!" You choked on his fingers but instinctively began sucking
"Good girl...is this why you didn't listen? Don't tell me you wanted me to come home and use you like this?" He teased, slipping his now wet fingers to your clit rubbing circles at the same speed at his thrusts.
Your body arched off the bed with a strangled groan but Caleb wouldn't let up. His fingers relentless with his mission to make you cum again.
"You can always just ask for me to help you relax, you didn't have to go through all this." He murmured between kisses to your neck, forcing another cry from you, he could feel you fluttering around him, even after how many times he'd made you cum already your body still trying to reach another high. His eyes darted from your clit to your face as your body threatened to come apart again.
"Fuck your squeezin' me so tightly." He groaned, his free hand gripping your thigh for leverage.
"Cay!" You sobbed feeling the familiar pressure snap, as your orgasm hit you like a wave, knocking all the air from you as you writhed beneath him blubbering out apology after apology, as he fucked you through it.
"You can apologize all you want, I'm not done with you yet."
For @gardenialily’s writing event here 💕💕 (I hope this is OK. It my first time writing for an event 😊😊)
Words: Careful. Card. Memory.
Also a birthday gift for @remnantsofgildedcages. HB pretty girl! 💕
Cw: Smut. 🔞 MDNI🔞
The soft, low tone chime of his personal tablet barely registered against the backdrop of the morning office hum, but Caleb’s eyes flicked to the screen anyway. It was a reflex born of his line of work—always monitoring, always tracking.
Usually, it was a briefing update or a system log. But the notification sitting on his lock screen made him freeze entirely, his pen hovering a fraction of an inch above the paperwork on his desk.
Transaction Alert: Skyhaven Central Bank.
Authorized User: [Your Name]
Merchant: L'Étoile Boutique
Caleb stared at it. For a second, his brain, usually so quick to calculate and react, simply stalled.
He had given you that black card four months ago. He remembers the exact look on your face—the stubborn tilt of your chin, the way you tried to hand it right back, insisting you didn't need his charity. He’d had to press it into your palm, wrapping his larger fingers over yours, telling you it wasn't charity, it was security. It was his. And by extension, yours.
Since then? Nothing. Not a coffee, not a grocery run, not a single cent. Until today.
A low coil of heat unraveled in the pit of his stomach, heavy and sudden. He leaned back in his leather chair, the paperwork completely forgotten as he swiped the notification open to look at the details.
L'Étoile. He knew the place. It wasn't just a boutique, it was an exclusive, high end atelier known for custom evening wear. The kind of dresses that clung like a second skin, made of silk that practically begged to be slid off a woman's shoulders.
The timing wasn't a coincidence. The Skyhaven Gala was this weekend, and he had asked you to be his plus one days ago. You hadn't answered, but this... this was the confirmation he was desperate for.
You were actually going. And you were letting him dress you for it.
Caleb ran a thumb over the edge of his jaw, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The thought of you standing in that boutique, picking out something beautiful, and handing over his card to pay for it sent a rush of addictive adrenaline straight through his veins. You were finally letting him take care of you. You were finally accepting the hold he wanted to have on you.
His mind immediately betrayed him, painting entirely inappropriate pictures for a Thursday morning at his desk. He imagined you in the dressing room, the smooth fabric of a formal gown slipping over your hips. He imagined the deep, plunging back of a dress, exposing the soft skin he wanted to press his mouth against. He imagined walking into that Gala with his hand anchored firmly at the small of your back, letting every elite in Skyhaven know exactly who you belonged to.
The heat in his gut tightened, turning into a restless, demanding hunger. Caleb picked up his personal phone, his fingers moving deliberately across the screen. He couldn't just let this pass. He needed you to know that he saw it.
He deleted his first three drafts. They were too forward, too loud about the possessive grip tightening in his chest. He needed to play it cool. He was a patient man, after all. He had waited months for you to use the card, he could wait a little longer for the rest.
He typed out a short, simple message.
Caleb: Just saw a notification from L'Étoile. Good choice. I can't wait to see what you picked out.
🍎 🍏 🍎 🍏 🍎 🍏 🍎 🍏 🍎 🍏 🍎 🍏 🍎 🍏 🍎 🍏
You stood in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom, adjusting the drape of the fabric over your hips.
The dress was breathtaking. It was the kind of luxury you’d never allow yourself to even look at, let alone wear—heavy, liquid silk that pooled around your feet and clung to every curve.
When you had first seen it at L'Étoile, you’d stood in front of it for ten minutes, paralyzed. You had your hand in your purse, fingers brushing against the black card he had forced into your hands months ago. “For emergencies,” he’d said “Or for anything you want. Just use it.”
But you hadn't. You couldn't. You had to be careful.
Using his money felt like crossing a line you couldn't uncross. You were already so deeply, desperately in love with him, a secret you guarded with everything you had. Because Caleb was always the perfect gentleman. He was attentive, protective, and constantly there for you—but sometimes, that care felt dangerously close to the way an older brother might protect a younger sibling. He treated you like something fragile, something to be kept safe.
You had nearly choked when you read the price, but the thought of Caleb seeing you in it—the foolish hope that maybe, just maybe, this dress would finally make him see you as a woman—had won.
When you’d sent him a picture of the dress on the hanger, your heart had been in your throat. His reply had come a few minutes later:
Caleb: Beautiful. You’re going to look perfect.
It was a nice text. A good text. But it was exactly the kind of text a supportive friend or family member would send. It didn't have the heat you were craving. It didn't give away a single hint of what he was actually thinking.
A heavy sigh escaped your lips as you touched the delicate strap of the dress. Today was huge for him and because of his tight schedule, he had to get ready at work, leaving you to dress at his place alone.
The sound of the front door’s electronic lock chiming cut through the silence.
Your breath hitched. He wasn't supposed to be back. He was supposed to meet you there, or send a car.
A moment later, heavy, familiar footsteps echoed down the hallway, stopping right outside the cracked bedroom door.
"Hey," Caleb’s deep voice called out "I changed my mind."
The door was pushed open.
Caleb stood in the threshold, already dressed in his formal gala uniform. The crisp lines of the dark jacket, the sharp tailoring emphasizing the broad span of his shoulders, and the silver accents made him look entirely commanding. Imposing.
But the moment his eyes landed on you, all of that military discipline vanished.
He froze. His hand, which had been reaching up to loosen the high, stiff collar of his shirt, dropped slowly to his side.
The silence stretched between you, thick and suddenly heavy with suffocating tension. Caleb didn't move. He didn't say 'you look nice.' He didn't smile his usual easy, comforting smile. Instead, his dark eyes darkened further, raking over you from the exposed skin of your collarbones, down the sleek, expensive lines of the silk, all the way to the floor, before snapping back up to lock onto your face.
There was nothing brotherly about the way he was looking at you right now.
Within seconds, he regained his composure, tightening his jaw as the mask slipped back on. "You look beautiful, as always," he said, eyes lingering just a moment too long. "I'll wait for you in the living room."
There it went again. That agonizing feeling of being kept at a distance. You swallowed the lump in your throat, finished your makeup, and walked out.
The ride to the gala was quiet. Caleb kept his eyes on the road, answering your attempts at conversation with polite, clipped murmurs, but the moment you stepped out of his car he anchored you to him.
As you walked through the grand, crystal lit ballroom, you could feel the weight of dozens of eyes on you. Other men noticed you immediately. Lingering glances followed you across the marble floor, and Caleb knew every single one of them. Whenever a younger officer or an elite stepped up to talk to you, Caleb’s hand would find the small of your back, his grip tightening just enough to guide you away, his voice smooth and perfectly diplomatic as he excused the two of you.
An hour into the night, Caleb was pulled into a conversation with a high ranking officer. Seeing him occupied, you quietly murmured that you were going to grab a drink and slipped away toward the grand ice sculpture bar.
"I was wondering when he’d let you out of his sight," a smooth, unfamiliar voice said beside you.
You turned to find a young man in an expensive tailored suit, looking at you with an appreciative smile. "I'm Julian. I couldn't help but notice you the second you walked in. Tell me, are you here with Colonel Xia, or—"
Before Julian could finish, the air pressure seemed to drop.
Without a single word of warning, a large, warm hand wrapped firmly around your waist, his fingers pressing deep into the silk of your dress. The sudden heat of Caleb’s chest brushed against your bare shoulder.
"She's with me," Caleb’s voice cut through the air, laced with a quiet authority that made Julian’s confident smile instantly falter.
"Colonel," Julian stammered, raising his glass defensively. "Just making conversation."
"We were just leaving for the floor," Caleb replied, his eyes holding a gaze so unyielding it felt like a physical threat. With a seamless sweep of his arm, Caleb turned you around and guided you directly into the center of the crowded ballroom.
When he pulled you into his arms it wasn't the gentle, respectful distance he usually kept. He pulled you in tight. His right hand clamped against the small of your back, pulling your hips flush against his. He looked incredibly tense, his shoulders rigid, it looked as if this important day for him was not going his way at all.
"Caleb," you whispered, looking up at him, your breath hitching at the sheer proximity. "Are you okay? Is the event not going well?"
He didn't answer right away, guiding you through a flawless turn. His eyes dropped back down to yours, the hard line of his mouth softening just a fraction.
"I'm fine," he murmured, his voice still carrying a rough edge. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to bleed out into a weary, heavy sigh. "You just... you reminded me of something tonight."
"What?" you asked, tilting your head.
A faint, nostalgic shadow of a smile touched his lips. "Do you remember your high school prom?"
You blinked, surprised. "My prom? Yeah, of course."
"Do you remember that boutique downtown? The one with the emerald green dress in the window that you used to stare at every day after school?"
A genuine laugh escaped you, the tension breaking. "Oh my god, yes. I wept over that dress. It was way too expensive, and I knew grandma couldn't afford it. I was devastated." you smiled at the memory. "But then, a week before the dance, it just showed up on our porch. I still don't know how Grandma got the money. She always refused to tell me."
Caleb stopped guiding you for a fraction of a second before he resumed the slow, swaying rhythm.
"She didn't get the money," Caleb said softly.
You paused, staring up at him. "What do you mean?"
"Grandma didn't buy that dress, I did."
Your steps faltered entirely, and Caleb had to catch your weight, anchoring your body firmly against his so you wouldn't stumble on the dance floor. "You? But... you didn't have that kind of money."
"I picked up extra shifts at the mechanics. Worked some night gigs," he said, his voice dropping into a whisper. "You wanted it. You cried because you couldn't have it. There was no way in hell I was going to let you go to that dance in anything less than what you wanted."
Your breath trapped itself in your throat. The silk of your current dress suddenly felt hot against your skin. The dots connected in your head—the way he had always taken care of you, the way he had worked himself to the bone just to give you what you wanted.
You looked up at him, your eyes searching his, desperate for him to finally bridge the gap, to say the words you had been dying to hear. The tension between you was vibrating, so thick it felt like the entire ballroom had vanished around you. His thumb traced a deliberate line across your hip, his eyes burning into yours.
But Caleb just swallowed hard and didn't say another word about how he felt. He just held you, turning you back into the rhythm of the dance, leaving you completely breathless and suspended in the space between what you were and what you desperately wanted to be.
🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏
The front door of his home clicked shut, sealing out the noise of Skyhaven and leaving you both wrapped in a ringing silence. It was late. The adrenaline of the gala was fading, replaced by a heavy exhaustion that only made the unspoken tension between you feel twice as loud.
Caleb slipped off his shoes first, his movements practiced and calm. The moment you leaned down to fumble with the delicate buckle of your own heel, he was already moving.
Before you could even protest, Caleb was down on one knee in front of you.
He didn't say a word. He just tapped his thigh, a commanding gesture for you to rest your foot there so he could help. He had done this a bunch of times over the years but tonight the intimacy of it felt completely different. When his warm fingers brushed against your ankle, carefully working the strap free, your heart hammered violently against your ribs.
The moment the second shoe slipped off, you muttered a breathless thank you, peeled off your coat, and practically fled down the hallway toward the kitchen.
You needed a barrier. You needed a distraction. You grabbed a glass, filled it from the tap, and drank it slowly, staring into the dark marble of the countertop. Your hands were shaking so badly the water rippled. You didn't know what to do with yourself, especially because you could hear his slow, deliberate footsteps following you.
He didn't stay at the doorway. He walked right into the kitchen until he was standing directly behind you.
He didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, watching the tight line of your shoulders, the way your fingers white knuckled the glass, and, most damning of all, the frantic, tiny pulse fluttering under the delicate skin of your neck. It completely betrayed you.
The moment he stepped a fraction closer, he saw your breathing stutter, then change completely, turning shallow and fast.
He could see the effort it was taking for you to pretend to be calm, how your eyes stared straight ahead as if you could somehow ignore him. He noticed the way you pressed your lips together, trying to stay completely silent because you knew—you knew—that a single word, a single sigh broken by his name, would completely ruin this whole innocent act you'd been playing all night.
But you had no idea. You didn't know that was exactly what he liked the most.
The act.
Caleb loved your pretty, stubborn control. He loved your careful face, the way you fought so hard to keep the boundaries up between you, thinking you were hiding it from him. You thought he was blind to it. You thought he didn't notice the way you looked at him when he turned away, or the way you flushed whenever he touched you.
He noticed everything. He had been noticing for years, cataloging every micro expression, every nervous breath, waiting with disciplined patience for the day you would finally break.
"Still thirsty?" Caleb spoke so close to your ear that the warmth of his breath sent a violent shiver straight down your spine. He didn't reach out to touch you yet, but the gravity of his weight behind you felt like a physical hold. "Or are you just hiding from me?"
You had a chance to step away. The kitchen was wide enough. The hallway was right there. You could have turned around, made a joke, laughed it off like you always did to keep the peace.
But you didn't move an inch.
And that was your first confession. Not with words, but with silence.
This was the part that made you dangerous. You liked being read by him. You liked the thrill of him stripping away all your defenses without you having to say a single word. You liked the way his attention felt like a physical hand on you—heavy, warm, and demanding—long before he even actually touched you. And Caleb? He liked watching you try to hold onto the last frayed threads of your innocence while your body practically begged him to tear them down.
His control was the dirtiest part of all.
It wasn't the hunger. Any man could hunger for you, any man could look at you in that expensive silk dress and want to rip it off your body. But Caleb’s control was entirely different. It was a weapon. Because here he was—a man standing too close, a man fully capable of ruining you right here against the kitchen counter—and he chose patience.
He was a man who knew exactly how to make you tremble, who knew he had won the moment you refused to step away, but decided to make you wait for it first.
He let out a slow, quiet breath that hit your neck like gasoline on a fire.
The heavy glide of his palm against your waist was almost a relief, but it brought no release. He wasn't trapping you. He wasn't pinning you against the cold marble of the counter. His hand was just holding the moment still. Holding it exactly where it was, long enough for you to fully understand what you were choosing.
Because Caleb didn't want fear. He didn't want confusion, or the blurry edge of an impulse you'd regret tomorrow. He didn't want a single thing your body didn't willingly surrender to him. He wanted the absolute truth.
"Say yes."
The command is barely a whisper against your ear, but it carries the weight of an ultimatum. He wants to hear it from your mouth. Honest, and stripped of all the careful facades you’d both been hiding behind for years.
You swallow, your throat dry, your chest heaving against the suffocating weight of his presence. You turn your head just enough, eyes meeting his.
"Yes," you breathe.
The word had barely left your lips—soft and entirely undone—when the entire room changed. The air got hotter. Hesitation gone. The safe, comfortable boundaries turned to ashes. Now, neither one of you had to pretend you didn't want the fire.
Slowly he lets his mouth hover just a fraction of an inch away from the sensitive skin of your neck. There is no kiss yet. No pressure of his lips, no sharp nip of his teeth. Just the heat of his breath ghosting over your collarbone.
It's an agonizing little space—the gap between what you were begging for and what he hadn't given you yet. He is letting your own filthy imagination do the work. He is letting your body ache for the contact, letting your mind picture exactly how his mouth would feel against your skin, forcing you to crave.
When his lips finally touch your skin, it's right against your pulse, making your eyes flutter closed without your permission. It was the kind of kiss that made your entire body said 'Finally' when your mouth was still far too terrified to utter the word.
Caleb feels the sharp, ragged breath you lose against his cheek, the stiff posture of your back instantly softening against his chest, and the way your fingers leave the marble counter to look for something—for him—to hold onto.
"There she is," he whispers against your skin.
This is the version of you he has been starving for. Not the careful woman who smiles politely in public and hides her filthiest cravings behind a quiet face. He wants the one underneath her. He wants the raw, undone version of you that burns just as hot as he does. The one who wants tenderness, but wants it with teeth.
He turns you around slowly until you are forced to face him completely. The front of your silk dress brushes against the crisp fabric of his shirt, making your nipples pebble. He slides his thumb under your jaw, lifting your chin until you can feel the ghost of his breath against your lips.
"Tell me what you want, pretty."
You kind of hate him for asking you that because silence is safer. But Caleb waits. He just watches you, his eyes fixed on your mouth, completely unbothered by the quiet. He can wait. He has been waiting for years, a few more seconds of you squirming under his gaze is nothing to him.
"I want more..." you whisper, the confession torn from your throat.
The way his lips finally meet yours feels like restraint died proud.
It isn't a frantic, clumsy collision. It's slow, deep and enough to make you lean forward, chasing his mouth when he pulls back just a fraction.
Caleb steps into your space, his body pushing yours back until the edge of the marble counter presses into your lower back, making you feel the hard reality of what you do to him. Until you finally understand. His control was never the absence of desire. It was a warning. It was the very last polite thing about him.
And now, it’s gone.
Once his control starts slipping, you feel it everywhere. It’s in the possessive grip of his hands gathering the fabric of your dress, it’s in the demanding rhythm of your shared breath. An intoxicating heat coils deep in your stomach and climbs up your neck, making you feel as if your entire body is blushing from the inside out. He devours your mouth, his tongue tangling with yours with an unchecked hunger that tells you there is no going back.
Every touch feels like a slow burning sin you are committing together, but it's too good to be wrong.
Because there was no zipper to quickly pull down, your dress had to be worshiped off your body, and the patience required only made his intent feel more dangerous. His hands slid over the expensive silk, tracing the exact lines of your hips, gathering the fabric up with a slow friction that made your skin flush everywhere his hands touched.
"Look at me"
You force your eyelids open, vision blurred by the weight of your arousal.
"You're shaking, baby," he murmurs, his hands sliding to your waist, the bunched fabric resting there as his thumbs move across your ribs "Is it too much?"
"No," you gasp, pulling him closer. You didn't want him to stop. You needed the friction, needed the weight of him to ground you because your mind was spinning entirely out of control. "Caleb, please..."
A deeply satisfied smile tugged at his lips at the sound of his name breaking on your tongue. "Please what? Tell me."
He was doing it again.
But you couldn't wait anymore. The slow agony of his control was driving you out of your mind. You hooked your arms around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss, your hips tilting forward against his, begging for the relief he was withholding.
In one swift motion, his hands grab the silk at your waist and guide it up and completely over your head. The expensive dress pools onto the floor, leaving you entirely bare under his gaze.
He lifts you effortlessly. Your feet leave the floor as he sets you onto the edge of the marble counter, parting your thighs with his hips.
His mouth comes back down on yours, a demanding possession that tastes like a lifetime of starved patience. He reaches down, shifting the fabric of his trousers out of the way, his breath turning heavy and ragged against your lips.
Then, his hands grip your hips, lifting you slightly to line his hard lenght against your entrance. Your fingers dig frantically into the fabric of his shirt as your whole world narrows down to the heat of him filling the space between you.
He takes you right there on the kitchen counter, his rhythm deep, heavy, and slow. The friction of his trousers against your bare thighs a dizzying reminder of how undone you are compared to him. You can hear the uneven sound of his breathing, the low, masculine groans he can't catch in his throat.
His fingers dig into your hips to tilt you up, forcing you to take every inch of him. A tight, sweet ache coils so deeply in your stomach that it makes your head tilt back, your throat baring to the ceiling as a breathless, fractured sob escapes your lips.
Caleb immediately buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the skin right over your racing pulse as he drives into you harder.
The rhythm he sets is relentless, leaving no room for your mind to catch up with what your body is feeling.
His hands move from your hips, sliding up your ribs to cup your soft breasts. His face is entirely tight, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jump under his skin.
"I want you looking at me when you break."
Your thighs clamp tightly around his waist, your toes curling in the empty air as you try to pull him even deeper, consumed by the need to reach the edge.
"Cay, baby, ple-ase..."
"I've got you, give it to me."
The coil inside you snaps, a blinding wave of heat crashing over you, making your entire body lock tight. A broken cry leaves your throat as the world spins completely out of focus, leaving you floating in nothing but pure pleasure.
Feeling the pulsing tremors of your release wrapping around him, Caleb loses the very last of his restraint.
His hands lock onto your hips with a bruising grip, lifting you up and driving himself into you one last time as his own body shudders violently against yours.
He doesn't pull away. He stays right there, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his fingers slowly uncurling from your hips, leaving dark, flushed imprints on your skin, before sliding up to gently tangle in your hair. He presses one slow, trembling kiss to the damp skin of your collarbone, a gesture that feels entirely tender—but the unyielding weight of his body still holding you to the counter makes it beautifully clear that everything has changed and you'll never be able to pretend you were just friends ever again.
The penthouse glowed with the soft amber light of the setting sun streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Y/N shifted on the oversized leather couch, her legs tucked beneath her as she watched Rafayel dramatically flop into the adjacent armchair, his purple wavy hair falling across his forehead in an artful mess. Across from them, Sylus leaned against the bar counter, swirling whiskey in a crystal glass, his silver hair catching the dying light.
"You're brooding again," Rafayel accused, pointing a slender finger at Sylus. "It's ruining the vibe."
Sylus's red eyes flicked to the younger man. "I don't brood. I think. Something you should try."
"Excuse me? I think plenty. I think about art, about colors, about how you never replace the good whiskey—"
"I replaced it last week."
"Then why does it taste like motor oil?"
"Maybe your palate is broken."
Y/N smiled to herself, used to their constant bickering. She'd been working with Rafayel as his bodyguard for months now, and through him, she'd gotten to know Sylus—though exactly what their relationship was remained unclear. They circled each other like two predators who'd decided to share territory, alternating between sharp words and something that looked almost like affection.
"I'm just saying," Rafayel continued, throwing his hands up, "you could show a little more personality. Instead of standing there like some... some statue. A very expensive, very brooding statue."
"You're one to talk about personality." Sylus took a slow sip. "Your entire existence is performance art."
Y/N's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen—a message from Thomas about tomorrow's gallery showing. When she looked up, she caught Sylus watching her with an intensity that made her stomach flip. His gaze moved slowly, deliberately, from her face down to where her blouse pulled slightly across her chest before snapping back to meet her eyes. She must have imagined it.
"Everything alright, sweetie?" Sylus asked, his voice low with that rough velvet quality that always made her feel warm.
"Just Thomas. He wants me to confirm the security details for tomorrow."
Rafayel groaned. "Thomas is a parasite. A well-organized parasite, but still."
"He's your manager."
"Exactly. Parasite."
The conversation drifted. Y/N found her attention wandering as the two men fell into a discussion about supply chains and protocores—something about a shipment to the N109 zone. She studied them without meaning to, noticing how Sylus's large frame seemed to fill the space, how his muscular arms crossed over his chest made his black shirt stretch tight. And Rafayel, leaner but no less striking, gestured with those artist's hands, his pink-purple eyes bright with intelligence.
Two very different kinds of beautiful. The thought surfaced unbidden, and she pushed it down.
"I need a drink," she announced, standing. "Can I get anyone anything?"
"Sprites," Rafayel said immediately. "The blue ones. Not the green ones. Thomas bought the green ones last time and they taste like lies."
Sylus raised his glass. "I'm fine."
Y/N walked to the kitchen area, grateful for the excuse to move. Being around both of them at once always left her feeling off-balance, like standing between two magnetic fields. She opened the refrigerator, bending slightly to reach the lower shelf where Rafayel kept his obsessive collection of sodas.
The soft footsteps behind her didn't surprise her. What surprised her was how close they stopped—close enough that she could feel body heat against her back.
"Let me help," Sylus's voice came from directly above her head, his chest nearly brushing her shoulders. His arm reached past her, his hand closing around a blue can on a higher shelf. When he withdrew, his body pressed against her for just a moment—hard muscle and warm skin through thin fabric.
She spun around. He stood there, the can in his hand, his face impassive except for the slight curve at the corner of his mouth.
"You seemed to be struggling," he said.
"I wasn't."
"Mm." He held out the can. Their fingers brushed during the exchange. "My mistake."
He walked back to the living area without looking back, and Y/N stood there with her face burning and her pulse doing something complicated.
"Come sit, cutie," Rafayel called from the couch. He'd moved from his armchair to the center cushion of the sofa, leaving space on either side. "You're too far away."
She grabbed a water for herself and returned, choosing the spot beside him. He immediately leaned into her, his shoulder pressing against hers, his head tilting until his wavy hair tickled her jaw.
"Rafayel—"
"You're warm." His voice came out soft, almost a whine. "I'm cold. This apartment is freezing. Sylus keeps it like a meat locker."
"It's seventy degrees," Sylus said, settling back into his armchair across from them.
Y/N laughed despite herself, relaxing as Rafayel's weight settled more firmly against her side. This wasn't unusual—he'd always been touchy, always pressing close, always finding excuses for physical contact. She'd chalked it up to his dramatic personality.
But something felt different tonight.
Maybe it was the way his hand rested on her knee, his thumb tracing lazy circles against her jeans. Maybe it was how his fingers tightened briefly when she shifted. Maybe it was the way Sylus watched them from across the room, his gaze dark and unreadable.
"So," Rafayel said, his tone shifting, "we should talk about something."
"Should we?" Sylus's voice held a warning note.
"Yes. We definitely should. Right now. This very second."
"Rafayel."
"I'm just saying—"
"You're saying nothing."
"I'm saying something—"
"That's the problem."
Y/N looked between them, sensing some kind of subtext she couldn't decode. "Is everything okay?"
Rafayel sat up straight, his hand falling away from her knee. The loss of warmth felt like a wound. "Perfect. Everything's perfect. Sylus just doesn't want to have an important conversation that we definitely need to have."
"What conversation?"
Sylus stood abruptly, setting his glass on the bar with a sharp click. "I'm going to smoke."
"You don't smoke."
"I'm starting."
He walked out onto the balcony, the glass door sliding shut behind him. Through the window, Y/N could see him standing at the railing, his broad back to them, shoulders tense.
"What was that about?" she asked.
Rafayel sighed, a dramatic, theatrical sound that somehow still seemed genuine. "He's being difficult. More difficult than usual, which is saying something."
"About what?"
"About you."
The words landed like stones. "What about me?"
Rafayel turned to face her fully, his blue-pink eyes intense and serious. His fair skin flushed pink across his cheekbones, a rare sight.
"Y/N. You know we care about you, right?"
"Of course. You're my friends."
"Friends." He repeated the word like it tasted sour. "Yes. Friends. That's exactly what we are. Just... unusually devoted friends. Very devoted. Suspiciously devoted, according to certain people who shall remain nameless but whose name rhymes with... well, with his actual name, because Sylus is unique."
"Rafayel, you're not making sense."
"I know." He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it more disheveled than before. "I know I'm not. Words are hard. Painting is easier. I should paint what I mean. But that would be weird, right? To just hand someone a painting that says 'hey, we've been in love with you for months, please date both of us simultaneously.'"
Y/N's brain stuttered to a halt. "What?"
"See? Words. Very difficult. I should have led with something else. Maybe flowers. Or a musical number." He laughed, high and nervous. "Or maybe I shouldn't have said anything at all, and we could have continued being 'devoted friends' until we died of romantic frustration."
"Rafayel—"
"We like you," he blurted. "Both of us. Together. In the same way. At the same time." He winced. "That came out wrong. Or maybe right. I genuinely can't tell anymore."
The balcony door slid open. Sylus stepped back inside, his expression carefully neutral.
"You told her."
"She deserves to know." Rafayel's voice lacked its usual drama. "I'm tired of pretending."
Sylus walked to the couch, stopping in front of Y/N. He stood so tall from this angle, his frame massive, his presence overwhelming. But there was something careful in his posture—something uncertain.
"I didn't want to pressure you," he said quietly. "I thought... if you didn't feel the same, we could pretend this never happened."
"And if I do?"
The question hung in the air. Both men stared at her—Rafayel with desperate hope, Sylus with restrained intensity.
"Then we figure it out," Sylus said. "If you want to."
"Both of you?"
"Yes."
"At the same time?"
Rafayel made a sound like a deflating balloon. "That's the idea, cutie. A package deal. Two artists for the price of one. I should warn you, though—I'm the more high-maintenance half."
"Debatable," Sylus murmured.
"Excuse me? Who spent three hours yesterday organizing his wrench collection by size and function?"
"Organization is a virtue."
"Organization is obsessive."
Y/N started laughing. The tension broke like a wave, leaving something softer in its wake. They were still them—still bickering, still dramatic, still too much.
And somehow that made everything easier.
"I want this," she said, the words coming out steadier than expected. "I've wanted this. I thought I was going crazy."
Rafayel's face split into a brilliant smile. "Really?"
"Really."
He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her in a crushing embrace. She laughed again, burying her face against his neck. He smelled like ocean salt and expensive paint.
But it was Sylus's touch that made her breath catch—his large hand settling on the back of her neck, warm and grounding.
"Look at me," he said softly.
She lifted her head. Rafayel pulled back just enough to watch, his hands still resting on her waist.
Sylus bent down. His mouth met hers with careful pressure—testing, asking. She opened for him immediately, and he made a low sound in his throat, his hand sliding up to cup her jaw. The kiss deepened, his tongue sweeping past her lips, confident and claiming.
When he pulled back, her head spun.
"My turn," Rafayel said, tugging her attention back to him. His kiss was different—playful and teasing, his teeth catching her bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. He kissed like he painted, all passion and fire, leaving her wanting more.
They traded her back and forth, soft kisses that grew deeper, hands that grew bolder. Rafayel's fingers found the hem of her blouse, slipping beneath to trace the bare skin of her waist. Sylus moved behind her, his chest against her back, his mouth trailing down the curve of her neck.
"Bedroom," Sylus said against her skin. "Now."
They moved together through the penthouse, a tangle of limbs and urgent touches. By the time they reached Sylus's bedroom, Y/N's blouse lay somewhere on the hallway floor, and her bra hung loose around her shoulders.
The bed was massive, draped in dark sheets. Sylus guided her onto it, settling between her spread thighs while Rafayel stretched out beside her.
"Look at you," Rafayel breathed, his eyes fixed on her chest. His hand reached out, cupping one breast in his palm, testing its weight. "I've thought about this. About how you'd feel."
He squeezed gently, his thumb dragging across her nipple. The bud hardened, and Y/N arched into his touch.
"So sensitive," he murmured, leaning in to press an open-mouthed kiss to the swell of her breast. His tongue traced the edge of her areola before finally—finally—wrapping his lips around her nipple.
She gasped. Rafayel sucked harder, his cheeks hollowing, while his free hand found her other breast and pinched.
Meanwhile, Sylus had worked her jeans open, tugging them down her thighs along with her underwear. The cool air hit her exposed pussy, and she clenched in anticipation.
"Gorgeous," Sylus said, his red eyes dark with want. He spread her folds with two fingers, examining her like she was something precious. "You're already so wet for us."
His thumb found her clit, pressing in slow circles. Y/N moaned, her hips lifting into his touch.
"She sounds pretty," Rafayel said against her breast, switching sides to give her other nipple equal attention. "Let's hear more."
Sylus lowered his head. The first stroke of his tongue along her slit made her cry out. He licked broad stripes, gathering her slick on his tongue, before focusing on her entrance.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Sylus—"
He pushed his tongue inside her, fucking her with it in slow, deliberate thrusts. Each movement sent sparks up her spine. His nose pressed against her clit, providing constant stimulation while his tongue worked her open.
Rafayel's teeth grazed her nipple at the same moment Sylus thrust particularly deep. Pleasure crashed over her in waves, building higher with each passing second.
"More," she begged. "Please—"
Sylus pulled back just enough to speak. "Patience, sweetie. We're going to take our time."
He returned to her pussy with renewed focus, this time adding a finger alongside his tongue. The stretch made her gasp, her walls clenching around the intrusion.
Rafayel released her nipple with a wet pop, sitting back to watch Sylus work. "You look so pretty like this," he told Y/N, his voice thick. "All spread out and desperate."
"Rafayel—" she started, but whatever she meant to say dissolved into a moan as Sylus curled his finger inside her.
"Right here?" Sylus asked, pressing against a spot that made her vision blur. "Found it."
He rubbed that spot in firm circles while his tongue flicked rapidly over her clit. The dual sensation pushed her closer and closer to the edge.
"I'm going to—"
"Come for us," Rafayel commanded, pinching her nipple hard. "Now."
Her orgasm crashed through her. She convulsed, her pussy clenching around Sylus's finger while she cried out. He worked her through it, drawing out every last aftershock with gentle licks.
When she finally stilled, both men were staring at her with barely contained hunger.
"Beautiful," Sylus said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Rafayel was already tugging off his shirt, his slender chest exposed. "My turn. I need—I've been waiting—"
He fumbled with his pants, finally freeing his cock. It jutted from his body, hard and flushed, beads of precum gathering at the tip.
Y/N's eyes widened. He was bigger than she'd imagined—thick and long, with a slight curve that promised to hit interesting places.
"Like what you see, cutie?" Rafayel asked with a smirk, but his voice wavered.
"Very much."
She reached for him, but Sylus caught her wrist. "Let us. We want to make you feel good."
She watched as Sylus undressed, his muscular body revealed inch by inch. When he finally freed his cock, her mouth went dry. He was even larger than Rafayel—thick and veined, his size intimidating.
"We'll go slow," Sylus promised, noticing her expression. "We'll make it fit."
Rafayel positioned himself between her thighs, his cock nudging against her entrance. "Tell me if it's too much."
He pushed inside slowly, giving her time to adjust. The stretch burned in the best way—his thickness filling her completely.
"Oh god," she gasped.
He bottomed out and held still, his hips flush against hers. "Okay?"
"More than okay."
He started moving, his rhythm slow and deep. Each thrust dragged against her walls, stimulating every nerve ending.
Sylus knelt beside her head, his cock jutting toward her mouth. "Open."
She did, letting him push inside. The weight of him on her tongue was intoxicating—his musk filling her senses as she hollowed her cheeks.
"Fuck," Sylus groaned. "Your mouth..."
Rafayel picked up speed, his thrusts growing harder. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, punctuated by moans and gasps.
"You feel incredible," Rafayel panted. "So fucking tight—like you were made for me."
Sylus's hand tangled in her hair, guiding her movements. "Just like that, sweetie. You're doing so well."
Their praise washed over her, making her head spin. She felt worshipped—adored—two sets of hands and mouths claiming every part of her.
"I'm close," Rafayel warned, his rhythm becoming erratic.
"Me too," Sylus ground out.
"Inside," Y/N gasped around Sylus's cock. "Both of you—inside—"
That was all the encouragement they needed. Rafayel thrust deep one final time, spilling inside her with a broken moan. Sylus followed moments later, his cum flooding her mouth in hot spurts.
They collapsed together on the bed, a tangle of sweaty limbs and racing hearts. Y/N lay between them, feeling thoroughly wrecked.
But apparently, they weren't done.
"My turn to taste her," Rafayel announced, already sliding down her body.
"Again?" she managed.
"Again and again," he promised, pressing a kiss to her still-sensitive clit. "Until you can't take anymore."
What followed was hours of pleasure—Rafayel's talented tongue and Sylus's thick cock, sometimes together, sometimes taking turns. They pushed her to orgasm after orgasm until she lost count, until her body felt like liquid and her mind had gone blissfully blank.
By the time they finally let her rest, the sun had long since set. She lay boneless between them, covered in sweat and other fluids, hickeys scattered across her neck and chest.
"Look at you," Sylus said, a rare genuine smile softening his features. "Completely ruined."
Rafayel laughed, pressing a gentle kiss to her shoulder. "You look perfect. Tired and perfect and ours."
"Ours," Y/N repeated, the word settling warm in her chest.
Both men pulled her closer, their bodies cocooning her in warmth and safety. For the first time in a long time, she felt completely, utterly content.
"Stay," Sylus murmured against her hair. "Stay with us."
"I'm not going anywhere," she replied.
Rafayel's arms tightened around her, and Sylus's hand found hers, their fingers intertwining.
Outside the windows, Linkon City glittered in the darkness, full of danger and uncertainty. But here, in this bed, with these two impossible men—Y/N had never felt safer.
She closed her eyes, their heartbeats steady against her, and let herself drift.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges—missions and Wanderers and the shadowy machinations of EVER. But tonight was theirs.
And tomorrow night, if she had anything to say about it, would be theirs too.
Summary: You're a dancer in the N109 Zone, he's Akso's Chief Cardiac Surgeon - and he's determined to rescue you, even if you never wanted saving in the first place.
Tags: ZaynexNonMC!Reader, Yandere!Zayne,
Note: This is my first time writing for a nonmc fic. This is my first time writing a Yandere fic! This was supposed to be a oneshot - buuuuut....it's looking like it's at least 2 parts. I hope you all enjoy!
TW: Stalking, Kidnapping, the usual Yandere stuff....
You knew she wasn't from the N109 Zone the first time you laid eyes on her. She was too bright, too shiny. The fog of the N109 Zone stuck to everything and everyone who stayed too long. And this girl? She practically fucking glowed compared to the average denizen of the zone. You didn't say anything of course. Keeping your head down was part of how you'd stayed alive this long.
You weren't sure if you'd ever been that bright. Maybe somewhere in the past, many years ago. Long before the gloam of this place had time to stain your skin.
You'd seen her in the club a few times now. She always appeared on the arm of the leader of Onychinus. As if she didn't attract enough attention as it was. He didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to relish it. The way his red eyes flashed as he appraised the room, noting just how many people admired her. At the same time, that gaze was clearly a warning, a claim. Mine.
Maybe that was why you'd noticed the minute she crossed the threshold that evening. He wasn't there. Instead she had an equally shiny man at her side. Although, at least he made some attempt to blend in. His clothing was dark, his gaze downcast. Nonetheless, something about his posture, his bearing in the room, was off. He didn't move with shame or fear. Instead, he walked with calm authority. Slipping through the crowd with a confidence that didn't belong.
You couldn't look away.
He slid his coat off, and loosened his tie. One arm guiding the laughing shiny girl to a table. Protective, authoritative, almost fatherly. You had to fight not to stare any longer.
The girl, she laughed, she smiled, she was more animated than you'd ever seen her. She was, nervous? Yes, anxiety radiated off of her. You became more certain the longer you watched.
You'd watched many a soap opera play out from your stage. Spinning around in your sequins and nothing more, you had the perfect vantage point. They were either watching you, or engrossed in their own drama. No one noticed that while you put on a show, they were putting on a show for you.
The music continued to pulse softly around you. Muscle memory keeping your hips rotating in time to the beat. You couldn't help but notice that this new character wasn't watching the stage. He only looked at her. If his gaze slipped your way, he was looking determinedly past you, before returning his attention to the table or the girl.
You felt the heat of envy somewhere in the pit of your stomach. The way he gazed at her. His eyes were hazel-green, even at this distance. You couldn't help but imagine what it felt like to have them look at you.
Eventually her usual companion, the silver haired man, had appeared. The three of them had settled with drinks. He didn't partake from his. You had watched their introductions from the wings of the stage in-between dances. Her nerves had slowly dissipated, but the two men had stared at one another with something that you couldn't name.
Your attention was stolen by a commotion by the bar. The tall silver haired Onychinus boss had appeared. He'd pinned a shadowy figure to the wall. No one else in the club reacted. Just another Friday night in the N109 Zone.
It was your turn again. You stepped back onstage. You kept dancing.
If someone had asked you what happened next, you weren't sure you could give them an accurate answer.
Someone had thrown something. The sound of breaking glass a music all its own. Then red smoke had bloomed thick and angry across the room. Voices had raised, the sound of anger and fear a familiar soundtrack.
Until the air seemed to shiver. A wanderer coalescing near the front of the room. A sickening shift in the air and light filling the now blurry room. Someone screamed.
And then you'd felt it. A searing pain that tore from your shoulder and across your chest, accompanied by a strange warmth. A red more vibrant than you'd imagined it would be that poured over your breast. Stumbling backwards, you'd lost your balance. Your feet sliding out from under you, the floor rising to meet you with alarming speed.
Until your head cracked against the floor. Some distant part of you was surprised by how loud it was. The crack of your skull against the dance floor.
And then he was there. His eyes as beautiful as you had imagined as the world began to swim.
"Stay with me." His voice was calm, a contrast against the panic of the room.
"Didn't plan on going anywhere." You hear your own voice, although it feels out of sync with your lips. He smiles wryly in response to your sardonic response, one hand cradling your head, the other gingerly lowering the sparkling strap on your shoulder, now stained with blood.
"I'm a doctor -" You snort, and cut him off.
"If I had a dollar for every time I'd heard that one." You feel your hand meet his, and surprised to feel just how sticky and wet your own blood is. You hear gunfire, but he doesn't flinch.
He gently moves your hand, concern flickering across his face. Despite the pain, the chaos, you can't help but find yourself fixated on the man above you.
The pain is what pulls you back to reality.
You fight it while you can, knowing that it's preferable to stay in the haze of darkness. But there is only so much you can do as the tether of your consciousness inevitably pulls you back to earth.
You're in a room, far too white. Far too bright. You squint and try to sit up, only to be rewarded by the pain magnifying itself by several magnitudes. A whimper escapes your lips. A bandage is wound around your right shoulder and across your chest. Someone has dressed you in soft linen hospital pants and a loose scrub top.
"You're awake." The voice is familiar, and it makes your heart leap.
It's him.
He's as clean and white as the room. Wearing a pressed shirt tailored to his well postured frame, and a doctor's coat that hangs squarely from his shoulders as if it were made only for him. His dark hair and features punctuate his pale face, contrasting starkly in a way that takes your breath away.
But it's his eyes that you can't look away from. Hazel green with a burning intensity that freezes you on the spot for just a moment.
"You weren't lying, Doctor." You manage with a breathless laugh.
He doesn't laugh, but you see a hint of a smile at his lips. He crosses the room in two purposeful strides, his eyes fixed on the monitor above your bed.
"Doctor Zayne." He replies. "You should lay back down." His tone is matter of fact, it brooks no argument. You gingerly acquiesce. "You're in Akso hospital, you -"
"What?" You shoot back up without thinking, and the pain screams back into your body.
"-you were injured by a wanderer attack." He continues as if you haven't interrupted him. "And sustained a laceration to your right clavicle and arm requiring surgical repair, and a minor concussion with loss of consciousness."
You fall back against the pillows, cursing every star you know to name. "I have to go back."
He pauses, his routine interrupted. "Back where? I can assure you the club sustained enough damage that it won't be open for-"
You groan, placing your hands over your face. "No, no, no. Back to the N109 Zone. I can't be here."
"I can assure you, that the hospital is exactly where you belong." He replies curtly, a tone of annoyance edging at his voice.
You sigh and grit your teeth, and then remove your head from your hands.
"Thank you, so much. Truly, I can't thank you enough." You begin, while carefully sitting the rest of the way up and swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. "But I don't belong here." You carefully begn to remove the wires attached to your chest.
"The hospital is exactly where you belong." He's standing in front of you now. A wall of man blocking your path as you shakily stand. You shake your head in wordless disagreement, ignoring how the room swims when you do.
You step past him and he doesn't say another word as you leave, but you feel his eyes on you with every step you take.
Crossing the thresh hold you quicken your pace, and you nearly slam straight into her. She's beautiful up close. Her elfin features and lithe figure seem almost otherworldly, you think.
"It's you!" She exclaims, as if you're old friends. "From the club! I'm so glad you're ok! Dr. Zayne said..." her words fade into a buzz of chatter as you see her gaze slip past you and over your shoulder. You glance behind you and see him standing in the doorway to the room you just exited. He's looking at her like the rest of the world doesn't exist. He's looking at her in a way that makes your chest ache in a way that isn't related to your injury, but much, much, worse.
You almost feel like you're intruding on something. You duck your head and step to the side. "I really have to go..."
You leave without looking back.
------------------------------------------------
A week later your stitches have mostly dissolved, and the clanging headache you've been fighting has begun to fade. The club re-opens tonight. The N109 Zone is no stranger to rebuilding, and they have it down to a science rather than an art. You've carefully chosen a high necked top to hide the healing gash, and you've prepared yourself to step on stage once more.
No one speaks of the attack. It's not worth mentioning in a place like this. Instead the music plays and you follow its lead, the familiar cadence of lights and bass a welcome relief.
You're lost somewhere in the song when you see him. He's seated at a table by himself and his white dress shirt nearly glows in the darkened room. His sleeves are rolled up past the elbow, his tie loose but still around his neck, and he rests his chin on top of folded, thoughtful hands, but his eyes are fixed only on you.
For a split second, you freeze, before finding the beat again. You can't tell from this distance, but you'd swear that he notices and almost smiles.
The night passes from there in a way that you can only describe as agonizingly slow.
He remains seated the entire night, watching you dance. Slowly, the club empties. As the morning draws closer the last few stragglers finish their dels and drinks and slink towards the exits. And as you wind down and the music fades, he stands, and approaches the stage.
You step to the edge of the worn wooden platform and lower yourself carefully down, sitting with your legs dangling over the edge.
"You came back." You state it as a fact, but the surprise is evident in your voice.
"I came back." He answers with a succinct nod. "You didn't come to your follow up."
You laugh, and it's short and shocked. "I didn't know I had one."
"You're lucky." He replies, crossing his arms across his chest. "I don't know many doctors who make house calls."
You slide off the stage so that you are standing before him, although even in your heels you have to look up at him.
"Lucky?" You raise one eyebrow in faux disbelief. Carefully removing one arm from your top, you reveal the healing wound beneath. You see his gaze drop to your revealed breast, and a light pink flushes his ears.
"Usually I charge for this." You grin, and watch the flush creep further up his neck. "And we're sure you're a doctor?" You tease, although you aren't feeling half as bold as you're acting.
He makes a disapproving noise in response as his graceful fingers begin to gently explore the forming scar. You have to think about your breathing in order not to hold your breath.
"Are you experiencing any pain?" His brow has furrowed ever so slightly, and he's pressing gently at the base of the scar. You shake your head and resist the temptation to reach out and touch him in turn.
"It itches a bit, but it doesn't hurt." You're entranced by the way his eyes look through his long dark lashes, and your voice comes out softer and breathier than you mean for it.
Slowly he pulls away and looks up. The electricity still crackling silently in the air between you. "And your head?"
You grin, "Oh, don't worry. I'm just as dumb as I was before." He doesn't look impressed, but instead sighs softly.
"That's not what I meant."
You slide your arm back into your top and pull it back down. "So, what do I owe you for this house call, doctor?"
He waves your question off with a dismissive hand. "I'm simply caring for my patient."
"It's a dangerous thing to owe people favors in the N109 Zone." You purse your lips. "I know you aren't from around here, but -"
"But-" he interrupts you, "-You don't want to be in my debt?"
You nod, wordlessly. The club is empty now, and the dim lights illuminate dingy velvet and well worn carpets that have long ago lost their luster in the light of day.
"Then don't be." He says, matter of factly. "Just...don't waste my work." His eyes have gone cold and distant, as if he's turned a switch off somewhere inside, and he turns to leave. You feel your stomach sink unexpectedly, and you fight a sudden instinct to find an excuse for him to stay.
Before you can find words, he's gone. You shake your head, as if you can free yourself from the recurring image of him gently, tenderly, reaching for you. And you remind yourself exactly where you are.
He belongs with someone like the shiny girl from before. Someone who still radiates light.
------------------------------------------------
The wound faded to a pink and pale scar, neat but raised. And the nights faded into one another again, neon lights the comforting companions to the N109 Zone's familiar darkness.
You still saw her sometimes, laughing, an oddity in the N109 zone. Always accompanied by her red eyed and powerful companion. They'd clearly grown closer, if even possible. They moved in sync, and his arm was usually wrapped tightly around her waist or shoulders.
Every time you saw them, your heart fluttered. Not because of his unsettling stare, not because of her strange light, but because there was always a chance, perhaps even a hope, that Zayne might be there too. Even his name felt dangerous - like thinking it, let alone saying it out loud, was too great a risk to take.
So you simply, didn't.
You kept to yourself the growing fear that sat deep in your chest. The feeling that something just wasn't quite right. You'd been through a traumatic event, you told yourself. Of course you wouldn't feel great. But glances over your shoulder on the way home told a different story, unease becoming a constant companion.
And there was the fact that work wasn't the same either. Your usual customers, your 'regulars' as it were, were either missing, or not themselves. It wasn't unusual in the N109 zone for people to disappear, or even to reappear after disappearing for weeks. But this was different. Three of them just never returned to the club after the night Zayne came to check on you. And the others no longer requested dances in private rooms. If you approached them on the floor, they would shy away, and if you didn't know better - you would swear you saw them looking over their shoulders in fear. Some of them you were glad to see go, lecherous and handsy types that they were. But you couldn't pretend it wasn't affecting you. You had certainly begun to feel it when you counted your payout at the end of the night.
However, in the place of their eyes, you felt new ones watching you. You tried to explain them away. Telling yourself the years of hypervigilance were coming to claim their toll. That it was simply the decades of looking over your back morphing into something greater.
And yet - there was a nagging feeling of being watched that you couldn't quite shake.
------------------------------------------------
By the time your arm had fully healed the air had turned cold. The last strains of Autumn's chorus still echoed in the N109 Zone, but the biting wind of early winter was determined to drown them out. You pulled your coat closer around you as you stepped out the back door of the club, letting the cool air of the night hit your face as you tipped your head back. A sigh escaped your lips, and you watched your breath appear in the air, dissipating upwards like smoke.
The walk home wasn't short, but it was at least a familiar path. Although since this new feeling of being watched had appeared, it had felt longer the colder the nights grew. You set out, heels from the club dangling loosely in one hand. You mused to yourself that perhaps in the N109 Zone one was always being watched, and that maybe, you had simply become aware of the eyes you couldn't see.
A street lamp flickered and you jumped. You chided yourself for your foolishness - and for showing weakness, and doubled your pace. The air grew colder, and you wondered if the howl of the wind was growing louder, or if it was your imagination. Rounding the final corner before your block, you almost walked straight into a darkly clad figure as they emerged from an alley.
"Sorry I -" The words froze on your lips as you looked up into a familiar face. "Dr. Zayne?" Your surprise registers in your voice coming out almost a squeak. In the flickering light of the now distant street lamps he looks different. The shadows on his face deeper, his eyes darker.
"I'm sorry." His voice is darker too, softer in a strange way, but tinged with something unfamiliar. "I didn't want to have to do this, but I can't keep you safe here any longer."
You blink in confusion, unsure of what he's saying, or what he means.
And then you're in his arms, and there's a sharp prick at your neck, and the world spins around you. His scent is sharp and clean, and even in the chill of the evening his hands are cold on your skin, but his face, his face is soft, his eyes are gentle, and you wonder why he looks so sad, as the world fades away.
SYNOPSIS! when a split mission leaves you waiting in an empty penthouse past midnight, the silence begins to taste like jealousy
PAIRINGS: sylus x non!mc reader
WARNINGS! MINORS DNI!
Part 2 of BOUND, but can be read as a stand alone, jealousy, rough kissing, kissing involving blood, not proofread, porn with plot, unprotected piv, thigh riding, fingering, wap and I mean it, oral!m recieving where she spits out his cum back on his dick and licks it, a lot of spit honestly, overstimulation, they switch, edging, teasing, biting, I imagine reader as a femme fatale with abandonment issues, it's messy, fluids, lots of em, big dick sylus, mean sylus, multiple orgasms, he licks your panties spits on them and stuffs them in your mouth, bondage, manhandling, reader is mentioned to have long hair, kinda hate sex??? she pretends she doesn't want it, mentions of mc, he puts his regeneration at use, I love to dramatize and i'm also a zayne girl who doesn't know all sylus' lore, there is probably more I forgot to mention so please lmk!
W.C: 7.7k
a/n: Hellooo! Well, it sure has been a while since I first posted Bound. I completely ran out of inspiration for the second part, and this isn't even close to what I originally had in mind, but I think it works! That being said, I am still thinking of turning this into a multi-part series if there’s a demand for it (which is honestly my sole motivation for writing, lmao). The only reason I'm considering it is because I have a lot of just pure filth left over for these two... Anyway, N821 here is heavily inspired by Prague especially in the winter season, reader is his right "hand", and I really wanted to incorporate a version of Sylus who isn't softened by MC. Also, the dialogue about the mission was completely written by my dear friend (hi Anika) because I have no idea how mafia missions work...!
It was late. Beyond late, the kind of hour where the dark ceases to be a shield and begins to feel like a countdown
Two hours had bled away since midnight, the precise deadline Sylus had given you to return with the shipment routes. Two hours since his last text had flashed across your screen: "I'm on my way." A terse response to your notification that you had successfully wrung the coordinates from the broker. The deal had come with a condition, of course, but a win was a win.
Now, you stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of the most expensive penthouse in N821. Your skin was still radiating the residual heat of a hot shower, the heavy ivory silk of your robe trailing against your ankles as you knotted the belt around your waist.
N821 was a different kind of monster than N109
Where N109 was a chaotic, bleeding theater of crime, N821 was the same beast refined sleeker, heavily organized, masked in exorbitant wealth, and brutally cold
You closed your eyes, exhaling a slow, sharp breath through your nose. The frustration didn't leave you, it merely settled deeper into your chest. He was with her. That little hunter. The one he taunted. The one you had once discovered practically in his lap
Granted, during that particular encounter, she had a loaded barrel pressed flush against his sternum. And God, how Sylus had thrived on the bite of it. He didn't just tolerate her defiance; he fed on it.
Irrelevant, you reminded yourself, your jaw tightening. Your arrangement with the leader of Onychinus was built on concrete and blood, not sentiment
If there was closeness between you, it was found exclusively in the dark sharp, high friction intimacy utilized purely as stress relief. When two apex predators unite, you do not expect a love story. You expect an alliance
He desired you; that much was undeniable. You were a crown jewel in the underworld silently deadly, poised. A trophy for a man who claimed to own the world
Not an ornament for him though. Never that. Sylus had little interest in fragile things
Yet, your eyes rarely deceived you. Every time he looked at the hunter, there was a faint, intolerable fondness in his gaze. It was childish to even note it, but the great, wanted criminal's eyes actually softened whenever he called her kitten
You despised the word. If he ever dared utter that nickname to you, you would ensure his next glass of wine was laced with cyanide.
Why did she get a title born of affection while you received a title born of strategy? With a quiet sigh, you stepped away from the glass to gather the paperwork scattered across the desk. Time was a luxury you didn't possess
The documents required your signature and a thorough review before they could be handed over to your dear husband by morning
Your dear, dear husband.
The man you swore you didn't crave. The man you swore you didn't miss. You swore it because it was the absolute truth. You were detached. It was the only state of being you had ever known
As the perfect daughter of a sprawling empire, love had never been factored into your record.
Neither had vulnerability
For someone who could afford everything the world had to offer, you couldn't afford a heart
You had never been in love. Intimacy itself was a foreign language until Sylus Qin. To this day, the irony of it brought a cold, humorless smile to your lips. Embarrassing, really, that a man so ruthless had been your introduction to the flesh.
Then again, he had set a incredibly high standard.
While other girls your age were experiencing the trivialities of teenage romance, you were busy learning how to strip a firearm in under ten seconds. You had spent your youth enduring grueling training sessions, followed by hours studying the art of high stakes negotiation under the suffocating, stern glare of your father
In your world, knowing how to distinguish which protocore dealer lied and which one merely inflated prices for survival was the key
But you knew how to hate. Sylus knew it, too, and he drew an infuriating amount of satisfaction from drawing that hatred to the surface
You sat in the plush, albeit uncomfortable, armchair, closing your eyes briefly to soothe the pulsing pressure building behind them. You forced yourself to reopen them, scanning the lines of text to highlight the clauses Sylus would inevitably want to contest.
Think of the devil
The heavy click of the penthouse door echoing through the foyer broke the silence. You didn't bother to lift your head. You were furious, and you had no intention of granting him the courtesy of an immediate greeting.
He called your name once. Then, as if tracking the scent of your irritation, his heavy footsteps moved towards the study where you were.
When he stepped into the light, he was a vision of controlled violence. His silver hair was damp, plastered slightly against his forehead from the storm outside. His clothes were dark with melted snow. His knuckles were split freshly cleaned, but faint traces of copper still stained the creases of his skin. A shallow, clean cut marred the high ridge of his cheekbone.
Yet, by the slow, deliberate grace of his stride, you could tell he was entirely unbothered. He looked utterly smug
You permitted yourself exactly one second to take in the sight of him. Then, with a fluid, dismissive motion, you tossed the files onto the marble coffee table. You swung your legs over the armrest of the chair, leaning back into the cushions with calculated laziness
Svlus stoned. He knew that nosture. He knew he was walking on razor thin ice
An amused brow arched upward, a familiar, infuriating smirk threatening to touch his lips before he smoothly schooled his expression. He slipped his damp coat from his shoulders, tossing it aside. Now, it was his turn to take you in
The silk robe had slipped, exposing the curve of one shoulder. Your long legs were draped carelessly over the velvet arm of the chair, and the ends of your hair were still dark with moisture. A vision. Perfect, dangerous, and entirely unimpressed.
"Read," you commanded
Your voice was a low, smooth blade. You didn't look at him as you spoke, your slender fingers wrapping instead around the stem of your champagne glass. You brought it to your lips, taking a slow sip
Sylus picked up the documents. His crimson eyes scanned between the lines, his expression entirely unmoved by the staggering demands written into the contract. It was the face of a man who found exactly what he expected.
You had done your job flawlessly. As always
"I assume it went well on your end as well" you murmured, boredom perfectly lacing your voice, though the underlying edge remained razor-cold. "Though if I were to critique, you are quite late. And we do have a time limit."
Sylus didn't look up from the pages immediately, flipping one over with a crisp, deliberate sound that echoed in the quiet room.
"Worry not, The twins handled it." he replied, his deep voice scraping pleasantly against the stillness
"it was supposed to be your job–"
"–The broker tried to alter the delivery terms at the eleventh hour," he murmured, tilting his head. The shallow cut on his cheek caught the amber light of the fire. "He brought a few extra bodies to enforce the new price. It took a moment to remind him of his place."
"Remind him of his place."
You set your champagne glass down on the marble table with a hollow, deliberate clink. Your eyes didn't track the movement; they remained locked on the neat, bloodless line across his cheekbone
"A clean cut for a back alley broker," you remarked, your tone smooth, devoid of the irritation simmering beneath your skin. "He must have exceptional aim. Or a very specific model of an association-issued blade."
Sylus didn't blink. The corner of his mouth twitched. He tossed the folder onto the desk, the heavy paper settling with a dull thud
"The association tried to intervene. They failed."
"And you let them walk away," you countered, sliding your legs off the armrest. You stood, the ivory silk parting slightly at your thigh as you crossed the room toward him. "You left the financing channel exposed. I noticed the omission before you walked in. It's a vulnerability, Sylus. My board will reject that transit exposure immediately."
You stopped a mere foot away from him. The scent of him, and the distinct, metallic tang of fresh blood rolled off him in waves, overpowering the scent of the room
"I don't tolerate sloppiness," you murmured, tilting your chin up to look him in the eyes. "Especially not when my family's name is masking your assets. If your little shadow play in N109 is bleeding into our territory, fix it."
Sylus stood his ground, a towering monolith of damp wool and dark intent. He didn't offer an excuse. He didn't even look at the paperwork you were weaponizing against him
Instead, his gaze dropped to your lips, then traveled slowly down the exposed column of your throat to where the silk of your robe loosely met at your chest
"Sloppiness" he repeated, the word rolling out of his chest like low thunder. He took a single step forward, crowding your space until the heat radiating from his body began to melt the chill in your own. "Is that what you're calling it?"
"I call it what it is. A liability."
Sylus reached out. His split knuckles were rough against your skin as his thumb caught the underside of your jaw, forcing your head back a fraction of an inch. His touch was cold, a harsh contrast to the feverish warmth of your skin, but his grip was unyielding.
"You don't give a fuck about the southern transit line" he murmured softly.
"I care about our metrics"
"You care that she was there."
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.
The amusement left his face, replaced by something entirely different. The smug, detached mask he usually wore around you cracked, revealing the dark, predatory focus underneath. His crimson eyes searched yours, not with the cold calculation of a business partner, but with the raw, heavy intensity of a man who had just found a crack in an unbreachable wall.
"Look at you," Sylus whispered, his deep voice dropping an octave, becoming rougher, more intimate. His thumb stroked the line of your jaw, the friction sending a sharp jolt straight down your spine. "Jealous." He leaned down, his breath ghosting over your lips
Your breath hitched a small fracture in your armor, but to a man like Sylus, it was a siren song.
"Don't flatter yourself," you hissed, your voice dropping to a dangerous, venomous whisper. You wrapped your hand around his wrist, trying to push him back. "I don't care who you entertain in your spare time. Just keep your goddamn pets out of my ledger."
Sylus didn't move an inch. If anything, your resistance only made his grip tighten, his fingers sliding from your jaw to wrap fully around the back of your neck, tilting your head up to fully meet his gaze. The coldness in his eyes was entirely gone. In its place was a dark, feral satisfaction that burned hot enough to scald
"Will you say that again?" He asked, his lips brushing yours with every syllable, a torturous, high friction promise.
You didn’t answer. You didn’t get the chance to
You tried to twist your face out of his grip, a sharp, dismissive jerk intended to re establish the boundary, but Sylus didn't let you breathe.
The moment your fingers tightened on his wrist to shove him back, he used his massive momentum to drive you backward
The small of your back hit the solid wall with a heavy thud. Nearby, the champagne glass you had set down wobbled, tipped, and shattered against the floor, the sharp crack of crystal completely swallowed by the sudden, suffocating proximity of his body
His hand shifted from your jaw, split-knuckled fingers tangling ruthlessly into the strands of your hair, tugging back until your neck arched, He used the leverage to feast on you completely without restraint. It was a violent, undisciplined wreck of a collision messy, desperate, and entirely devoid of the composure you both prided yourselves on
He didn't give you a clean, strategic kiss. He didn't offer the practiced precision you both used to mask your intentions in public.
He bit you.
It was a bruising, desperate clash of teeth and lips that tasted immediately of the starved, mutual want you had both spent days denying. You let out a muffled, furious sound against his mouth a protest born purely of your refusal to break first and tried to wedge your forearm tightly between his chest and yours to force some distance.
Sylus didn't care. He pinned your arm flat against the wall, his thigh crowding ruthlessly between yours, the rough of his trousers parting your robe.
The past four days of silence, of separate territories and distance, boiled over in a single second.
It was unpolished. It was feral. The slick, wet sound of his tongue sliding against yours filled the quiet room, deep and demanding, dragging the air straight out of your lungs until your chest heaved uselessly against his.
You tried to bite him back, to hurt him, to remind him of the danger of crowding you, and your teeth caught his lower lip, drawing a fresh bead of dark blood.
Sylus groaned into your mouth, He thrived on this.
He pulled back for a fraction of a second, just enough for a thin, silver string of spit to break between your swollen lips. His eyes were entirely blown out, the right crimson of his iris practically glowing in the shadows of the room, dark with a terrifyingly possession. He looked like a beast that had finally been given permission to tear its cage apart.
"My, my, is my sweet wife finally showing her teeth?" he murmured against your lips, his voice a ruined, breathless rasp as his mouth left yours for a single second to track a wet, heavy path down your jawline.
"Move." you gasped, your fingers clawing deep into the fabric of his shoulders, though your nails dug in so hard you were actively pulling him closer, betraying the very lie you were telling. "Sylus–"
He didn't let you finish.
Our blood. Our slick, hot saliva,
It mingled into a chaotic, violent smear between your mouths as he devoured your protest.
The grip on your hair tightened, tugging hard enough to make you gasp before he buried his tongue back into your mouth, deeper this time, swallowing your refusal whole. It was a suffocating, borderline foul display spit slicking your chin, the metallic taste of his torn skin smearing between you, while his large, calloused hand slid inside the parted silk of your robe to grip the bare skin of your hip with a bruising force that would absolutely leave a mark by morning
You hated how easily he broke you. You hated that you had spent days pretending his absence didn't claw at the inside of your ribs, only for him to wreck your perfect poise in a matter of sentences.
Sylus broke the kiss, His forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest rising and falling in violent, uneven synchronization with your own
"Say it again," he rumbled, his thumb dragging across your wet lower lip, smearing the crimson stain. "Tell me you don't care who I keep in my spare time while you're choking on me."
"You're a bastard," you whispered, your voice shaking with a dangerous mixture of fury and unadulterated arousal, your hips twitching helplessly against the heavy, solid weight of his thigh pressed between yours
"Yours," he growled against your skin, a dark, stolen vow before his lips curled into that insufferable smirk
His mouth descended on your throat with feral hunger, biting and sucking the sensitive skin until a deep bruise began to bloom while his thigh anchored firmly between your legs, the sudden, blunt friction wrung a sharp, fractured sob from your lips
It was humiliating the immediate, pathetic rush of your own juices instantly soaking through the lace panel of your underwear. Your logical mind screamed to fight, but your body, instinctively chased the bruising pressure. You rolled your hips against his leg, a desperate, rolling twitch to catch the edge of relief.
But Sylus had no patience left tonight. His large, rough palms slid beneath the hem of your slip, scraping up, up, up, the bare skin of your thighs, your hips, trailing a path of fire. His hands found your chest, fingers roughly squeezing the tight, aching weight of your breasts, his thumbs snapping against your nipples without a shred of shame
"Need I remind you sweetie," he rasped, pausing only to sink his teeth into the junction of your shoulder, biting hard enough to draw the metallic taste of blood. "She is not the one who wears my name."
Not the woman he loves, but the woman arranged in his bed. or at least that's how it sounded to you.
The bitter thought tasted like ash, but the fire between your thighs was blinding. Lured into his trap, your hips moved once again against his leg practically begging for the friction
Sylus let out a low, rumbling growl of pure triumph. Before you could reclaim your breath, his hands locked around your waist. With terrifying, fluid ease, he hoisted you onto his broad shoulder.
"What are you–"
The words were knocked out of you as he manhandled you across the penthouse, his brute strength on effortless display. You hung like a prized, captive trophy, until he threw you face down onto the mattress.
Your face pressed into the plush bedding, your breath hitching. Before you could scramble to your elbows, heavy, crackling energy flooded the space. Black and red mist bled from his fingertips, weaving through the air like liquid iron before snapping tight around your wrists.
The heavy pressure of his evol pinned your hands behind your back, completely unyielding.
"This won't solve anything, Qin," you hissed, turning your head to glare at him with vitriol.
But the threat died on your lips. In the dim amber light of the room, you were utterly exposed. Your silk slip had ridden up to your waist, baring the flush, plush curve of your ass and the perfect, arch of your spine. You looked like a feline caught in a trap, beautifully undone.
And fuck did Sylus adore the sight.
"It will," he murmured.
He stepped closer, his long fingers trailing down the small of your back before he leaned down to press a hot, mocking kiss against your lower spine.
His hand hooked into the lace of your underwear, pulling the material taut.
Even without looking, you could picture the sick, smug satisfaction written across his features. The panties were heavily damp, soaked through with the visible, glistening evidence of how badly you wanted him
Frustration and arousal coiled tight in your gut. You tugged uselessly against the heavy weight of bound hands "Uncuff me. This is fucking stupid! You can't just–"
"Can't?"
The word cut through your protest, smooth, amused, and dripping with absolute authority. He didn't care about your rules. With a swift, deft motion, his fingers hooked the damp lace, stripping it from your hips and leaving your dripping, swollen slit completely bare to the room
Before you could even process the movement, he brought the ruined lace to his mouth, licking and savouring the thick syrupy wetness on it before letting saliva gather and spat on the same place he sucked, his large, calloused fingers ruthlessly stuffed the wet, panties into your open mouth after, forcing it past your teeth and cutting off your scream
Your eyes widened in absolute shock. The sheer audacity of it, the profound degradation of being gagged by your own soaked underwear, sent a paralyzing jolt straight down your spine. You had never felt this helpless.
This desperate.
"Ah. Still trying to fight?" Sylus whispered, his lips curving into a dark, wicked smile as he looked down at your exposed, dripping heat. "Cute."
He reached down between your thighs. A heavy, viscous pearl of your own wetness was clinging desperately to your pussy, hanging from your swollen outer lips. With agonizing slowness, he used his thumb to catch the drop, breaking it and smearing the slick heat upward, coating your sensitive clit it until you were covered in your essence
A muffled, strangled sob caught in the back of your throat, completely swallowed by the material in your mouth as your inner thighs trembled
And Sylus thrived on the sound. With a deliberate, forceful shove, he buried two thick, rough fingers straight into your tight pussy. The contrast was intoxicating, the feverish pulsating warmth of your walls instantly clamped down, desperately squeezing the cold, length of his fingers.
"Look at how wet you are," he rumbled, his voice a ruined, gravelly rasp as he began to pump his fingers inside your tight walls, driving them deep, stretching you open with a crude, slow pace, as strings of your arousal glistened in the light "...don't get the wrong idea, I'm not trying to mock you."" and you swore he almost sounded amused, but you couldn't focus
How could you, when the obscene wet, squelching sound of his fingers sliding in and out of your pussy filled the quiet room. You were completely dripping, your sticky juices running down his hand and pooling onto the dark sheets beneath you as he used his thumb to viciously hook and rub against your swollen clit with every deep thrust, driving you toward a blind, desperate peak while you lay pinned and gagged
Breathless and whining is what you were, one of the most important board pieces in N019 reduced to this, and you knew this was not even close to it all.
You could feel it. just beneath the shadow of your straining hips, you could feel the thick, rigid length of his cock pressing hard against your thigh
Impending fucking doom it was.
He gave your ass a taunting squeeze, his large hand bruising the plush flesh before he finally pulled away.
The agonizing loss of his touch was immediately replaced by a different kind of torture. The slick, wet sound of his fingers inside you was gone, replaced by the harsh, metallic rasp of a zipper parting, followed by the slide of his boxers.
Pinned face down, your view was restricted, but you didn't need to see it to know what was happening. Peering over your shoulder, you caught a dizzying glimpse of his toned, sculpted stomach, and the thick, unyielding length of his cock standing proud against it. A bead of precum already glistened at the blunt tip.
You watched his large, scarred hand wrap around his own girth, pumping twice in a slow, deliberate stroke before he aligned himself behind you
He slid upward, but he didn't push inside.
Instead, he wedged the broad, mushroomed head of his cock perfectly against your swollen clit. His fingers gripped the base of his shaft, holding himself firmly in place while he ground against your sensitive nerves. Your pussy immediately coated him, the wetness running down his heavy length with every agonizingly shallow slide
He was teasing you. He was actively refusing to give you the ruinous relief of his cock stretching you wide, denying you the fullness you could feel aching in your gut. No matter how many times you fucked, taking Sylus Qin was a chore, because the universe was cruel enough to give the man a dick as impossibly big as his ego.
You whined, a fractured, pathetic sound, rolling your hips back in a desperate attempt to sink onto him, to soothe the need boiling in your blood
"Relax, wife," he drawled, his voice a low, teasing vibration as he delivered another shallow, grinding thrust that sent a shower of sparks straight to your stomach. "You'll get what you want."
The heavy palm of his hand flattened against your lower back, pressing you down as his cock remained glued to your dripping slit. "Today. Tomorrow." He leaned down, pressing a hot, open mouthed kiss to your trembling shoulder. "Over and over again, until you tire of me."
He pressed one final, bruising kiss to your skin, and then, the heavy, crackling weight of his evol vanished.
The sudden release of pressure made your arms give out, your chest hitting the mattress, but Sylus didn't let you rest. His massive hands gripped your waist, and in one fluid, effortless motion, he flipped you onto your back.
And fuck, was it a sight.
You were beyond divine. Your usually immaculate hair was a wild, tangled mess. Your cheeks were flushed a feverish, beautiful crimson, and tears of absolute frustration pooled in your waterlines. Your lips were swollen and thoroughly wrecked, while between your parted thighs, your dripping, perfectly ruined cunt was fully on display.
Sylus literally choked on a breath.
There was a reason you were hailed as the most beautiful, dangerous woman in the underworld. Everyone else only ever saw you armored in million dollar gowns and a blood chilling smile. No one on earth would ever get to see you like this. Reduced to a beautiful, panting wreck.
His. Entirely his.
But while he was busy staring at you with open, starving reverence, you were absolutely furious. You reached up, ripping the soaked lace panties from your mouth and hurling them directly at his sculpted chest.
It only angered you further when his lips curled into a wicked, devastating grin.
Your chest heaved. Despite your fury, your body betrayed you, throbbing violently at the sight of him caging you in, looking as if sculpted by gods
But the ache wasn't enough to dull your pride.
You needed revenge.
You surged upward, your hands shooting out to fist violently in the short, silver locks at the nape of his neck. You yanked him down, crashing your lips against his in a brutal, bruising kiss.
Sylus groaned into your mouth, a deep, guttural sound of approval. His body automatically chased the closeness, climbing over you to press his heavy weight down.
The second he did, your long legs instantly wrapped around his waist, locking tightly at the small of his back.
You squeezed your thighs, pressing right against the base of his rigid cock, wringing a sharp grunt from his throat. Using the leverage, you rolled your hips
The world tilted, and the next thing Sylus knew, his back hit the mattress, and you were straddling his hips.
You sat up, looking down at him with the cold, authoritative superiority.
"You've played enough," you murmured, your voice a smooth, dangerous blade. "So now, keep your hands flat on the mattress, Qin. If you even think about touching me before I give you permission, I swear to god I’ll leave you exactly like this."
His crimson eyes glistened with dark, feral amusement. It was a bluff. You knew it, he knew it. Sex between the two of you was like breathing; neither of you would ever actually stop. But Sylus loved this game just as much as you did
Slowly, he raised both hands in mock surrender, letting them fall flat against the dark sheets.
He watched, thoroughly trapped, as you reached down and slowly pulled the ruined silk slip over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes darkened, locking hungrily onto your perfect breasts, his jaw ticking with the desperate urge to bite, to taste, to ruin
But you kept yourself deliberately out of reach. You leaned down, taking his lower lip between your teeth for a sharp, stinging bite again tasting the blood from before, then dragging your open mouth down the strong column of his throat. You painted his skin with hot, stripes of your tongue, trailing down his collarbones, over the hard planes of his chest, and tracing the sharp, dangerous v-line that disappeared beneath his waist.
His breath hitched, his abdominal muscles jumping under your mouth.
Then, your slender fingers wrapped around his impossibly thick cock. You felt him flinch, a full body shudder ripping through him as you leaned down and pressed the softest, sweetest kiss directly to his weeping tip.
You were going to make him beg.
You flicked your tongue out, catching the thick bead of his precum, tasting the hot, salty tang of his arousal. You were aching, sticky, and left a mess because of him, so it was time he felt that exact same desperation.
Sylus let out a sharp, ragged exhale as you parted your lips. Maintaining absolute, unblinking eye contact with him, you slowly sank down onto his crown with your mouth.
Fuck.
You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks. Taking his entire length was impossible, but you took as much as your throat would allow, your hands ruthlessly wrapping around the thick, heavy base to pump the rest.
His hands twitched violently against the sheets. His fingers curled into fists, fighting the agonizing urge to drag you up and kiss you. He needed to be inside you. He needed to feel you whole. Watching you worship him like this made you look like a filthy deity.
The visceral, wet sounds of your mouth sucking and slopping against his heavy flesh echoed in the quiet room. You gagged softly, choking once as he unconsciously bucked his hips upward, driving himself deeper into your throat.
You could taste the shift in his pulse. You knew he was close.
So, right as his hips snapped up, chasing the final, blinding high of his climax you pulled off completely.
The sudden rush of cold air hitting his slick, painfully hard cock made him freeze. He stared up at you blankly for a fraction of a second, chest heaving, before a rich, breathless laugh tore from his throat. He was left entirely high and dry, his eyes burning with a dangerous fire.
"Give me one good reason," Sylus rasped, his voice rough as gravel, "why I shouldn't flip you over right now and show you exactly what you just did."
You hummed, entirely unimpressed. "You could," you whispered, leaning down to drag your tongue up the underside of his shaft. "But you won't."
Before he could argue, you wrapped your lips tightly around him again, taking him agonizingly deep. A single tear escaped your lash line from the sheer, suffocating size of him, a thick string of spit and precum dripping down your chin to smear over his skin.
Sylus couldn't hold back anymore. Breaking your rule, his large hand shot up, tangling ruthlessly into your hair to guide your head, his hips bucking up in short, desperate thrusts to chase the edge.
With a deep, guttural groan, he shattered.
Hot, thick, salty liquid erupted into the back of your throat. You whimpered, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment at the overwhelming taste and volume of it.
But you didn't swallow.
You pulled back slowly, parting your swollen lips. Sylus watched you, his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Your hand remained wrapped firmly around the base of his twitching cock
Maintaining eye contact, you let his thick, pearlescent cum spill from your mouth.
It was absolute, exquisite filth. The heavy white fluid fell in thick droplets, landing directly onto his still erect cock, sliding down the slick, inflamed veins.
It was disgusting. It was perfect.
Sylus was utterly mesmerized, trapped in a state of primal shock as he watched his own seed run down his length. But it was infinitely worse when you leaned back down.
With slow, deliberate strokes, you stuck your tongue out and began to lick him clean.
You chased the hot rivulets of sperm up and down his shaft, swallowing every last drop of the filthy mess you had made
You sat back on your heels, wiping a stray drop of cum from your lower lip with the back of your hand, a triumphant, wicked gleam in your eyes
He was broken. You had taken the king of N019 and reduced him ruined mess beneath you
Or so you thought.
The heavy, suffocating shift in the room's atmosphere was your only warning.
Sylus’s chest was still heaving, the silver strands of his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, but the hazy, blown out look in his crimson eyes was already sharpening.
The dark, look in his eyes returned, instantly wiping away any illusion that you were the one in control.
A low, vibrating sound started deep in his chest.
"Beautiful," he rasped, his voice a dark, gravelly purr that was breathless and made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "You played your hand well."
Before you could even register the sudden flex of his muscles, his hands lashed out
His massive palms clamped around your waist like iron vises. With a violent, he flipped you. Slammed into the mattress, the heavy, unyielding weight of his body instantly crashing down to cage you in
He didn't give you a second to recover. His hands caught your wrists, pinning them squarely above your head with just one of his massive hands.
"But the house," he whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his hot breath sending a violent shiver down your spine, "always wins."
He shifted his weight, his knee driving ruthlessly between your thighs to force your legs impossibly wide. Even after his climax, he hadn't softened. If anything, he was harder, the thick, rigid length of his cock pressing hot and demanding against your soaking entrance.
His regeneration worked in more ways than one.
Your breath stuttered. The adrenaline of your revenge was instantly swallowed by the immediate, reality of what was about to happen.
"Sylus–"
"Shh," he commanded softly, silencing you not with cruelty, but with an agonizing, possessive intensity.
His free hand slid down your torso, his calloused fingers tracing your stomach before slipping between your thighs.
He didn't bother waiting anymore. You had long been dripping, completely melted down for him, your viscous wetness pooling against his fingers as he guided his thick, blunt head squarely against your opening.
He locked his crimson eyes onto yours, demanding you watch him. Demanding you feel every single agonizing second of your surrender.
And then, he pushed.
A sharp, fractured cry tore from your throat. Despite how wet you were, taking him was a visceral, shock to your system. He was too thick, too unyielding, stretching you wide open with a blunt, heavy pressure that sent a blinding flash of white hot pleasure straight to your brain
Your nails dug violently into the back of his hand where he held your wrists. "Fuck–wait, wait–"
"I’m done waiting," he growled, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he forced himself deeper, inch by excruciating inch. "You wanted to play the tyrant? Take it."
He didn't slam into you. He knew exactly what he was doing, driving himself inside with a slow, relentless, torturous pace that forced your body to accommodate every single millimeter of his girth. The friction was maddening
You could feel the distinct, heavy throb of his pulse buried deep inside your walls, stretching you until you felt completely, utterly full.
When he finally bottomed out, his hips snapping flush against yours with a heavy, wet slap, your back bowed off the mattress
You were completely lost to him. The meticulous, flawless daughter of a syndicate empire, reduced to a trembling, mewling mess, completely ruined by her husband
Sylus let out a long, ragged exhale, burying his face in the crook of your neck. For a few seconds, he just held you there, letting your body adjust to the staggering invasion, reveling in the feverish, desperate way your warm, warm inner walls clamped down around him, milking him
"Mine," he breathed against your skin
the word tasting like a vow and a curse.
Then, he began to move
He pulled back almost completely, the slow drag of his length nearly drawing a sob from your lips before he drove his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt with a heavy, concussive thud.
The rhythm he set was ruthless. It wasn't the frantic, desperate fucking of amateurs; it was the measured, devastatingly powerful pace of a man who intended to wring every drop of sanity from your mind.
PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!
The wet, obscene sounds of your bodies colliding echoed off the marble walls of the penthouse. With every deep, grinding raw thrust, he deliberately angled his hips, ensuring the thick ridge of his cock dragged ruthlessly against your swollen clit.
"Sylus" you sobbed, the name tearing from you in a broken, high pitched plea that you would have killed anyone else for hearing. Your legs instinctively wrapping tightly around his waist to pull him even deeper, desperately chasing the blinding high, the pain and pleasure was intoxicating, feeling it so deep in your womb that you swore you were losing sanity
"Hush now," he mocked, though his voice was thick with his own desperation, his breathing turning ragged as he pounded into you. He finally released your wrists, only to slide his hands under your shoulders, lifting you up so your chest was crushed against his. "Where is all that anger now, sweetie? Where is the woman who was going to walk out on me?"
"Shut up" you gasped, biting down hard on his shoulder to ground yourself against the overwhelming onslaught of pleasure.
He hooked his arms under your knees, folding your legs back toward your chest, exposing you completely. The new angle drove him impossibly deeper, the nerves of your clit so exquisitely sensitive that your vision literally whited out.
And as the suffocating, brilliant wave of your climax began to crest, snapping your muscles tight around his cock in violent, pulsating waves, Sylus let out a guttural moan, driving deep inside you one final, devastating time to meet you in the dark
...
The silence that crashed back into the penthouse was deafening, filled only by the ragged, synchronized cadence of your mixed breathing.
His palms, rough and heavily calloused, framed your jaw with a sudden, grounding warmth. Sylus looked down at you, his crimson eyes were completely blown, dark with an unreadable, heavy emotion as he leaned down to share the very air between your lips, sealing your surrender with one final, bruising kiss
Your fingers tangled into the short, silver locks at the nape of his neck. You pulled him down tightly against you, anchoring yourself to his massive chest. Heartbeat against heartbeat, you closed your eyes and focused on the heavy rise and fall of his torso, desperately trying to piece your fractured self back together.
"If you ever use your evol to bind me like that again, Qin," you whispered against his mouth, your voice a breathy, thin threat, "I will have your head"
A low, rumbling vibration started deep in his chest, breaking into a breathless, genuine laugh that brushed hot against your collarbone. "Is that a promise, my dear? I wouldn't say you are in the position to threaten me right now"
He nipped at the sensitive skin of your neck before his large hands slid beneath your thighs. With a fluid, effortless roll, he shifted your limp body directly on top of him. He stayed buried deep inside you, a heavy, unyielding anchor as the sticky, cooling residuals of your shared cum smeared between your skin.
You completely melted, turning to absolute putty against the hard planes of his chest. His broad palms traced slow, soothing patterns up and down your bare spine, but the gesture did little to cure the boneless, trembling legs and exhaustion holding you hostage. You were entirely unable to function
Sylus stared up at the ceiling, his jaw tightening. He wanted to say something. He wanted to offer a rare, uncharacteristic reassurance, to tell you that while he thrived on the fire of your jealousy, there was no one else
But the words remained trapped in his throat. Did you even want to hear that?
Absolute, non negotiable loyalty had been the bedrock of this arrangement for a full year now. It was a cruel twist of fate, the invisible threads of his life were bound to a different woman yet the only woman who truly mastered him was currently draped across his chest.
His wife.
He looked down at your tangled long hair, unable to fully articulate the staggering weight of what you actually meant to him. It was a terrifying admission, but you had completely rewritten his parameters. Every cold smile, every sharp word, every calculation you made left him utterly mesmerized. Without ever demanding it, you had him wrapped entirely around your fingers
"I should get you cleaned up," he finally rasped, his deep voice scraping pleasantly against the quiet room.
A faint, stubborn hum of disapproval escaped your lips. Beneath the sheets, your exhausted inner walls involuntarily clamped tight around his half hard length, wringing a low, strained groan from his throat. A dark, amused smile touched his lips at your defiance. He leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your heated forehead.
You were already slipping, the heavy pull of exhaustion dragging you over the brink of sleep, but the onychinus princess refused to let the business fade. Without opening your eyes, you murmured your final, drowsy command into the crook of his neck:
"You better make sure that shipment tomorrow is delivered."
Remember each LI has their own girl (see chapter one for reference) and there will be medical inaccuracies because I'm not a doctor, I just work with them, so if you are a doctor, a nurse or a med student don't judge me too much 🫣.
I plan to update this series every Wed and Saturday but it all depends on how busy life gets. I hope you enjoy this chapter! 🩷💋
The pediatric surgical lounge at 2:40 AM felt entirely detached from the rest of Linkon General. Downstairs, the emergency department was a meat grinder of flashing red ambulance lights and screaming sirens, but up here, the only sounds were the low hum of an old refrigerator and the steady, rhythmic breathing of a pediatric doctor who had perfected the art of a catnap.
Xavier was currently buried under a couple of hospital blankets in the corner sofa. His hair was a chaotic, static induced halo, and a tiny, green dinosaur sticker had somehow migrated from his charting tablet to his left cheek.
The lounge door opened under the weight of an exhausted kick.
You stumbled into the room, your fingers white knuckled around a cardboard tray containing two overpriced coffees. Your white coat was slightly rumpled, your badge was flipped entirely backward, and you were running on a combination of three hours of sleep and pure spite.
"If anyone asks," you announced to the quiet room "I died in Trauma Bay 3. I am a ghost. Ghosts do not handle pediatric consults."
Xavier didn't move under the blankets, but one sleepy, bright blue eye slowly blinked open. "The ghost brought caffeine," he murmured "That’s a very polite haunting."
"Don't get used to it, Dr Shen," you sighed, dropping the tray onto the small coffee table with a hollow thunk and collapsing onto the opposite end of the sofa. "One of those is mine, and the other is a bribe. I am at a complete breaking point."
Xavier slowly extracted a pale arm from the blankets, his fingers hooking around the plastic cup. He didn't sit up yet, he just propped his chin on the edge of the blanket.
"What did they swallow this time?" he asked softly. "If it's another quarter, tell the ER attending that nature will take its course."
"A plastic dinosaur," you groaned, burying your face in your hands. "A pterodactyl, specifically. The kid is six, his airway is completely clear, but he keeps making screeching noises at the triage nurses because he thinks he's a carnivore. His dad is furious, the charge nurse is threatening to lock me in the supply closet if I don't clear a bed."
Xavier let out a soft, huffed chuckle, a tiny smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. He finally sat up, the blankets pooling around his waist. He took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes widening slightly as the sugar hit his system. "Starbucks? You actually walked across the street in the rain for this?"
"I'm desperate, Dr Shen..."
"A pterodactyl. That’s a difficult geometry to pass."
"Please," you groaned "If you don't take this consult and admit him for a twenty four hour observation, I am going to lie down on this floor and let the cleaning staff mop me around."
Xavier lowered his cup. The sleepy, checked out facade he usually used to shield himself from the hospital's chaos suddenly faded, replaced by a quiet, unblinking clarity. His blue eyes locked onto yours, tracking the slight tremble in your fingers as you reached for your own drink.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, instantly making the space between you feel small, warm, and intensely focused.
"I'll take the kid," he said, his voice dropping into a comforting register "But you have to do something for me first."
You raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the sudden, unnecessary skip in your pulse. "I already bought you the extra shots of espresso. What else do you want, Doctor Shen?"
He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a brief, dangerous second before lifting back to your eyes.
"I just need your signature on the transfer sheet..."
"You'll get the signature," Xavier murmured, his voice incredibly patient as he reached out, his fingers tapping the table right next to your coffee cup. "But you have to sit here for ten minutes. Drink your coffee. And stop looking at the clock."
"The ER attending is going to page me—"
"For the next ten minutes, you don't exist downstairs."
You looked from his pale fingers on the table up to his face—his messy hair, the ridiculous dinosaur sticker on his cheek, and the absolute, unyielding focus in his eyes. The tight, defensive knot in your spine finally loosened, a long, shaky breath escaping your lips.
"Ten minutes," you whispered, leaning your head back against the cushion with a sigh.
"Ten minutes," Xavier agreed softly. He didn't move back, staying right there in your space, his eyes quietly tracking the slow, regular rise and fall of your shoulders as you finally started to breathe again. "And for the record... pterodactyls are technically pterosaurs, not dinosaurs. I’ll make sure to correct him during the intake."
"You are such a nerd, Doctor Shen," you mumbled, closing your eyes.
"Probably," he whispered, his huffed laugh the last thing you heard before the quiet of the lounge completely took over.
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The music blasting from the rehabilitation room wasn’t the standard, generic lo-fi or elevator jazz that the hospital board recommended for patient wellness. It was a bass heavy thumping of an upbeat classic rock playlist.
You stood by the high density foam treatment tables, your clipboard pressed flat against your ribs. Your hair was pulled back into a tight ponitail, your dark grey scrub top pressed and immaculate, and your eyes fixed on the absolute center of the chaos.
Dr. Xia was currently standing on one foot atop a blue foam balance pad, demonstrating a single leg squat to a teenage soccer player with a reconstructed ACL. He wasn't wearing his white coat, it was slung carelessly over a nearby parallel bar. His scrubs were stretched tight across his shoulders and he was holding a big, neon orange water bottle like it was a championship trophy.
"Come on, Leo! Keep that knee tracking straight! Caleb yelled over the music, his face split into a wide, brilliant grin that practically radiated sunlight.
He caught sight of you standing by the door. His entire posture lit up, his energy instantly spiking from a ten to an eleven. He bounced off the balance pad with a springy, athletic grace that made your knees ache just watching it.
"Hey! Look who decided to grace us with her presence!" he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, his eyes crinkling with a level of enthusiasm that you found deeply offensive at 12:15 in the afternoon.
"Dr. Xia," you said, voice a cool alto that acted like a bucket of ice water against his heat. You didn't smile. You didn't even blink. "Please turn that music down before I have the facilities department confiscate your Bluetooth speaker for the third time this month."
His grin didn't falter, it just shifted into something fond and deeply amused. He reached back without looking, grabbing a remote from the counter and lowering the volume. "Better? It’s good for morale! High energy means high cellular turnover. It’s science."
"It's a noise violation," you countered, stepping around him to look at Leo's chart on your tablet. "And you forgot to account for the lateral meniscus repair protocol. You cleared him for weight bearing exercises two weeks ahead of schedule."
Caleb dropped his chin, leaning down slightly to get into your line of sight. He smelled like mint gum, laundry detergent, and fresh sweat—entirely too clean and healthy for someone who had spent four hours in surgery this morning. "I checked the stability under anesthesia myself. The repair is solid as a rock. He's a fast healer."
"He's a seventeen year old human, not a cartoon character," you said, tilting your head up to fix him with a flat, unimpressed glare. "The protocol exists so he doesn't shred the suture line before June. I am the one who has to put him back together when your overconfidence snaps his knee again."
"Ouch. Harsh," Caleb chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, though his eyes were dancing with absolute delight. He loved this. He loved the fact that while the residents trembled in his OR and the patients treated him like a sports hero, you looked at him like he was a stray dog that had just tracked mud across a white rug. "You’re always so prickly before your coffee break. Did you even eat breakfast today?"
"I have a schedule to follow, Doctor," you said, your fingers making a sharp, disciplined click against the screen as you updated Leo’s restrictions, completely bypassing his aggressive clearance notes. "A schedule that you are currently disrupting."
"Alright, alright," Caleb said, raising his hands in mock surrender. He turned back to the teenager "Great job today, Leo! Do exactly what the boss says. She looks scary, but she’s the only reason I can keep playing God in the OR."
Once again Caleb turned back to you, leaning his hip against the edge of a treatment table. He crossed his arms over his chest, his body blocking out the afternoon sun hitting the window. His booming energy softened just a fraction, turning into something warmer.
"You really went into my chart and deleted my clearance notes, didn't you?" he murmured, an unbothered smile touching his lips.
"I corrected a clinical oversight," you said, refusing to back away from his space "You fix their bones, Caleb. I’m the one who actually makes them walk. Learn your place in the food chain."
The omission of his title was small, but it hit the quiet room with a distinct weight.
"Caleb," he repeated, the syllables sounding slow and entirely different when spoken in your clipped tone. His smile grew a little softer, a little more genuine. "I like it when you use my name. Makes me feel like I’m actually making progress with you."
"The only progress you're making is toward a formal complaint," you muttered, your eyes tracking the slight twitch of his jaw before you snapped your gaze back to the tablet. "Go back to the ortho wing. Don't you have a hip to replace or a protein shake to blend?"
"Already drank the shake. And the hip isn't until four," Caleb said cheerfully, entirely unbothered by the rejection. "I'll leave you to it. But I'm leaving the speaker here."
"Dr. Xia—"
"See you later," he called out, already walking towards the double doors, grabbing his white coat off the parallel bars and swinging it over his shoulder with a flashy motion. He paused, throwing a grin over his shoulder. "Try to smile once before 2 o'clock! It uses fewer muscles than frowning!"
You stood perfectly still for exactly five seconds. Slowly, you let out a long, slow breath you hadn't realized you were holding, your shoulders dropping out of their rigid, defensive line.
You looked down at the tablet, then at the small Bluetooth speaker sitting on the counter. With an involuntary click of your tongue, you reached over and turned the volume back up to where he’d had it, a small, helpless shadow of a smile finally breaking through your dark exterior as the music filled the room again.
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The air in Burn Unit 4 smelled distinct from the rest of Linkon General. It lacked the heavy, sharp sting of rubbing alcohol, instead, it was thick with the scent of petroleum gauze, humidified oxygen, and the faint, sweet trace of medical grade honey sheets.
You stood by the bedside of Bed 3, red scrubs fitting neatly, hair pulled back into a knot at the base of your neck. You had been on the unit for exactly three weeks, having transferred from a county facility upstate, which meant you had already developed the specific, thick skinned patience required to handle the complex dressings of the specialized ward.
And, more importantly, you had already been briefed on the hospital hierarchy.
"If you keep pulling at the margins of the dressing, Mr. Henderson, the graft isn't going to take," you said, carefully adjusting the non adherent layers over the patient’s left forearm. "And then I’ll have to call the surgical team back up here, which means more needles."
Mr. Henderson, a forty five year old mechanic who had taken the brunt of a radiator blowout, let out a dry chuckle. "Come on, Nurse. The specialist said it was looking beautiful yesterday. He used the word 'masterpiece.' I thought he was talking about a painting, not my arm."
"He tends to view the entire world as a canvas," you murmured, snipping a clean length of medical tape with an efficient snip. "But he isn't the one who has to scrub old ointment off tomorrow morning."
The heavy privacy curtain was swept aside with a theatrical motion.
Rafayel stepped into the cubicle. He wasn't wearing his white lab coat—he rarely did unless the chief of surgery was actively tracking him down—leaving him in a soft lilac tinted scrub top that looked entirely too expensive. His slightly messy hair fell perfectly across his forehead, framing eyes that always looked like they were harboring a private joke.
"A masterpiece is exactly what it is, Mr. Henderson," Rafayel didn't look at the patient first, his eyes went straight to you, tracking the efficient movement of your hands before lifting to meet your eyes "Though I see the critics are already trying to minimize my genius."
"Dr. Qi," you said with a flat nod that lacked even a trace of the usual deference the residents gave him. "The graft looks stable. The exudate is minimal."
"Puh-lease, Dr. Qi sounds like my father when he’s about to lecture me on maritime law," Rafayel sighed, leaning his hip against the bedside rail. "Rafayel is perfectly sufficient. Especially for someone who has been managing my post op orders so beautifully for the last twenty one days."
"I manage the unit's orders, Doctor. Qi," you corrected, not looking up as you smoothed down the final layer of tape. "Your patients happen to occupy three of the beds."
"A tragic distribution," Rafayel murmured, fingers idly tracing the metal edge of the chart holder at the foot of the bed. "I’ve been meaning to properly welcome you to the department. The burn unit can be cold. I find it helpful to establish a baseline of mutual appreciation outside these walls. There's a restaurant near the hospital that serves an exceptional seafood risotto. Very quiet. Very conducive to clinical collaboration."
Mr. Henderson’s eyes darted between the two of you, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face.
You finished the knot on the outer bandage, raising your head to look Rafayel directly in the eye.
"That sounds like an incredibly generous offer," you said, voice sweet enough to make the patient blink, though your eyes remained completely cool. "But I’m afraid my schedule is quite full. I barely have time to read the internal memos."
"Memos are boring," Rafayel countered "Risotto is much more informative."
"I'm sure it is," you replied, picking up your tray of dirty supplies. You paused, looking down at his elegant, unblemished hands on the bed rail, then shifted your gaze back up to his face "Though I’m surprised you have the energy for more collaboration. The day shift nurse mentioned you’ve already spent a significant amount of time reviewing protocols with the night nurses in Plastics. And the afternoon rotation leader. And, if I recall correctly, most of the left side of the aesthetic surgery wing."
Rafayel’s fingers froze against the metal chart holder..
"I wouldn't want to monopolize the resources of a surgeon who is already so thoroughly integrated into the nursing staff's ecosystem, Doctor Qi," you said with a small smile " Mr. Henderson, I’ll be back with your midday fluids."
You swept past the privacy curtain without waiting for a reply.
Inside the cubicle, the silence lasted for three long breaths. Rafayel stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the empty space where you had just been standing, his jaw slightly slack before he closed his mouth with a defensive click.
A low, wheezing sound broke the quiet.
Rafayel slowly turned his head to look down at the bed.
Mr. Henderson was currently buried in his pillow, his shoulders shaking violently as he tried—and failed—to suffocate a massive explosion of laughter. His uninjured hand was pressed against his mouth, his face turning a vibrant crimson.
"I'm sorry, Doc," the mechanic choked out, finally letting out a loud, booming laugh that echoed off the walls. He pointed his good hand at the curtain. "But she...Lord, I haven’t seen a man get dismantled that clean since my old boss caught me with a loaded deck of cards."
"It was a misunderstanding," Rafayel muttered, his cheeks flushing a sudden pink. "The nursing staff clearly prioritizes gossip over clinical excellence."
"Whatever you say, Doc, but you're going to need a lot more than a seafood risotto to get that one to look at your masterpiece."
Rafayel let out an irritated huff, turning on his heel and pulling the curtain back with entirely too much force. "The dressing is adequate," he called out over his shoulder, trying to salvage his pride as he stepped into the main corridor. "I will return when the atmosphere is less hostile"
He walked down the hallway, his shoes clicking sharply on the linoleum, while behind him, the steady sound of Bed 3’s laughter followed him all the way to the elevators.
18+, zuko's a big ole freak for reader | zuko masterlist | main masterlist
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"Send for one of the concubines." Zuko all but barked at his male servant, frustration lacing his voice as he entered his chambers and slammed the door behind him.
He didn't often send for one of his many lovers but when he did, it was usually when he was worked up from a council meeting or the many documents requiring his immediate attention. So when he found himself overwhelmed and in need of a release, he'd remember he had plenty of women waiting to fulfill his every need.
He rubbed at his temples, attempting to soothe the incoming headache before taking off his robe and shirt, and tossing them both onto his bed. He made his way to the red and gold chaise to the left of his room and stretched out on it, one leg was on the ground while the other laid in front of him.
He sighed and laid his head back, telling himself he wouldn’t fall asleep until it was ten minutes later and you walked in, looking shy as ever and entirely too fucking hot in your near see through robes and a thin strapped gown underneath it.
He swallowed hard, his cock already starting to strain against his pants. You often drew this response from him, his favorite concubine and he hated it. It made him feel as if he had no control over his emotions and really, he didn’t. Not when it came to you.
The other women were great. Wonderful in bed, nice enough to be mothers to his children, and overall pleasant to be around. But they weren’t you. They didn’t make his heart triple in speed or make his head dizzy with pure obsession. You had the one thing they didn’t: a personality.
While he could appreciate that his concubines were raised to serve him and that’s why they had cookie cutter identities, he would trade all twelve of them for just one of you.
“My lord.” You hummed, bowing until he gestured for you to rise.
“I trust you’re being treated well?” His finger tapped the arm of the chaise, which his arm was propped up against. When you only nodded with your eyes locked on the ground, he chuckled lightly and titled his head, bangs falling to the side from the movement.
“Look at me.”
Your head snapped up, eyes wide as you realized your slip up: always look the firelord in his eyes when he speaks to you. Though he didn’t care about that, he only wished to see your face to determine if you were being truthful.
“Speak with your words, not your head.”
You bit your lip and he swallowed an embarrassing groan, his eyes following the movement, completely infatuated with the way you slowly released it from your teeth.
“All is well, my lord. Thank you for asking.”
Good, that’s good. Zuko mentally scratched the dialogue he already had prepared for his chamberlain if you had even the slightest of inconveniences. His favorite concubine deserved nothing but the best.
But you were still dressed and that just wouldn’t do. How else was he supposed to admire and worship your body with that useless piece of fabric in the way?
“Very well. Strip.” He commanded, leaning further back into the chaise, pretending like his fully hard cock wasn’t about to rip through his pants.
You hesitated for only a moment before very slowly lowering the robe around your shoulders. You took your time, allowing your fingers to trail across your skin as you made work of the fabric. The way his breath hitched told you that you had him exactly where you wanted him.
In your five months of service to the firelord, you discovered Zuko’s utter weakness to innocence. The way he always grew rock hard the moment you walked in with practiced shy eyes, his deep gutted concern for your comfort as if he had to protect you, and his insistence on being gentle with you as if you were fragile porcelain, though the other concubines mentioned he was quite the rough lover.
Once it was far enough down your body, you let the robe fall to the floor with a whoosh as it spilled around your feet. The smirk Zuko gave you had your body heating, skin crawling with need. You wish he called for you more than once every two weeks, though that was more than any of the other concubines had ever been retrieved.
They were growing jealous of you, always giving you side eyes and calling you “the firelords pet,” as if that wasn’t what you literally were. You didn’t take it personally when they started isolating you from conversations, knowing they had trained their whole lives to get here.
You did let it inflate your ego though, which is why you were now slowly playing with the straps of your gown with one hand, the other running up your thigh and slightly lifting the dress. Seducing your way to being not only Zuko's favorite concubine, but his only one.
You pushed the thin strap down your arm, your other hand snaking its way from your thighs and up your belly until you reached your left breast and lightly squeezed.
"Fuck." Zuko groaned, pushing his hips into the air as if to relieve pressure from between his legs. His eyes were hazy and locked dead on yours, jaw clenching and his hand squeezing around the edge of the chair, knuckles turning white from the force. He looked as if he was going to pounce on you at any moment and this was his attempt at controlling himself.
"Like this, Firelord Zuko?" You asked, batting your eyelashes at him as you moved the other strap down your arm, letting the gown fall to the floor. You stood in front of your monarch, naked as the day you were born and aching for his hands to touch your skin.
"Fucking hell. Yes beautiful, come here." He patted his leg, moving to sit with his back to the cushions as he palmed his cock, squeezing and pulling over the fabric of his pants with absolutely no shame.
You shook with each step you took, nerves dancing with your fading confidence and Zuko would have laughed at the way your body reacted to him if that little stunt you pulled hadn't damn near stripped his sense of reality. Where did you get off teasing him like that? Perhaps you weren't as innocent as he thought, perhaps he would have to teach you a lesson about keeping him waiting.
"On your fucking knees." He ordered you once you stood in front of him, and you were ever the obedient concubine as you dropped to the floor between his legs, staring up at him with those glossy innocent eyes. He almost felt bad for what he was about to do.
He reached a hand down to your chin, pulling your face forward slightly and tilting your chin up. He felt his body growing hot at the way you stared at him, a rare side effect of him losing control of his powers when he was distracted. He gathered himself only a little and smirked devilishly at his favorite.
"Look at you, on your knees like a good little girl for your Firelord. Open wide, concubine."
You obeyed, mouth open and tongue out as your pussy grew wet. Zuko never talked to you like this, and you had been wanting to experience this rougher side of him you kept hearing about.
Zuko groaned before leaning over you and allowing his spit to fall into your mouth. You caught it, swallowing greedily and putting on your best shy smile.
"Good girl." And then he was pulling you up, turning you and sitting your ass on his lap, back to chest, hand reaching to your chin to pull your mouth against his. He had never kissed his other concubines, only you. Never kissed anyone as passionately as he did now, only you.
His tongue danced with yours, both trading spit as he used his hand to spread your legs, fingers moving until he was rubbing circles on your clit and biting your lip.
"Oooh Zuko, that feels amazing." You started grinding your hips against his fingers, mouth directly against his as you breathed each other's air. Your eyes were squeezed shut but his were locked on you, making sure his fingers moved just right to get the reactions he wanted from you.
"Hmm, take what you need, princess. Squirt all over my fingers." His voice was low and husky, teeth nipping at your neck as his other hand squeezed your breast and played with your nipple.
Your hips started to speed up, stomach coiling as your orgasm neared and he hadn't even put his fingers inside you yet. You couldn't tell who was seducing who but just as you felt you were about to fall off the edge, he stopped. Completely moving his fingers and nipping at your ear lobe.
You groaned and tried to move his fingers back but he forbade it, using his strength to overpower you and pull his hand away, laughing at your desperate state.
"Doesn't feel good to be teased does it? On your knees again. You're gonna suck my cock until I cum down your throat, understand?"
Holy shit, you were actually shaking with excitement. Who was this man and what did he do with the soft spoken Firelord who treated you like you would break if he grabbed you too hard.
Now wasn't the time to ask questions. You got on your knees, positioning yourself between his legs, hands on his thighs as you waited for him to command you.
"You're gonna swallow every drop, aren't you concubine?" He started moving his pants down his hips, letting his cock spring free and smack against his lower stomach. The tip was red and leaking with pre cum, the sheer length of him making your mouth water. You didn't know how you would take him completely.
"Yes, my lord. I'll show you that I can be a good girl, how sorry I am for teasing you."
He only groaned and sat back, watching with a brow raised and his arms against the back of the chaise. You wasted no time, pulling his pants down the rest of the way to his ankles and grabbing his cock with both of your hands. You started slowly, licking from base to tip while keeping your eyes on him. He didn't break contact, swallowing hard but holding your gaze anyways.
You let your tongue swirl around the tip, licking up all the pre cum and giving a little suck and popping off while the man above you groaned and bucked his hips. You ignored him and started licking around his cock, sucking the veins, never actually putting him all the way in your mouth.
Not until a few moments later when you looked at him again and he gave you a 'do i have to punish you even more' look and you lowered your mouth around him. You went as far as you could, gagging when he grabbed the back of your head and started pushing you further.
"F-fucckk baby, you can take more. Swallow my fucking cock."
Spit was pooling out the sides of your mouth as he forced his way down your throat. You were squeezing his thighs, holding on as he bucked his hips up, eyes rolling back while he brutally fucked your mouth.
"T-That's it, such a good little concubine, ngghhh."
He was holding your head with both hands now, hands tangling through your hair, fucking into your mouth as he chased his release. Your cunt was so wet, juices dripping down your thighs as you pressed your fingers against your clit and pressed with extra force.
You slurped on his cock, moving your head up and down and meeting his movements, rubbing your pussy at the same pace he was fucking your throat.
"Oh- fuck! Take it love, right fucking there don't stop, haah." Zuko was panting like he just ran a lap, and you could have sworn you saw smoke coming from his mouth with little sparks of flame.
"Gonna cum now love, m'gonna fill your little throat okay?"
You hummed your approval, the vibrations pushing Zuko to shoot thick ropes of hot cum into your mouth with a loud groan. His cock was so deep that it went right down your throat, and whatever didn't, you greedily sucked down. The firelord was gripping your hair as he thrusted out the last of his orgasm, mouth dropped open but no sound coming out.
You drank every drop, still sucking until it became too sensitive and he was pulling you off with a grunt. You made sure to give one last suck, coming off him with a pop!, spit that was connected, stretching from his cock and your mouth.
You wiped it off and stared up at him with a smile. Still feigning righteousness, though your eyes and mouth shining with drool and drops of escaped cum, said otherwise.
You were going to drive him crazy.
"Sorry, was just stressed from meetings today. I didn't mean to be so rough-"
"Do it again." You had that look in your eyes that always drove him crazy, though Zuko knew now that you were far from innocent. He should have done this sooner.
His eyes darkened, cock hardening again before he smirked. "Get on the fucking bed."
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note: guys imagine zuko laying just like he is in the fanart and being completely mesmerized by you, i'm sucking it crazy style.
