I have some decent tea cakes at my place. Do you want to try them? Time and temperature are essential for brewing the perfect cup.
(Outfit from Duanwu chibi Sy)
summary: assigned on a freezing mountain rescue mission, you were tasked to locate and bring back survivors, while zayne tended to the injured. overwhelmed by the guilt of bringing in a child late, you bore your wounds in silence, leaving your husband unaware of the patient he should have noticed the most— and that's where he breaks.
tags: zayne x non-mc f!reader, angst/comfort, hurt, zayne loses composure, non-canonical events, no proofread
content warning: mentions of blood, death, injuries, hospitalization, heavy medical inaccuracies, rescue mission inaccuracies
word count: 3.6k
a/n: i would like to apologize in advance for the medical and rescue inaccuracies, as i am neither a medical nor a rescue personnel. google was my friend for this. i had to search stuff like “what equipment…”, “can blood loss…” and many other more lmao. thank you for your understanding, and enjoy reading!
It had been a few months since you and Zayne got married. Long before you got married and were dating, you gradually grew accustomed to each other's schedules. Sometimes, you would be assigned to a rescue mission, and he would sometimes join you, because it just so coincidentally happened that he was dispatched with the medical team.
And it was one of the few times.
You were assigned to a rescue mission on a freezing mountain, where a Wanderer attack had left countless civilians stranded across the snow-covered terrain.
As soon as you arrived, the cold mountain winds greeted your skin with a chill that seeped through the layers of your clothes. Snowfall seemed to have blanketed the terrain, burying an uneven ground beneath its surface. And somewhere beyond the ridge, emergency beacons continued to flash against the skies, marking the locations of stranded civilians.
The rescue personnel moved in hurried steps and huge strides around the temporary command post. Radios fuzzed with reports, stretchers were unloaded from transport vehicles, and medical personnel hurried between supply crates, checking the equipment one final time before deployment.
You stood near the edge of the staging area behind one of the tents, tightening the straps of your climbing harness over your thermal rescue suit as you shifted slightly beneath the thick black jacket, which was heavier than your usual uniform. After fastening the avalanche transceiver securely to your chest harness, you clipped your radio to your shoulder before reaching down to secure the crampons beneath your boots.
"Hold still."
A familiar, cool voice came from behind. Before you could react, gloved fingers brushed against your shoulder, pulling one of your harness straps tightly.
"It wasn't locked properly," Zayne said as you glanced at him, watching him refasten the buckles on your harness.
"Oops. I should've noticed."
"You would have noticed," he replied, tugging the strap firmly to ensure that it would not come loose. "Just later than I did."
A small smile formed across your lips. "Always checking my work, Doctor Zayne?"
"I'd rather check it now than regret not doing so later."
For a brief moment, your eyes met his, and the moment they locked into yours, his gaze softened.
Your eyes lowered, and you reached to straighten up the uneven collar of his jacket. Then, your hands, tucked beneath the gloves, moved to caress his cheeks.
"Remember to take naps whenever you can, my love." You gently traced your thumb on his cheek.
"I'll try."
Before either of you could say anything else, a sharp burst of static cut through the air.
"Alpha Rescue Team, move out."
Zayne briefly held your hand, then looked at your eyes again. "Be careful."
"You too."
Just a few minutes later, the wind grew harsher as you climbed higher, some of it blowing snow that stung against your face despite the protection of your goggles. Feeling dehydrated, your lips began to crack as you often swallowed.
["Beacon's picking up two signals northeast,"] one of your teammates reported over the radio. You glanced at the GPS briefly. ["Let's move."]
The climb was nothing short of difficult. Several parts of the mountain had partially collapsed due to the Wanderer attack. At some point, you even found your knees slightly weakening upon seeing the far mountain ledges. You somehow felt grateful that the locations were not too far from the camp.
Just when you arrived at a victim's location, you saw the group of victims cluttered beneath the remains of a collapsed cabin.
"There are four!" You yelled as some of your teammates gathered to help you. There were two adults and an elderly man. However, your eyes were glued on the young girl beside them. Her ankle was pinned beneath a timber.
You dropped to one knee immediately and brushed away the snow covering her legs to her ankle.
"You're alright, sweetheart," you reassured softly. "We're here now."
You turned to your teammates and signaled them. "On three." Together, they lifted the timber just enough for you to slide her leg free. "Easy... easy." The girl's tears fell from her eyes as she gripped tightly onto your sleeve. "I've got you, honey." You shushed her.
You quickly secured a splint around her lower leg before wrapping a thermal blanket over her shoulders.
Suddenly, a static came out of the radio, alerting you and your teammates. "Rescue Team Three requesting assistance. Wanderer activity detected in approximately three hundred meters east."
"Escort them back to base." You instructed your teammates. "I'll go ahead with Team Three."
"Are you sure you'll be fine on your own?" Your teammate asked, and you replied with a quick 'Yes.'
As soon as you turned around to respond to the radio, your teammates immediately set out. "I am the closest. I am on my way."
You tightened your grip around your axe as you picked up your pace, your boots sinking into the snow. The radio clipped to your shoulder fuzzed with static every few seconds before falling silent again. The farther you ventured from the command post, the eerier, quieter everything became.
"Team Three?" you called into the radio.
There was no response.
Your brows furrowed, and you clicked your tongue as you continued towards the last transmitted coordinates. Suddenly, a child's weak cry broke the silence.
"Please... help!"
Without another thought, you found yourself breaking into a sprint. The sound led you beyond a cluster of snow-covered pines. As soon as your eyes landed on the child, your heart sank.
A little boy was crumpled against a fallen tree, one hand desperately pressing against his thigh. Blood continuously seeped through the gaps between his tiny fingers, staining the snow beneath him with a pool of red.
However, your eyes were caught by a creature, a Wanderer. Its limbs scraped across the frozen ground as it slowly closed the distance between itself and the helpless child.
"Hey, you stupid!" The Wanderer immediately turned towards you, lunging forward.
The creature's claws sliced through the air as you narrowly avoided its first strike, countering with a swing of your axe that forced it back several steps. Snow erupted under your boots as you aggressively pressed forward, refusing to let it come near the child again.
The Wanderer shrieked and charged one more. You sidestepped, striking the edge of your axe into its side before kicking it away.
For a brief second, you thought the fight was over.
Suddenly, a second Wanderer burst from beneath the snow, leaving you no time to react.
You felt a sharp pain rip through your side. "Ah—!"
The Wanderer's blade buried itself beneath your ribs before the creature could push any deeper.
Gritting your teeth in pain, you twisted your body and drove your axe into its chest, and you heard it let out a final screech before dissipating. The other Wanderer followed shortly after.
You breathed heavily, mustering your strength to walk towards the boy, your breathing becoming more ragged. Warm blood immediately spread beneath the layers of your thermal suit, but you paid it no attention.
You nearly stumbled towards the little boy, and you knelt beside him. "Hey, look at me."
His face, drained of color, turned towards you, his eyes meeting yours. His eyes were glossy with tears, as if begging you to stop the pain.
"It hurts so much..." he whimpered.
"I know, my dear." You held one of his hands, trying to help him muster strength. "Let me see it, yeah?"
Carefully moving his blood-soaked hand away, you examined the wound. There was a deep laceration that stretched across his upper thigh, blood steadily seeping from the injury.
Your expression immediately hardened. "You're going to be okay, dear. You're very strong." You reached for the pouch strapped to your belt, retrieving a tourniquet. "This is going to hurt, but I need you to be brave for me," you warned gently. "Then later, when you're healed, you can eat lots of yummy foods, yeah?"
The little boy nodded through his tears.
You secured the tourniquet high around his thigh and tightened it, following it with a dressing over the wound before wrapping his body in a blanket.
And only after you dressed his wound did you hear the loud thumping of your heart.
You were afraid.
You hastily pressed a wound dressing on your side, blood soaking it within just seconds. Then, you pulled your jacket closed and carefully lifted the child into your trembling arms.
The child will die if you do not hurry.
"Hold on to me tightly, okay? I'll keep you safe."
By the time the camp came into your view, your legs felt heavier with each step. The little boy had long stopped crying, his head resting limply against your shoulder, his tiny fingers weakly clutching the front of your jacket. His face was frighteningly pale beneath the dirt and dried tears.
You tightened your hold around him. "Stay with me, sweetheart." The words came out as a plea.
As soon as you crossed the perimeter, several medics rushed toward you.
"Pediatric trauma!" one of them called.
You carefully lowered the boy onto the stretcher. "Male, approximately seven to eight years old," you reported between shallow breaths. "Deep laceration to the upper thigh. Tourniquet applied..." You briefly glanced at the time displayed on your wrist device. "... thirty minutes ago. Significant blood loss before hemorrhage control." A red triage band was secured around the child's wrist as the stretcher was wheeled towards the tent.
"Doctor Zayne!"
Zayne looked up from another patient. The moment he saw the incoming stretcher, he crossed the tent in long strides. "What happened?"
"Severe thigh laceration," the medic answered. "Tourniquet applied in the field, approximately thirty minutes ago."
"Blood pressure?"
"Seventy-eight over forty-six. Heart rate's one-fifty."
"Get two-bores of IVs. Warm the fluids. He's going into hypovolemic shock."
"Doctor Zayne, we're down to one unit of O-negative."
Suddenly, another medic came in. "We have another red tag!"
The tent descended further into chaos. Radios buzzed over one another. The heart monitors beeped without pause. Medical personnel hurried from one stretcher to the next, and a few doctors transferred from one bed to another.
You instinctively took a small step back, making room as another team wheeled an injured patient between you and Zayne. For a brief second, your eyes searched for him. Zayne was tending to the child, his eyes exhausted and hair disheveled.
You then heard the whisper of one of the nurses. "Had this child been brought late by just a few minutes, he would have passed away," she said as she looked at the child that you brought.
Maybe if you were a little faster, he would have been tended to much earlier.
Meanwhile, Greyson lowered the radio from his ear, and his expression stiffened. "The supply trucks have been delayed because of the weather. Earliest arrival is approximately twenty minutes."
Just a second after, you heard a nurse's panicking voice. "A patient's going into cardiac arrest!"
Your eyes scanned around the tent. The tent was cramped, and some nurses were almost bumping against each other. Due to the shortage of beds, some patients remained on the stretchers. Doctors kept moving everywhere, including Zayne. They had no time to pause or rest.
The sounds gradually blurred together in your ears. Their voices overlapped. The rattling of the surgical equipment, children crying, someone shouting— it all rang in your ears.
No. You could not bear it any longer. You could not bear to hear any more of people wailing in pain.
Without saying a word, you quietly stepped away from the treatment area.
You slowly trudged your way towards another tent, gathering your remaining strength in each heavy step. Your hand drifted to your side beneath your thick jacket, feeling a warm liquid seeping into your fingers.
As you pushed aside the flap of the tent, you felt your breathing become more uneven. Your eyes landed on the sealed boxes of dressings and emergency equipment that filled the space.
You drew in a shaky breath. "... I have to bring these."
Endless thoughts flooded your mind.
Those patients were going to die. Maybe if you could help them just a little bit. Maybe if you could help that child just a little bit.
You stepped towards one of the supply shelves and reached for a crate. However, before you could even reach for it, a sharp pain tore through your side, and your vision swayed.
You instinctively reached for the edge of the table to steady yourself, but your legs gave out before you could regain your balance.
A sharp gasp escaped your lips as you collapsed into a seated position, your back hitting the metal table behind you. Your breathing came in uneven, shallow breaths.
"No... no..." Your hand slowly pressed against your side as you winced in pain. With trembling fingers, you unzipped your thick rescue jacket.
The dressing you had hastily put on the mountainside had long since soaked through. Blood continued to seep from beneath it, staining your inner shirt before dripping towards the floor.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The small crimson stains gradually merged into a growing pool beneath you.
"...I have to stop it."
Your hands fumbled through one of the opened trauma kits beside you until you found a clean dressing. You peeled away the soaked bandage with a pained hiss before pressing the new dressing firmly against the wound. You wrapped the bandage around yourself as tightly as you could. However, the strength left your body with your last pull.
Suddenly, the flap of the tent opened.
A nurse hurried inside, her eyes immediately scanning the shelves.
"Where's the—"
Her eyes froze as soon as she saw you.
"... Mrs. Li?" The color drained from her face. "Mrs. Li!"
She rushed towards you, knees dropping to the ground. "Oh my god, you're bleeding!"
Your head remained lowered, hand limply clutching against your side. Your breaths had become slow and shallow. The corners of your vision darkened, and the sounds outside the tent seemed to drift farther and farther away until they were little more than muffled voices.
You could no longer comprehend the words coming out of the nurse's mouth, so you let out a whisper.
"I'm sorry... I was a bit late..." The words barely escaped your lips. "I couldn't help much..."
Just a second later, your vision drifted into darkness.
You felt something warm.
Something warm was brushing against your skin.
Your eyelids felt heavy, and it took you a few attempts before you managed to pry them open.
The white ceiling above you slowly came into focus, and you heard a steady beeping somewhere beside your bed. On the other hand, your throat felt dry. Your fingers twitched weakly against the blanket, enough to stir the figure seated beside your bed.
"...You're awake."
Turning your head slowly, your gaze landed on Zayne.
And oh, he looked nothing like the man who adjusted your harness before the mission.
His lab coat had faint creases, wrinkling the once-neat fabric as though he had been wearing it for a long time. His hair, which was usually kept in place, had begun to fall over his forehead. Dark circles lingered under his eyes, and exhaustion weighed on his usually calm face.
You tried to move your fingers a little, reaching for his hand. Seeing your attempt, he intertwined his hands with yours, meeting your gaze with pained eyes.
"My love, have you slept?" You asked. "You look tired."
A chuckle escaped his lips, but there was no sign of amusement in it. "... Not much." He breathed. "I was afraid to."
You tilted your head slightly in confusion.
"If I closed my eyes..." His thumb absentmindedly brushed over your knuckles. "...I was afraid I'd wake up, and you wouldn't be here."
Your heart clenched. "Zayne..."
"I've watched your monitor for two days. I know how many blood transfusions you received."
Silence settled between the two of you. Your gaze was fixed on his pained expression, then you gently squeezed his hand.
"I'm sorry, Zayne..."
He did not speak, but his gaze fell to the ground.
"What happened to the little boy?" You asked.
"He survived," he replied, making a relief wash over your face.
"What about the others?"
"They survived."
"That's enough for me to hear—"
"No," his voice cut through. It was not loud. Not angry. But firm enough to make you freeze. "You do not get to play the hero," he said, and the room fell silent.
You stared at him in disbelief. "Zayne, those children and people needed you. If you hadn't tended to them quickly, they would've—"
"And what about my wife?" His voice cracked. For a second, you were unable to identify his tone. It was not anger. It was something more fragile. "... my wife who carried a child on her arms while enduring a stab wound?"
You met his eyes, and this time, his entire face fell into nothing but absolute fear and sadness.
"My wife who ran, bleeding on her own." His other hand raised, his palm briefly covering his eyes. "My wife who collapsed alone because she thought she mattered less than others."
You had never seen him like this. Never.
Zayne was the calmest person you had ever known. Not until now.
"Zayne, I'm alive—"
"You were lucky. And what if a nurse did not see you?" His head lowered. "You would've bled to death." His voice trembled. "I ran into that tent, and I saw you. I saw you bathing in your own blood." He breathed and swallowed. "I thought..."
You raised your hand slowly and caressed his cheek.
You could clearly see it. Tears were falling from his eyes, from Zayne's eyes, and his expression was broken.
You brushed your thumb to wipe his tears away. "I'm here, my love."
"I should have noticed," his breath hitched. "I should have noticed how pale you were." His hand trembled as he gripped the hand you placed on his cheek. "I should have taken a proper look."
He let out a bitter laugh. "What kind of doctor can mend countless lives yet fail to see his wife's pain?" He tightened his grip, as if it was a lifeline. "What kind of husband becomes the last person to know that his wife is hurting?"
"Zayne, none of this is your fault."
"No, no. It was my fault. I was too complacent." He shook his head.
You moved slightly upright, alerting Zayne to press his hand against your shoulder to stop you from moving. His eyes were swollen, small tears falling from them.
"My love, won't you look at me?" You softly called.
At your endearment, Zayne hesitantly met your eyes, as if ashamed of his meltdown.
"My love, all of it was a decision that I made." You gently locked your eyes with his.
"And I hate that you had to."
For a few minutes, his hand settled between your fingers, and his trembling body gradually loosened with the warm brushing of your thumb.
"If something like this happens again," he placed a soft kiss on your palm. "I want you to scream at me," he paused. "Yell at me. Tell me that you're hurting. Tell me how you feel, please."
You softly raised his hand and placed it against your cheek. “Yes, my love. I will.” You kissed his palm, and somehow, his breathing became even. “I promise.”
“Don't ever decide for me that everyone else should come before you.” He leaned in closer, his forehead pressing against yours. Then, he placed a soft kiss on your forehead down to your cheek.
For a while, silence settled between the two of you. It was gentle, warm, like the sunlight spilling through the hospital window. His hand remained intertwined with yours, absentmindedly tracing slow circles across the back of your hand with his thumb. Every now and then, he would steal glances at your face, trying to reassure himself that you were awake.
You chuckled. “Goodness, what would the patients say after finding out that I made their Doctor Zayne cry?”
"My reputation will recover." His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek. "I'd be far more concerned if you didn't."
After a few moments, Zayne reluctantly pulled away. He stood from his chair and walked over to the desk near the window, flipping through the chart that had been resting there. You watched him quietly.
Without looking up, he spoke. "I'm issuing you medical leave."
You blinked. “For how long?”
“Two months.”
Your eyes widened. “Two months?!”
He briefly glanced at you before looking back at the charts. “At minimum.”
You let out an exaggerated sigh. “My love, are you trying to make me go broke?”
He looked up from the chart, his eyes hinting at amusement. “Are you underestimating my paycheck?”
You let out a small laugh. “Oh no. I wouldn’t dare.”
He closed the chart and returned to your bedside. "As your attending physician," he said in a matter-of-fact tone, "I'm ordering complete rest, no missions and no strenuous activity until I've cleared you." He then reached for the water jug and poured into an empty cup. “It’s doctor’s orders, and it’s non-negotiable.” He handed you the cup before tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Understood?”
You looked up, pretending to think about it. “Hmm… Understood.”
Satisfied, he intertwined his fingers with yours once again, and this time, he refused to let go.
tags: 18+ [MDNI], zayne x reader, smut, p in v, dirty talk, dom! zayne, implied marathon sex, implied multiple orgasms
“Am I not satisfying you?”
You blinked.
You immediately stopped watching the movie on the television, and your head tilted to look at Zayne, whose arms were crossed, leaning on the doorway.
“Um, what?” Your brows knitted together as you watched his cold gaze lock on you. “Sorry, Zayne. I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Am I not satisfying you in sex?”
Your eyes widened slightly, feeling caught off guard by your husband’s question. “Of course you do, Zayne. Where is this coming from?”
“I am your husband and your primary physician, and I have your cycle memorized,” he firmly said. “Right now, you're ovulating. So how come you're not asking for sex?”
You immediately averted your gaze back to the television, unable to meet his darkened expression. “Um, it's not like that, Zayne. I can manage myself just f-fine.”
“Really? Because as far as I remember,” You heard his slow, heavy footsteps approaching closer. “Three, four, and the previous months prior, you would initiate having sex during your ovulation.”
You gulped. “I— I just learned how to handle it on my own.”
“Why?”
Your body trembled in nervousness, eyes staring at the television, trying to seek some comfort from the noise.
“Zayne, it's not really a big deal. I swear!”
Zayne picked up the remote control and pointed it towards the television, immediately shutting the screen off into pitch-black.
“That is not what I asked.” He sternly said, setting the remote control aside.
He stood in front of you with his arms crossed, and you lowered your gaze to the floor, feeling yourself shrinking in front of him.
“I– I just don't want to bother you with trivial matters, Zayne.” You nervously fidgeted your fingers. “Your work is already physically and mentally demanding. I just don't want to add to your exhaustion…”
Zayne’s cold gaze lingered on you for a while. “So you decided to endure and relieve it on your own?”
“Zayne, it's just ovulation—”
“It seems that you have reached conclusions on your own, and most of them are inaccurate.” Zayne interrupted.
You noticed Zayne's body shift a little, making you look up.
“I can confidently attest that your assessment of my physical condition is incorrect.”
Your eyes widened, seeing Zayne unbuckling his pants.
“Z-Zayne? What are you—”
“I’ll have to properly demonstrate it instead.” Zayne’s hand reached for his glasses, hastily taking it off and placing it on the coffee table. “Let's test whether your hypothesis is correct.”
“Z-Zayne— wait— Hngh!”
“Aren't you a big girl now? Then surely you can handle my cock just fine.”
Zayne has been ramming his thick cock into you for at least three hours now, like a rutting madman.
Your chest is pressed against the bed, and your face is buried against the pillow, your tears staining the white fabric. Your hips were limply raised, gripped by Zayne's strong, large hands to maintain support.
“Ngh— Zayne… more…”
Your walls were gushing wet, and you could not distinguish whether it was from the stimulation or your cum, but it did not matter. All you could hear was the wet, unrelenting thwop, thwop, thwop.
Zayne leaned closer until you felt his breath against your ear. “My love, you said you already relieved yourself enough. But look at you, still dripping wet.” His hands traveled to your breasts, gently squeezing them. “You wanted me to bury myself inside you so badly, didn't you?”
Zayne, being a physician, already knew the answer. But would he pass this opportunity to remind you that only his cock would satisfy your thirst during ovulation? Of course not.
“‘M sorry, Zayne… your— mhmp— feels too good…” Your tongue lolled, and your mind was in a haze, feeling Zayne’s thick length hit your deepest spots.
"Cum, my needy wife." Zayne pounded you harder, and with one strong thrust, you squirted juices once again even before your mind could process it.
Your legs trembled in pleasure, feeling Zayne halt for a brief moment. Then, you weakly tilted your head to the side, eager to see his face.
Just when you thought it was over, you felt his cock rubbing against your clit, still erect.
“Z-Zayne, we've been at it for hours, y-you just came back home from work earlier—”
“No, my love.” He kissed your temple, gently turning you around, making you lie on your back. “We haven't finished the assessment.”
You looked at him teary-eyed. “I— I believe you already.”
“I disagree. The mere fact that you continue to express your concern when we're in the middle of the assessment clearly implies that I have not demonstrated enough.” He gently brushed his finger against your chin.
LaDS men and a gf that's emotionally sensitive/easy to make cry and worries its gonna annoy them so keeps bottling up so she doesn't start to annoy them? (The crying doesn't have to be their fault)
Lads Men x Sensitive reader
note : so sorry this took so long, but i hope you like it. Unfortunately, Valko won't be in this one bc I've ran out of ideas. I did try to write for him, but it ended up being similar to zayne's, so i had to scrape it.
Xavier
You were looking forward to spending time with your friends, but you hadn't expected to come home upset after a girls' night out with them being the reason for your low mood. You've lost count of how many times you've repeated yourself and felt self-conscious. After a while, you stayed to yourself, sipping on your cocktail and observing other people—you were good at that.
So, when you arrived home with a tight throat, you made sure your boyfriend, Xavier, was soundlessly asleep before swaying to the bathroom and locking it behind you.
You opened the tap and that's when you let the tears fall freely.
The warmth of your unhappiness slides down your cheek one after another as you sniffle softly, your shoulders shaking slightly as a visible sign of the trouble you were holding inside.
You weren't one to have friends so easily. You should've known something was off.
A soft knock snapped you out of your emotional bubble. Your head whips to the door and you quickly splash cold tap water on your face to make it look like you weren't crying.
"Star?"
Your boyfriends sleepy voice soothed your aching heart. He was so soft spoken, and it was one of your favorite things about him.
"Hm?
"Are you okay?" He spoke hesitantly.
You willed yourself to keep your voice steady. "Yeah, I was just cleaning my makeup off. Did I wake you?" You quickly grab your cleanser and wash your face.
"No…I was already awake."
You frowned. You quickly finished washing your face and gave yourself a once-over in the mirror to make sure you looked decent and not like you were crying before unlocking the bathroom.
Your poor boyfriend looked so tired; it was almost cute. But you were concerned because it was midnight, and it looked like he could nod off upright.
"Did you wait up for me?" Guilt pumped through your blood. You should've come home earlier.
Xavier chuckles softly. "No…I just couldn't sleep."
Your eyes narrow, examining his state. "You're a bad liar."
"So are you."
Your eyes widen momentarily, but you quickly compose yourself. "I don't know what you mean."
Xavier's exhaustion slowly faded away to concern. He tilted his head to the side, his eyes locked on you. "Star…You don't wear makeup."
Dammit.
"Did someone upset you?"
"No!" You exclaim. "Just drop it, okay?" You walk away. You didn't want to tell him because it wasn't a big deal. You were just a sensitive woman who looks too deeply into things.
As you walked away, Xavier kept his eyes on you, brows slightly furrowed in confusion and worry. Something happened, and he won't give up just yet, but you looked like you needed space, and he was going to respect that for now.
Zayne
You knew Zayne loved you, but it was just hard to think so these days because of how busy he was. As pathetic as it sounded, you just wanted his attention.
And so, for the past few days, you've made it your job to grab his attention. You've tried getting a new haircut, a new makeup look, and a new perfume, but to no avail; he barely noticed.
You almost gave up—just almost—but you had one last idea, and if it didn't work, then you'll just have to leave it alone and go back to the way you were before. Or perhaps you could give him a taste of his own medicine.
So, you walked to his office in hope that he would finally be able to get a break and take you on a date.
"Zayne, because you've been busy, I've been thinking of taking you on a date. I've already thought of seventy-seven date ideas!" You smiled proudly, pulling out pieces of paper. "Do you wanna see?"
"—I'm busy, so please refrain from speaking to me when I'm working." His tone was clipped, not once taking his eyes off his laptop screen.
"Oh…okay." You quickly covered up your facial expression as if his dismissive comment didn't just wound you. You began to step back. "I'll just put those here..."
He says nothing, so you just turn around and walk out of his office with a big lump in your throat, a thin coat of tears glistening in your eyes.
You were upset and embarrassed, but you knew it was stupid. Your boyfriend was a busy man, and his world didn't exist solely for you.
With a heavy heart and slumped shoulders, you dragged your feet to the guest bedroom and climbed on the bed. Without bothering to cover yourself with a blanket, you took a nap soundly, hoping the next day would be a better one.
Rafayel
Your boyfriend was a very popular man—his beautiful art had attracted many young and old people. Some truly loved his art, while others just wanted to look cool.
Rafayel's last art exhibition was a few months ago, but he refused to go as usual and bribed Thomas with a week off—which Thomas was hesitant about at first. It was a new tactic of Rafayel's, seeing as his excuses were getting a bit outdated.
But it later came back to bite him in the ass. Thomas had recently taken his revenge and bribed him back—an offer that your artistic boyfriend couldn't resist.
So, now Rafayel was begging you to go with him, thinking of everything he could to get you to agree.
You refused a few times but looked closer at your boyfriend. He was anxious and jittery, and it was a little strange to see your lively boyfriend like that, but you understood him clearly now.
He hated crowds—as did you—but this wasn't about you; it was about your boyfriend, and you'd agree to go with him if it meant your presence would calm him down.
You sighed in defeat and looked down at your boyfriend, who was lying on your lap with a sulky pout that refused to leave his face. "Fine, I'll go."
The expression your boyfriend made was definitely worth it as he jumped from your lap, his pink and purple eyes sparkling from the victory he felt along with the sunlight that gleamed through the living room window.
"You'll really go with me, cutie?"
You suppressed a snicker and nodded. "What time are we leaving?"
"Six noon."
Your head tilted down towards your watch. You only had an hour and twenty minutes to shower, do your makeup and hair and pick an outfit; it wasn't enough time, but you were lucky enough to have an artistic and fashionable boyfriend.
"Okay, but you're gonna have to help me."
The rest of the day, people shoved cameras in your faces and bombarded you with questions. And somewhere along the way, you and Rafayel were separated, leaving you sitting in the corner while your infamous lavender-haired boyfriend entertained the visitors.
For the past twelve minutes, you have been drinking a lot of juice from a martini glass—the rosy liquid sloshing around dangerously close to the rim. You didn't know what it was, but it was one of the best things you've ever tasted—a little bitter, but still amazing.
As you admired one of Rafayel's paintings, a pretty woman with brunette hair came up to you and stood right beside you, a little too close for your liking. Her brown eyes reflected her giddiness inside.
"It's a beautiful painting." The woman awed as she gazed at the painting, her eyes raking over every corner of the canvas.
You observed the painting, taking in every detail your boyfriend worked hard on, from the gentle strokes of a cared-for paintbrush to the little details of the texture of the sand.
"I'm Ivy, nice to meet you."
"I'm—"
"—You're the girlfriend. I know." She looked proud of herself.
You looked away in disappointment. You were used to being addressed as his girlfriend from the start of your relationship, but it didn't bother you any less. In fact, it bothered you to your wits end. Your whole identity was being reduced to just Rafayel's girlfriend when you knew you were much more than that. Hell, even he didn't address you as his girlfriend as much as the fans did.
Speaking of Rafayel, your eyes darted to his figure. It was easy to spot him—his taste in fashion was so stunning that no one could even come close.
He was engaging in a conversation with a previous artist he collaborated with a while back. He looked like he was doing much better than you are, and you loved that for him.
You, on the other hand, suddenly felt down, like your whole day was ruined, and you didn't exactly know why. You frowned, your mind clouded as you struggled to think about what caused your down-mood.
"Are you okay?"
Your head snapped towards Ivy, eyes slightly wide. You sort of forgot about her. Your brain short-circuited as you tried to think of an excuse. "I—yeah. I just think I might be leaking." You stuttered over your quick lie and began to walk off in a rush. "I'll be right back!"
The bathroom door shut behind you as you stepped in, your eyes stinging with tears as if a freshly cut onion were nearby. You examined the bathroom, and you stepped into the closest empty stall you could find.
Rafayel watched with furrowed brows as he noticed you leaving for the bathroom, his mind straying from the conversation and being filled with concern for you instead.
His eyes drifted towards where you left and landed on the tall woman that he saw approaching you earlier. Quickly excusing himself, he made his way over to her. He cleared his throat, causing Ivy to jump and turn her head to him.
Her eyes widened, her jaw dropping in shock. "Rafayel? H-How can I help you?" She practically exclaimed in excitement.
Rafayels face barely twitched at the girls enthusiasm seeing as he was very familiar with it as a very popular artist. "My girlfriend looked upset—"
Ivy nodded in understanding. "—Ohh, I see. She said she might be leaking and left in a rush." She shrugged.
Rafayel furrowed his eyebrows. Leaking? You don't start your period until two weeks from now.
He nodded and thanked her. Before she could get a word in, he walked off to the woman's bathroom, and as he entered, he received a few strange looks from young women. But he didn't have it in him to care when you walked off upset.
"Cutie?" He called out, his eyes carefully observing the bottom of the stall to see the beautiful navy heels he had once gifted to you early in your relationship.
Your breath hitched, eyes lifting off the bathroom floor, anxious. You didn't want him to notice you in this state, so you lifted your feet on top of the toilet bowl lid and hoped for the best.
"What'cha doing, Cutie?"
You yelp and almost fall off the toilet, your palm flying to your chest, feeling the fast-paced heartbeat beneath. Your head snapped up to your right and met eyes with Rafayel. "Rafayel!" you hissed, your hand dropping to your side when the adrenaline faded away. "What's wrong with you?"
Your boyfriend faked a pained wince and placed his palm over his heart dramatically with a pout. "I'm deeply wounded, cutie. I thought the love of my life would be happy to see me."
You raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his antics, and pulled yourself up to meet his height—almost, seeing as he was tall. "What are you doing in the woman's bathroom?"
"I came to see you."
"Why?"
A soft puff of air escaped Rafayel's blush-pink lips, all signs of his everyday humor leaving his body as he suddenly became serious. "You looked upset, so I got worried and followed you here."
Your heart squeezed with affection. "Raf...in the woman's bathroom?" You let out a half-hearted, breathy laugh.
He pursed his lips and nodded. "Yep, my mind was only focused on you, so you're the one to blame." He tilted his head, eyeing you more closely. "Aren't you going to tell me why you looked upset?"
You sighed, cupping his cheek over the stall barrier, and he rested his palms over yours, turning his head slightly to kiss your wrist.
"…Just menstrual stuff." You ended up saying instead, because truthfully, you didn't know why you were suddenly upset. It wasn't like what Ivy referred to you as hurt you, right? That would be ridiculous.
Rafayel tilted his head, his eyes never straying from your face. "You don't get your period until a few weeks, cutie."
"Oh."
He gripped your hands that lay upon his cheek and held them, squeezing them reassuringly. "I need you to tell me the real reason so I can fix it. Can you do that for me?"
"I—" You look up into his pink eyes, observing the the depth of his concern before sighing in defeat. "It's stupid."
Rafayel raised his brows. "I can do with stupid."
"Okay…" As you began to rant about what's been bothering you, your boyfriend quietly listened, not once interrupting you.
"And don't get me wrong, I love seeing your art, but I wanted to stay home with you and watch you paint, cuddle, and banter, but I didn't want to hurt you or Thomas by making this about me, so I didn't say anything. I love being here with you, but your fans and reporters keep addressing me as your girlfriend excessively—I have a name, and to be honest, I don't think they actually know it."
You fidgeted with his fingers as your weight shifted anxiously from one foot to another during your hurried rant. Your eyes darted from the ceiling to the ground to avoid eye contact.
You hated speaking up about your feelings, because as you grew up, they were either brushed off or looked past, so you've learned to stay quiet and keep them to yourself.
Rafayel's heart twisted as he caught a sheen of tears in your eyes. "Look at me, please."
Your eyes drifted back to him. "It's stupid, I know—I told you it was stupid."
"Nope." He held your hands firmly in his slender ones. "We're not doing that today. How about we go home right now? I'd love to spend my time with you instead." His playfulness came back now that he knew the real reason you were upset.
Your eyes widened slightly in hope. "Another paint session?" you murmured, but your boyfriend simply winked and let go of your hands before disappearing behind the barrier.
You grinned and stepped down from the toilet seat before unlatching the lock and exiting the stall.
Rafayel stood before you with the corner of his lips tugged up, his palms outstretched for you to take, and you did so without hesitation.
He guided you out of the bathroom, ignoring the stares and whispers he got from the few women left in the dim-lit bathroom. He'll deal with the fans later when he knows for sure you're okay.
Sylus
You entered the mall with confidence, picking jewelry and clothes that caught your eye. You've been working very hard with the Hunters Association, and Sylus noticed, so he gave you his black card and told you to get whatever you want.
So, you walked inside the mall, confident as you held three shopping bags on one arm.
Time passed as you looked around and tested out the fabrics by feeling them and treating yourself to lunch.
One in particular dress caught your eyes, so you just had to get it.
"Are you getting that?" The cashier asked.
You paused. Was she being rude? It was difficult to tell because she looked so kind, but her tone was just slightly off, making you unsure whether she was having a bad day or if you were just overanalyzing it.
"Um, yes I am. I really love it." You awkwardly laugh, already wanting to flee home.
"Me too! It's really unique." Her smile widened extravagantly, and her voice dripped with faux honey. She scanned the dress and folded it neatly in a small bag.
As she went ahead and told you the price, you zoned out.
Unique? No one usually uses that term as a compliment. Then your mind goes to her painfully over exaggerated smile.
Yeah…she was definitely being rude.
Swiftly, you tapped Sylus's black card against the card reader, grabbed your bag, and walked off without so much as a thank you.
As you neared your car, your shoulders visibly curled in, all traces of confidence gone from your body. You entered your vehicle and shoved all the bags in the backseat before starting the engine.
As you drove home, your throat tightened painfully. You were not going to cry because of something so stupid, so you toughened up and took a deep breath. If you cried, Sylus would no doubt notice, and you weren't in the mood for a boyfriend interrogation.
But you suppose that was useless either way, because the minute you stepped through that door, he immediately noticed something was off.
As you cleaned the dust off your book, Sylus stepped behind you closely, his palms slithering around your waist before leaning down to rest his head on your shoulder.
You tense.
"What's wrong, kitten?"
"Nothing," you say blankly, placing your books back on the shelf and picking up another one. You knew when people asked a question like that, they didn't really want to know, so you stayed quiet about the rude cashier—you refused to bother him with something so trivial.
Sylus's grip tightened before standing upright. "Don't lie to me, kitten." He grabbed your cleaning cloth as you grabbed onto another book.
You sighed in frustration and turned around to face him. But you were surprised. His face was millimeters away from yours, his blood-colored eyes piercing your soul through your own.
Just looking at him reminded you how powerful he was while you were just a sensitive woman. It was humiliating and, quite frankly, wouldn't be a good look on your behalf or for him if anyone in the N109 zone found out.
Your head turned to your left stubbornly, refusing to meet eye contact, but Sylus swiftly gripped your chin and directed your face back to him before you could hide completely.
"Look at me."
"I'm looking."
"You only got groceries." His face was straight, but he sounded disappointed.
Your eyes narrowed. "You did say to get whatever I wanted, and I did
Sylus raised a brow, letting go of your chin and stepping back. "Yes, I did say that." He sighed. "You looked upset. Will you tell me, or will I have to ask Mephisto? I would prefer it if you told me yourself."
You cocked your head back with a befuddled frown. "Mephisto? What does he have to do with it—you had him follow me?" you scoffed. Of course he would. Now, you were worried he would snitch on you; there's no doubt he would.
"You're so protective sometimes!"
"I thought we already established that, sweetie."
The rest of the day, you hide away in your bedroom, bracing yourself for the embarrassment of having your sensitive persona finally exposed to the man you loved.
Caleb
The fluorescent lights blinded you as you stepped in, the food, drinks, and home necessities being all that you could see. You were in a small supermarket with Caleb, picking out what to buy for MC.
She was coming for dinner, and it had to be special. You and your boyfriend couldn't just make spaghetti for her and call it a day, as it was disrespectful.
Caleb hummed in thought. "Hm, how about I make the Caleb special for her instead?" He then turned to you for your opinion.
You halted, looking almost heartbroken. The Caleb special? You clear your throat, smiling. "Okay! I think that's a great idea."
You didn't believe it was a good idea at all.
The Caleb special was a delicious food that he always made for you in the morning after long nights in bed. You figured it was just a you-and-him thing. Now it wouldn't be so special anymore…
You push your feelings away and busy yourself the rest of the day, continuing conversations with your boyfriend like normal. You attempted to help him cook the dish, but he strongly refused.
Caleb glanced at you from the kitchen as he finished preparing his special dish. He noticed you've shifted a lot in the past twenty minutes, your eyes distant.
He really did want you to be in the kitchen with him. It was just that if you knew how to make his special dish, then you would no longer beg him to tell you or pester him anymore—you wouldn't need him, and he kept telling himself it was for the best.
Soon enough, MC arrived, and your feelings had gotten worse over the few hours she stayed in.
They had many inside jokes, and they laughed and smiled while you ate your dinner and wordlessly nodded along.
You slid your chair back and stood, mumbling. "I'll be right back."
You sauntered to the bathroom and shut it behind, but not before watching your boyfriend and your best friend go back to joking around.
You frowned, loneliness settling deep in your chest. You felt as though you were being dramatic and overly "you" again. You didn't want to cry over this—there was no reason to, but you had the urge.
Whenever MC came over, it was like you didn't exist to Caleb. All of his attention was on her as they reminisced about their past. They were very close friends—you knew that, but it didn't mean you were okay with being ignored.
Your throat muscles tightened and your vision blurred. You blinked continuously and glanced up at the bathroom ceiling to ease your tears, swallowing your saliva in a useless attempt to relax your throat.
As you managed to collect yourself, you flushed the toilet and opened the tap before stepping out of the bathroom. Caleb couldn't know you were upset; otherwise, you'd actually have to talk about your feelings, and what a nightmare that would be.
Caleb nodded along to whatever MC was saying, but his mind was on you. Not only were you in the bathroom for a while, but you were unusually quiet, too.
He had wanted to check in on you, but MC dragged him back into conversation, unaware of his inner conflict.
Soon, minutes blurred into hours. The house became quiet—the tap water running and the clinking of dishes being stacked were the only things heard in the apartment.
As you washed the plates, Caleb sauntered behind you, wrapping his huge arms around your waist as he rested his head atop yours. "What's wrong, bunny?"
You breathed in deeply at his touch. "Nothing. Why?" You twisted off the knob, and Caleb's head lifted, allowing you to turn to him, and you did.
He reaches out and grabs your hand, holding it gently in his large palms. "Because I kinda get the feeling you're mad at me, and I'd like to know if this gut feeling is correct."
"No, it's not."
Caleb tilted his head. "Then why won't you look at me, Baby?"
"Oh, I'm looking," you said and nodded. "I'm just cleaning." As you went to move away from Caleb, his fingers fastened around your wrist, pulling you back to his chest before picking you up from your lower half and throwing you over his shoulder.
You gasped in surprise. "Wha—what're you doing?!"
"I'm not lettin' you down until you tell me what's wrong." Caleb made his way over to the couch.
"There's nothing wrong," you defended yourself stubbornly. You didn't want to tell him because you realized just how sensitive you've been—an embarrassing amount.
"You're ignoring me," Caleb stated, tilting his head.
"Um, no. You're ignoring me," you talked back, not realizing you just set yourself up for a long conversation.
"Ah, so is that what this is about?" He sounded proud of himself; you could practically hear his smug grin. He placed you down on the ground and brought you both down on the couch, so you're now straddling him, looking straight into his violet eyes. "My princess is mad that I'm ignoring her, huh?"
Unfortunately, your boyfriend was very good at getting what he wanted.
You were on your knees, looking up to meet your boyfriend’s gaze. Red eyes fully blown out, hair messier than you’d ever seen it, strands sticking to his forehead with sweat. His brows were scrunched together in a fevered, feral expression, lips parted to let out a low, muffled groan. Everything was hazy– too fucking hazy– and it took you a second to realize he was saying something.
Something along the lines of calling you a good girl.
And a good fucking girl you were indeed. Mouth stuffed full of his cock, you were sucking him off like a champ, taking every thick inch he shoved down your throat. You could barely breathe, barely fit all of him, mascara-stained tears streaming down your cheeks while your hand rubbed frantic, desperate circles over your clit. Oh you looked nasty alright.
Sylus fisted a handful of hair at the base of your head and pressed you all the way down his length until you gagged around him. Almost instantly, he filled your mouth up, the salty, warm taste of him overflowing your tongue as you swallowed every drop down your throat.
And then you woke up.
You blinked once. Twice. Chest heaving, you found yourself tangled in your bedsheets, an unmistakable wet patch soaking straight through your underwear. Christ. Some dream that was. It was the first time something like that had happened, and it was everything you were too shy to ever ask from Sylus, who had never gone beyond breathless kisses and innocent cuddles with you.
Obviously, Sylus was walking sex. The fact that he was your boyfriend meant you were constantly riled up, twitchy, and practically leaking just being in the same room as him. His incessant teasing didn't help either. The further your relationship progressed, the harder it became to ignore the growing ache you were beginning to feel. That ache right in your pussy, something only he could truly cure.
But since you were too much of a coward to do anything about it, you were going to have to fix it yourself. Sighing, you sunk back into your mattress, a hand trailing inside your underwear before you could stop it. Biting your lip, your fingers recreated the same circles on your clit you felt not too long ago.
“Fuck... Sy”
-------
Meanwhile, at his base, Sylus was having a hard time of his own.
His features were flushed and restless in sleep, breathing coming in low, ragged hitches. His hips unconsciously bucked upward, chasing the phantom mouth he was seeing in his mind.
After a beat, his eyes shot open, lips immediately curling up into a smile.
Sylus wasn't unaware of the connection he had with your dreams, knowing it had something to do with your soul-tie. You, being oblivious as ever, never seemed to question his convenient calls or appearances whenever you had a nightmare.
But the reason only he knew, and that was because he could see through most of your dreams, especially the ones you had particularly strong feelings for, the intensity of his visions spiking with your emotions . But this one... this one was the most vivid yet.
In fact, he had the front fucking seat to the show.
Sitting upright on his bed, the sheets falling off his bare torso, he looked down to see a certain problem saying hello. He’s gonna have to take care of that now.
Yet he couldn't help the twinge of amusement settling in his chest. Beneath all that shy, sweet hesitation you carried during the day, his kitten clearly had a filthy little mind.
He wasn't going to let you in on his little window into your head just yet, though. He wanted to have his fun for just a bit longer.
——————
The following weeks were absolute torment for you.
It was harder to face Sylus than you thought, your mind conjuring up the images of your dream at the most inconvenient times possible. Like that time when he had you curled up in his lap, hand stroking your hair, innocent enough for a normal person.
Yet in your depravity, all you could think about was how those same hands felt tightening their grip in your hair instead, using your mouth to relieve his cock.
Or that time when he called you a good girl for finishing a task you’d been putting off for days. The knowing smile on his face when he did that made your heart leap into your throat, the all-too-familiar feeling of having all your secrets laid bare for him before you learned how to resist his Aether Core.
But you rationalized it, of course. Chalking it up to him being his usual smug self, deliberately pushing your buttons to watch you squirm. And it fucking worked. The dreams became a nightly occurrence, each one bolder, nastier, and more obscene than the last.
And somehow, Sylus kept saying and doing things that felt eerily close to what happened in them, subtle enough to pass for coincidence, but specific enough to make you think he knew more than he let on.
The universe was playing a sick joke on you.
-------
You were at the Onychinus base for date night, but Sylus was running late. Some dispute with his subordinates had dragged him away, and his last text claimed he wouldn't be back for another hour.
Walking over to the couch to wait for him, you plopped down on your back, stretching your legs over the leather that still smelled faintly of him. A shudder ran down your spine, and that persistent throb returned between your thighs. Letting out a shaky breath, you pulled a throw blanket over yourself, trying to fight it off.
It was ridiculous. You couldn't go a single day without touching yourself; you were acting like a bitch in heat.
You picked up your phone, swiping the lockscreen to reread Sylus’s text over and over again like that would summon him immediately. Holding your flushed bottom lip between your teeth, you could feel your degeneracy catching up to you.
Yup. You were gonna fuck yourself right on his couch.
Your arousal had you more than prepped already, your pussy ruining your fourth pair of underwear today with how much it had dripped. So you wasted no time shoving two fingers inside, rubbing against your wet walls impatiently as your thighs clamped shut around your hand. You tried to imagine his fingers instead of your own– longer, thicker, reaching all the spots you couldn't reach yourself. That was what those hands were made for anyway, a much better use than whatever work Sylus usually occupied them with.
Before you knew it, you were cumming with a stifled cry of his name. Panting, you pulled your sticky fingers out, exhaustion suddenly crashing over you. You realised you still had plenty of time to nap before he got back, and you drifted off almost instantly.
--------
Sylus was mid-interrogation when it happened.
He stood towering over the trembling man collapsed at his feet, sleeves rolled up to his forearms as the red tendrils of his Evol danced around his knuckles. He raised his hand, about to land another blow, before he felt all the air yanked from his lungs. His Aether eye flared a dangerous, searing crimson.
He lost sight of the dark basement, replaced by an intoxicating sensory overload. The details were blurry around the edges before he realized he was pulled into your dreamspace yet again.
You were both standing at a balcony, him fucking you from behind, your bare tits exposed to the cool night air as your hands scrambled for purchase on the railing. He had his fingers shoved into your mouth to muffle your moans, his hips slamming rhythmically against yours, the nasty feat visible to whoever that wanted to see it.
“Mmmphf Sy–”
He pushed his fingers deeper, clamping your tongue down as he bit the shell of your ear.
“Shh. Dirty fucking girl. You want someone out there to see us like this, don’t you, sweetie?”
Even as he watched it all unfold through his own eyes, his body moved on autopilot, driven to act out the lewd scenario playing out in your mind, feeling the throb of his dick in your tight walls far too realistically for comfort.
Sylus blinked back into reality, head dipping to the side to shake off the lingering effects of the vision, a smirk pulling at his lips.
Shame he didn't get to see it all the way.
Leaving the terrified man spared for another day, Sylus headed straight for his car. He had always prided himself on his patience, but after days of these non-stop visions, he was dangerously close to his limit.
It was the same almost every night, you brazenly fucking him in your sleep, dangling the sweet treat right in front of him before he eventually woke up to his cock twitching and begging for your real pussy instead.
By the time he reached his base and stepped into the living room, he found you passed out on the couch, no doubt still dreaming of impaling yourself on his dick.
Stepping over, he crouched down, watching your chest rise and fall with the occasional hitched breath. Taking your hand in his, he noticed the slick still coating your fingers, and his eyes dilated.
Poor thing, having to take care of herself all alone. He tutted softly. If only you would ask for what you wanted, use him the way you so graciously showed him every night. God, he hoped you’d break soon, or he was going to give in first and have his way with you.
-------
It all came to a head on a random weekend. It was past midnight, and both of you were dozing off in his bed. Your back was pressed against Sylus’s chest, spooned up with his arm wrapped around your waist. You looked so content, soft snores escaping your lips as you drifted through a restful sleep.
But your mind– ever the gluttonous cock fiend– wouldn’t let either of you rest for long.
Face down, ass up. That was how he had you.
“Just like that, sweetie. Come on, take it all the way in—fuck, there we go.”
Your lips parted with a silent sigh, your thighs squeezing together around his leg. Sylus’s eyebrows furrowed in his sleep, his fingers twitching against your stomach.
“Sy, slow down, too big—”
He slammed harshly all the way into your womb.
His actual hips jerked in response, the hardening length of his cock outlining itself clearly through his sweatpants.
“Ah ah ah, don't run away from me sweety–”
He dragged your hips back to meet his thrust this time.
His grip tightened on your waist, subconsciously tugging your actual body back toward him.
“Fucking gorgeous, so tight. This is my cunt, isn’t it? Mine.”
He held your hips with bruising force, ramming into that delicious spot that had you drooling into the sheets.
Still asleep, Sylus managed to drag you completely flush against him, pinning your ass to his lap. A low groan escaped his chest at the contact as his dick nudged directly against your clothed cunt.
And it must've known it was close to home, 'cause it seemed to throb and twitch more eagerly.
“Shit– keep fucking back on me like that. Use my cock sweetie.”
He slowed down as you rutted back into him, chasing your own high.
And your hips rolled back instinctively, pressing your hole against his tip, seeking out the stretch of him even in your unconscious state.
Sylus was losing his resolve, taking back the reins as he desperately bullied his cock through your walls once more. He wrapped an arm around the back of your neck, using that grip to hold you in place.
And he was getting bolder in reality too, his hand pinning you down on his dick, grinding and dry humping you through your shorts.
“Sy ‘m gonna come, fuck im gonna come please–”
And you came outside of the dream too- Your pussy clamped down hard, soaking through all your layers and pulsing wildly against the thick length shoved flush between your thighs, soaking him too in the process.
Sylus snapped out of the trance with a flinch, his eyes shooting open as a ragged groan spilled from his lips. Were you just… sleep fucking? What a mess, all without so much as undressing each other.
Sylus held onto you tighter– not the sleepy, sluggish movements from earlier, but his full grip coming into effect instead. He dipped his head into the curve of your shoulder.
“Fuck. wake up, please. Please” he huffed, unsure of what he would do to himself if he didn't go balls deep in you right fucking now.
Boom shakalaka bitches
couldnt take myself seriously while writing this so uhhh not sure if yall want a part 2, but lmks :>
He might be the big bad wolf to the rest of the world, but with you he is the neediest, most shamelessly attached creature to ever exist. You want to be annoyed. You really do. And yet every single one of his habits somehow turns soft and golden in your chest until you’re melting all over again.
You’ll be sleeping on your back, dead to the world, when a huge arm suddenly slides between your thighs and scoops you backward in one smooth motion. You wake with a startled gasp—“Valko—”…—only to feel him already nuzzling the top of your head like an oversized dog who has finally found his favourite pillow. He hums low in his throat, still mostly asleep, and tightens his hold until you’re pressed flush against the furnace of his chest. His tail drapes heavily over both of you, a living blanket that refuses to let you drift even an inch away.
You’ll step out of the shower smelling like the new strawberry body wash you bought, and the second he catches the scent his whole face falls into a dramatic sulk. “Valko—” He huffs, crowds you from behind, and wraps those thick arms around your waist. A long, deliberate lick drags up the side of your neck. You flinch; he only presses closer, voice rough with quiet displeasure.
“You smell like strawberry and I don’t like that.” His teeth graze your pulse point, a gentle warning bite that makes your breath hitch. He stays there a moment, inhaling deeply, then sighs in pure satisfaction. “Mmhh… there. Smell like me again.” He pulls back with a bright, smug smile and walks away, tail wagging so hard it nearly knocks over the bathroom stool.
You’ll be cooking dinner, focused on the pan, when he materialises behind you without a sound. One second the kitchen is empty; the next his chest is warm against your back and his chin is heavy on your shoulder. He doesn’t ask. He just stays there, breathing you in, occasionally nosing under your jaw like he’s checking that you haven’t somehow slipped out of his orbit in the last three minutes. When you try to reach for the salt he simply tightens his arms and carries you two steps to the left so he doesn’t have to let go.
You’ll sit on the couch to answer a message and suddenly the entire sofa dips under his weight. Valko drapes himself over your lap like a living weighted blanket, head in the crook of your neck, one massive hand spanning your thigh. If you shift even slightly he makes a low, wounded sound and nuzzles harder until you give up and card your fingers through his hair. Only then does the unhappy rumble fade into contented silence.
You’ll try to leave the bed in the morning and his arm becomes an iron bar across your waist. Eyes still closed, he pulls you back under the covers, tucks your face against his throat, and murmurs, voice sleep-rough and utterly unapologetic,“Five more minutes… stays with me.” His tail curls around your calf like a soft, insistent chain. You know those five minutes will stretch into twenty, and somehow you never mind.
You’ll be reading on the floor and he’ll simply drop down beside you, roll onto his side, and drag you half on top of him so your head rests over his heart. Every time you turn a page he presses a lazy kiss to your hair, as if reminding the book that it is only borrowing you for a little while.
And every single time—when he steals you from sleep, when he rewrites your scent, when he refuses to let even a foot of space exist between you—you feel that same helpless, fond ache bloom behind your ribs.
He’s the big bad wolf. He’s also the clingiest, softest, most ridiculously devoted thing you’ve ever known. And somehow that combination is completely, devastatingly yours.
a/n : hello, it's been a while sobs i stand with my cancelled husband.
“You rang the bell...the bell means you need me.”
“I always need you, Zayne.” You guide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your bare stomach, and the breath he lets out against your neck is almost a surrender in itself. “I think you need me, too.”
synopsis: butler!zayne is trained to anticipate your every need. what he hasn't been trained for is you—home alone, ringing the one bell he's never been able to ignore, asking for the one thing he's never been able to give.
wc: 8.8k | ao3
tags: butler!zayne, brat tamer!zayne, age gap, power imbalance, porn with plot, fluff + smut, comfort no hurt, spanking, edging, cunnilingus, hair pulling, vaginal sex, backshots, prone bone, size difference, aftercare
a/n: giving zayne one (1) barely legal fantasy……..as a treat……….
The first time you tried, you were sixteen.
It was the thick of summer, the kind of damp heat that turns the estate into a greenhouse. Your mother's garden party sprawled across the south lawn, and you’d hidden upstairs long enough to change into a sundress that was definitely too short and absolutely on purpose.
You padded barefoot down the service stairs to the kitchen, where Zayne—the perfect butler, the one who runs the household, the one who never lets anything go wrong—was reviewing the evening's schedule.
You perched yourself on the counter beside his clipboard, crossed your legs, and let the hem ride up.
“I need help with my zipper,” you said, turning to show him the back of the dress, which was zipped perfectly fine and you both knew it.
Zayne hadn't looked up from the schedule, hadn't so much as blinked. He simply reached over, tugged the zipper up the remaining quarter-inch it didn't need to travel, and said, “Will that be all?”
You stared at the back of his head, face burning, and vowed that one day you'd get him to break.
You tried again on your eighteenth birthday.
Your parents had thrown a party, the kind with floral arrangements and a champagne tower and three hundred people who knew your family's net worth better than they knew your name. You spent the evening smiling until your cheeks ached, accepting congratulations from strangers, and dancing with boys your mother hand selected who were perfectly nice and perfectly boring and perfectly wrong.
By midnight, you escaped to the kitchen—kicked your heels off, discarded your tiara on the counter, and sat on the floor with your back against the island eating leftover cake with your fingers.
Zayne had found you there. He'd taken in the scene—the dress pooling around you, the smudged mascara, the pink frosting on your thumb—and silently retrieved a fork before sitting down beside you.
He was still in his suit, still immaculate as ever, but he'd loosened his tie—and the sight of that one concession to comfort had made something hot pulse through you. You sat together in silence for a while, passing the cake back and forth. Then, because you were eighteen and a little drunk and very tired of pretending, you asked:
“Zayne. Do you think I'm pretty?”
He blinked, keeping his eyes shut for an extra heartbeat—processing the question, the context, the thousand reasons he should deflect.
“You've been drinking.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“The answer doesn't change based on your sobriety.”
“So there is an answer.”
He reached over and wiped a smear of frosting from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The gesture was gentle and natural, the kind of thing he'd done a hundred times when you were small. Except you weren't small anymore, and his thumb had lingered a second too long, and you ached to know if he’d still be gentle if he pressed it against your tongue.
“You should drink some water,” he'd said quietly. “And go to bed.”
“Come tuck me in, then.”
You'd meant it as a joke, but the words came out too soft and the look on his face told you that you'd gotten closer to something real than either of you was prepared for.
He didn’t give you a response. Just stood up, filled a glass with cold water, and set it on the floor beside you.
“Happy birthday, princess.”
You'd sat there alone in the kitchen as the door shut behind him, holding the cup with both hands, and hated yourself for pushing. Maybe hated yourself more for not pushing harder. You'd felt his thumb on your mouth for the rest of the night. For weeks after.
Sometimes, if you closed your eyes, you could still feel it now.
Tonight, you’re twenty, and the house is trying to eat you alive.
You’re home from university for winter break, but the house is empty—your parents are out of the country, occupied by some charity board retreat that requires a week of their attention. The staff has all gone home for the holidays, leaving you alone in a house that was built for thirty.
Alone except for Zayne.
Zayne stays. He always stays, because someone has to manage the property and someone has to manage you, and your parents have never trusted anyone else with either job.
The estate is settling into its bones, creaking and groaning like it’s alive and reminding you how small you are inside it. The hallways are too long, the ceilings are too high, and every shadow seems to have eyes looking directly at you.
You’re not scared.
You’re an adult. You have self-defense training and a home security system that could protect a small nation.
You're not scared.
The floorboards squeak directly above your bed, and you flinch so hard you nearly fall off the mattress.
Okay. Maybe you’re a little scared.
Your eyes find the bell on your nightstand.
It's small—worn with age, fitted with a wooden handle meant for hands of a much younger you. Your grandmother had gifted it after you'd had a nightmare and screamed the house down and said, Ring this whenever you need someone, darling. Someone will always come.
Someone always meant Zayne.
Your parents never really had the time, or the patience, or the interest in dealing with your whims. But Zayne…Zayne always did. He was paid to maintain order after all, and managing you was just another task—though it never felt like one.
Not when he answered the call of your bell every time.
You'd rung it the night of the thunderstorm when you were eight, and he'd appeared within minutes with a flashlight and a copy of The Secret Garden and read to you until the storm passed. You'd rung it the night before your first day of secondary school, sick with anxiety, and he'd brought warm milk and sat with you while you listed every possible catastrophe and he assured you, very gently, that none of those things would happen and that if they did, he would personally intervene.
You rang it less and less as you grew older, saving it for the real emergencies—when your first boyfriend broke up with you by text, or the night before your final exams when you couldn't stop shaking. He always came. Never commented on the hour or the reason, just showed up at your door ready to handle whatever you needed handled.
You haven't rung it in over three years.
You pick it up, letting the cool brass warm in your palm. You turn it over once, feeling the weight of it, the history, the lifetime of someone always coming when you called.
You ring it.
The sound is small in the vast quiet of the house, barely louder than the wind outside your window. But you know he hears it. Zayne hears everything.
Two minutes pass before footsteps echo in the hallway, followed by a soft knock at your door.
“Come in,” you call.
He opens the door and stands in the frame, and the sight of him makes your mouth go dry.
After all this time living under the same roof, you've only ever seen him in his suit, his work clothes, or—once, memorably—a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up that had nearly killed you. But this is something else entirely.
Grey sleep pants hang low on his hips, a white t-shirt stretching across his chest. His hair is tousled over his forehead, glasses sliding just slightly, jaw shadowed with the kind of stubble he'd never allow during working hours.
His eyes find the bell in your hand, and something in them softens.
“The house is making noises,” you explain.
He leans against the doorframe, taking in your oversized t-shirt, your bare legs, the way you’re sitting cross-legged at the center of your mattress on high alert.
“It's an old house,” he says. “It makes noises.”
“Scary noises.”
“You're not a child anymore.”
“Age and fear are not mutually exclusive.” You return the bell to the nightstand with unnecessary care. “I read that somewhere.”
“You read that nowhere.”
“I might have,” you counter. “You don’t know my reading habits.”
“You're currently halfway through a fantasy romance novel you hide inside a copy of The Economist when I bring your breakfast.” He crosses his arms, which emphasizes the broadness of his chest in a way that should come with a warning. “I know your reading habits.”
“It’s romantasy, Zayne,” you correct drily, though your face heats. “And that's—invasive.”
“It's observational. You leave the dust jacket loose.” He steps into your room, letting the door close behind him. “What do you need?”
You. I need you. I've needed you since I was sixteen and you zipped a dress that didn't need zipping and I need you to come here now and hold me and never leave this room.
“Company,” you say instead. “Just—stay for a while. Please.”
“There's a guest room adjacent to—”
“Zayne.”
“—mine, which I can prepare in—”
“Zayne, come on. You used to read to me when I couldn't sleep.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “You were eight.”
“And you were a very good reader. I remember the voices you did for the characters.”
“I did not do voices.”
“You totally did voices. Mrs. Medlock had a Yorkshire accent.”
He tries to fight the corner of his mouth lifting and loses. “That's historically accurate.”
A branch scrapes against the window and you jolt, pulling your knees in tight to your chest, and you watch it happen in slow motion—the moment Zayne registers the current of anxiety beneath your bravado, the delicate weight of his propriety crumbling against the fact that you rang the bell, the bell that means I need you, the bell he's never once ignored.
He crosses to your bookshelf, scans it, and pulls out a slim paperback.
“Persuasion?” you say, catching a glimpse of the cover.
He takes a seat on the edge of your bed, leaving a tortuously polite foot of distance between his hip and your knee. “It was on the shelf.”
“It’s a romance novel.”
“It's Austen. It's literature.”
“You just gave me a hard time for reading romance novels.”
“I gave you a hard time for hiding them.” He settles his glasses higher on his nose. “And this is a novel about patience. Restraint. Waiting for something even when it seems impossible. I thought you could use the lesson.”
You scoff in mock offense. “Was that a dig at me?”
“It was a recommendation.” He opens the book, then clears his throat. “Now stop talking.”
He reads.
You lie back against your pillow as his voice fills your bedroom like candlelight, settling into the spaces between the house’s creaking. When you were younger, his reading voice was a sedative, designed to pull you under. Now you're aware of every inflection, every pause, every place where his tongue shapes a word in a way that makes your thoughts drift to what else his mouth could be doing if he stopped being so goddamn careful.
After a few minutes, you start to shift. Not dramatically—just adjusting yourself in a way that happens to settle your body closer to his.
“You're not sleeping,” he says without taking his eyes off the page.
“I’m listening.”
“You're fidgeting.”
“I’m cold.”
“You’re not using a blanket.”
“A blanket isn't warm like a person.”
His gaze drags between you and the blanket you never bothered to use, eyes caught somewhere between mild disapproval and reluctant indulgence.
“Come closer,” you continue. “I’m requesting warmth. As a service.”
He lifts a brow. “You're requesting warmth.”
“From my butler. Who is paid to ensure my comfort.”
“I'm paid to manage the household.”
“Managing me is part of the household.”
“A fact I'm reminded of daily.”
Still, he moves closer an inch. Then another, when you give him a look that says it’s not enough. He eventually ends up beside you, back against the headboard, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body but not quite touching.
“Better?” he asks.
You let your head rest on his shoulder, the way you used to when you were small—except you weren't thinking about the way his shoulder felt under your cheek then, or the firmness of the muscle, or the way he smells like clean linen shadowed with something rich and heady and him that you’ve never been close enough to catch before.
“Getting there. Keep reading.”
He obeys, though the words have lost all meaning. All that matters is the vibration of the words from his body into yours, the way the sound fills the aching space behind your ribs with something tender and safe.
You let a few minutes pass, let him settle into the false security of the routine—you leaning on him, him reading, the benign pretense that this is just an act of service. Then you curl closer, tucking your legs up and angling your body until you're pressed along his side with your face against his chest and your hand resting on his abdomen.
His reading stops.
“Comfortable?” he asks without looking down.
“Almost.” You spread your fingers wider against his stomach, savoring the way the muscles there tense beneath your touch. “Your heartbeat is fast.”
“I was reading aloud. That's exertion.”
“Liar.”
“Cardiovascular response to sustained vocalization is well-documented.”
“Seriously?”
“There are several studies. I'll send you the citations in the morning.” He shuts the book and sets it on the nightstand, effectively abandoning the charade. He folds his glasses and places them neatly beside it, pinching the bridge of his nose with a long exhale. “Go to sleep.”
“Hold me first,” you insist, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and guiding it to your waist. “I said I was cold.”
His hand rests at your side, settling on top of your shirt with a minimal contact that technically fulfills the request while giving away not an ounce more.
“Zayne.”
“Mm?”
“If I asked you to hold a box, would you balance it on one finger?”
“If the box asked to be carried with unreasonable specifications, possibly.”
“I’m not a box.”
“No. A box would be far less difficult.”
His arm wraps around you, pulling you against him properly, and the sudden full-body contact is dizzying. He's warm everywhere—the solid plane of his chest against your cheek, his arm heavy around your waist, his thigh pressed along the length of yours.
“There,” you murmur. “Was that so hard?”
“Yes,” he replies simply. “Now sleep."
“I’m not tired.”
“Then close your eyes and try.”
You shake your head against his shirt. “I can't sleep like this.”
“Like what?"
You shift, turning in his arms until your back presses against his chest. His body seems to adjust instinctively, turning with yours before his mind registers the implication—his arm resettling around your waist, chest flush against your spine, and you feel more than hear the sharp intake of breath he tries to hide when your bodies slot together.
“There.” You hum in approval. “Perfect.”
Zayne’s hand flattens against your stomach the smallest fraction, and the silence between you buzzes like a dare neither of you has the courage to break. The wind whips outside your window, but you don’t hear it, can’t focus on anything other than the way his thumb starts to move in a faint line, back and forth, tracing the hem of your shirt where its ridden up at your waist.
You’re barely breathing, afraid that any acknowledgment will make him stop, afraid that the touch you’ve been craving for so long will disappear before you even have the chance to feel it. His thumb runs over the hem again, and this time his fingertips dip beneath it—barely a touch, the rough pad of his finger against soft skin, and the sensation is so acute it makes your spine arch involuntarily.
He freezes, thumb stilling mid-stroke, as if suddenly remembering exactly who he is—and who he shouldn’t be right now.
“Don't stop,” you whisper.
His forehead drops to your shoulder. “You rang the bell.”
“I rang the bell.”
“The bell means you need me.”
“I always need you, Zayne.” You guide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your bare stomach, and the breath he lets out against your neck is almost a surrender in itself. “I think you need me, too.”
When his hand moves again, it isn’t the absentminded tracing from before. His palm slides across your stomach with intent now, exploring the naked skin beneath your top—up your ribs, down to the dip of your waist, to the space just above the waistband of your shorts.
A soft noise catches in your throat and his hand stills, as if deciding whether to reward or reprimand the sound.
“More?” he asks against your neck.
You nod. “More.”
His hand resumes, but he doesn't go further, continuing the same path—ribs, waist, hip—following it again and again, learning you by touch. And every time his fingers drift close to the waistband, your breath catches, and each time he retreats to safer ground without crossing the line.
“Zayne—” Your voice is thin with want. “That's not—you're teasing me.”
“I’m doing exactly what you asked,” he replies, casually enough to make you want to put a pillow over his face. “You asked me to touch you. I'm touching you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what you said. If you want something else, you'll have to request it.” His thumb draws an infuriating circle around your navel. “I’m a butler, not a psychic.”
He's playing the game, you realize. Your game, your rules, following your every request to the letter, and the compliance is intoxicating. He owns the control, yet the way he bends just enough to match your desire feels like a form of surrender uniquely his.
“Kiss me,” you try next.
“Where?”
You tilt your head to the side, certain he can see your pulse leaping where it shows. “My neck.”
He presses his lips there so gently it barely registers as contact, lingering for a moment before pulling back.
“Again,” you whisper.
He kisses the same spot equally soft, and you could scream from the tenderness of it, from how something so gentle can make you feel like you're burning alive.
“More.”
“More what?” His breath heats your skin as he speaks, and the almost-contact is worse than nothing. “Be specific.”
“Harder.” Your hand finds the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, and the groan that it pulls from him is quiet and improper and makes your thighs press together. “Open your mouth.”
He presses his mouth more firmly against your neck and parts his lips slightly, just enough for his tongue to steal a taste of your skin.
“Anything else, princess?” He holds there, lips parted against the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, breathing you in like he needs this just as much as you do. “I’m at your service.”
The title drips with affection and irony and heat, twisted together like ribbons old and new. Princess. He's called you that since you were small, since you used to stomp your foot and demand things and he'd raise an eyebrow and say as you wish, princess. Except now his tongue is on your body and your ass is pressed where his cock strains against his pajama pants and the word means something it was never supposed to mean.
You turn in his arms until you're facing each other on the pillow, his hand still on your waist under your shirt. This close, you can see where the hazel-green of his eyes has gone dark with desire, where his lips shine wet from where he kissed your neck, where the muscle of his jaw tenses with something that looks like it hurts to hold back.
You bring your hand up to soothe it, the stubble there rough against your fingertips. He leans into the touch, a tiny tilt of his head that presses his cheek harder against your palm.
“I want you to kiss me,” you whisper, “here.” You touch your own lips.
He leans in slowly, mouth stopping just short of yours, hovering over your lips.
“Here?” he asks.
“Yes.”
The kiss is barely anything. A brush of lips, the softest pressure, there and gone before you can feel it. You chase his mouth as he pulls back, but he's already out of reach—settled against the pillow, calm on the surface, though the flush at the tips of his ears betrays him.
“That wasn’t a kiss,” you pout.
“It was, definitionally, a kiss.”
“It lasted half a second.”
“You didn't specify the duration.”
“Zayne.”
“Yes?"
“Kiss me longer.”
He leans in again, pressing his mouth to yours for—you count—exactly two seconds.
“Zayne.”
“That was measurably longer. I can go get a stopwatch if you'd like to formalize the parameters.”
You roll your eyes and swear you feel his wrist twitch at your side.
“I want you to kiss me like you can't help yourself. Like if you have to tear your mouth away from mine you'll lose your mind. I want the kiss I imagine when I’m alone in the bath and I close my eyes and pretend it’s your hands on my—” You stop to catch your breath, frustrated, heat rising to your face that’s part shame, part want, all desperate anticipation. “That kiss. Give me that one. Please.”
His hand slides from your waist to the back of your neck, cradling your head, angling you beneath him. His eyes move between yours and your mouth and back again, and the man who read you bedtime stories and carried you when you fell and tucked your blankets with precise corners is nowhere in this room. The man looking at your mouth right now is one who has been drowning for years and decided that here, now, tonight, he’s coming up for air.
“Hold still,” he says, and kisses you again.
This time he starts slow and stays slow, his lips moving against yours with a patience that burns, learning the shape of your mouth, the way you respond to pressure. His tongue traces your lower lip, not parting it, but outlining the edge, you whimper at the tease of it.
He swallows the sound, feeding it into his mouth like he means to keep it long past tonight, a secret possession for him and him alone. Finally—finally—his tongue slides against yours, deep and unhurried, filling your mouth until there’s nothing left but feeling.
The kiss goes on and on and on. Zayne is in no rush. He kisses you like he has all night, like time is a resource he intends to spend lavishly, like every stroke of his tongue against yours is an end in itself rather than a means to something else. And each time you try to speed up he gentles you, his hand on the back of your neck holding you in place, his mouth setting the pace, refusing to let anything take this moment away from him until he’s ready to release it.
Your hands slip underneath his shirt, pressing flat against his abdomen, and the muscles there flex at the contact. You trail both hands upward, following the ridges of his ribs until he huffs out a breath against your lips.
“Eager,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw.
“Impatient,” you correct, tugging the hem of his shirt up his chest. “And maybe a little eager.”
“A little, hm?” He catches both of your wrists, halting your exploration. “These are going above your head.”
“That seems unnecessarily restrictive.”
“It seems like the only way to keep you from getting ahead of yourself.” He guides your wrists to the pillow above your head, pinning you there with one hand. “Better. Now stay.”
He releases his hold to remove his shirt, and whatever bratty comment you had prepared dies in your throat the moment he tosses it to the floor in a move so unlike your butler you’d laugh under different circumstances. He works your top off next, pulling it up and over your arms, letting it join his on the ground.
The cool air makes your skin prickle, and you fight the immediate urge to cover yourself—a reflex that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that you’re not generous in this department, never have been, and lying beneath him with your arms above your head and nothing to hide behind makes you feel completely, uselessly small.
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
“Don't what?"
“Whatever you're thinking right now. Stop.” His fingertips graze your collarbone, then lower, trailing between your breasts. “You have no idea how many times I've thought about this body.”
“About my tragically average—”
“Finish that sentence and I'll make you wish you hadn’t.” His palm covers your breast easily, thumb brushing across your nipple. “These are perfect. And I don't say that about many things.”
“You say that about your silverware polish.”
“My silverware polish is also perfect. You're in excellent company.” He rolls your nipple between his fingers and your back arches off the mattress. “Responsive, too. Do that again.”
“I can't just do it on command—”
He rolls your nipple once more, firmer this time, and your body betrays you with an identical arch, with a sharp hiss of breath you can't hold in. Zayne watches it all unfold with an expression of deep, undeniable satisfaction.
“Interesting,” he says. “So it's pressure-dependent.”
“Are you taking notes?”
“I'm nothing if not thorough.”
He lowers his mouth to your breast, and the first brush of his tongue is almost painful in its relief. He paints a lazy, wet path before closing his lips around your nipple and sucking hard, drawing out a humiliatingly loud gasp from you that echoes through the room.
“That—” he says before his mouth closes around you again, teasing his teeth around the peak “—is my new favorite sound.”
He moves to the other side, giving it the same attention—tongue and teeth and the occasional scrape of stubble that sends sparks straight down your spine. His free hand stays on the breast his mouth just left, rolling your tight nipple between his fingers, then trails down your stomach, fingers grazing along the top of your shorts before retreating. Again and again he teases, each time a little further, each time making you jerk your hips up, chasing contact he keeps pulling away.
“You're doing that on purpose,” you say.
“Doing what on purpose?”
His fingers line the waistband again, dipping just below the elastic, and pull back. He blinks down at you, all wide-eyes and deceptive innocence, and you’re certain you’d be strangling him if your hands weren’t busy holding onto the pillowcase above your head for dear life.
“That. You keep almost touching me and then—“
“Patience—” He kisses the underside of your breast, your sternum, the dip of your navel. “—is a virtue.”
“Patience is for people who aren't this turned on.”
He pins your hip with one hand and you squirm harder, as if your body senses where he's headed and is vibrating with the need to get there faster, faster, faster.
“You never could hold still, could you?” You’re flipped onto your stomach so fast the room blurs. He works your shorts down your legs, leaving you facedown in nothing but your underwear. “Not once in twenty years.”
His hand strikes the curve of your ass.
You gasp, not from pain, more from the shock of it. The thrill that Zayne—controlled, careful Zayne—just spanked you on top of the same pink sheets he used to tuck you into.
“That's for squirming,” he says.
He lowers and presses a kiss to the spot he just struck, then smooths it over with his palm.
“You always needed this part,” he mouths against your skin, where it tingles from the sting. “The injury was never the problem. You just wanted someone to make it better after.” He travels higher, kissing up to the small of your back. “Every scraped knee. Every bruise. Every splinter you could have pulled out yourself but brought to me instead.”
“You had better hands than the first aid kit.”
“I had hands you trusted.” His hand settles at the base of your spine, nearly spanning the width of your low back. “You'd come find me wherever I was in the house and hold out whatever was hurt. Then stand there as long as it took for me to pay attention, looking up at me like I could fix anything.”
“You could fix anything.”
His hand slides up your spine with a familiarity that prickles at the edges of your memory. You've felt this hand on your back before—this exact path, this exact pressure.
Zayne has, too.
“Do you remember,” he says, bracketing your hips with his knees, “when you had me put sunscreen on your back?”
He asks as if every detail isn’t burned into your being.
It was the summer before you left for university—the sun was too bright, the pool smelled of chlorine, and your hot girl summer playlist terrorized every corner of the estate. You lay on your stomach by the pool with your bikini top untied and your bottoms hardly covering anything, and called your butler over with a voice you'd practiced sounding careless in the shower a dozen times.
Zayne, I need sunscreen. I can't reach my back.
He'd knelt beside your chair and obliged. His hands had been cool from the shade inside, the sunscreen warm from the sun. The restraint in his palms as they moved across your bare skin should have been unsexy but wasn't, because you could feel the effort in it as his fingers slid down your spine, across your waist, along the sides of your body.
You missed a spot, you'd said, though he hadn't. Still, he'd gone back and covered the same ground slower.
My legs, too.
His hands had worked your thighs, slick with sunscreen, rubbing the lotion from the backs of your knees up to where your thighs met the barely-there bottoms, the two inches of swimsuit the only barrier between the wet heat pooling between your legs and your butler’s thorough hands.
“I remember,” you whisper.
He traces the path now—down your spine, your waist, to the flare of your hip. The same route, the same pressure, except there's no sunscreen and no pretense, just his hands on your body.
“You lay there for an hour after I went inside,” he says, moving his palms in the upward strokes he'd used that afternoon. “In those godforsaken bottoms that hardly qualified as clothing.”
“They qualified.”
“They qualified as a provocation.” His hands move to your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin. “And every time I moved away from them, you'd wiggle your hips and tell me I missed a spot.”
“You did miss spots.”
“I didn't miss a single spot. I take UV protection very seriously.” His knuckles graze your inner thighs, and your hips lift involuntarily. “You just wanted my hands closer to places they had no business being.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? So you don't remember what happened when I reached right about—” His hand stills at the crease of your thigh, fingers resting against the edge of your underwear. “—here?”
You press your face into the pillow because you remember exactly what happened.
“You spread these legs apart, just enough for my fingers to go somewhere they shouldn't have.” He follows the edge of your underwear with one fingertip, over the swell of your ass, down to the strip between your legs that does nothing to hide how desperate you are for his touch. “And I cleared my throat. And you said sorry, I'm just getting comfortable. And I said of course. And we both pretended nothing happened.”
“Something happened.”
“Something happened,” he agrees. “And you knew. You always knew. That's why you kept pushing me, isn’t it?”
He traces the same line again, the border between what’s covered and what isn’t. Though this time when he dips low, he stays there—hand cupping you fully through your underwear, the pressure of his palm against the soaked fabric at your pussy delicious and unbearable and enough to make you moan.
“Answer me.”
“Mm,” you manage. He rocks the heel of his palm in a slow circle, and your nails dig into the sheets. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
He grinds against you more firmly, pressing the damp cotton deeper between your folds. You try to press back, to reach for the friction you’ve been chasing all night, but he pulls his hand away.
“Yes,” you concede in a shaky exhale. “Yes, I knew, and I—I wanted to see what would happen if you didn't walk away. If you just—kept going.”
“Kept going where?”
You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “You know where.”
“I have a long list of places I've wanted to put my hands on you.” From this angle, you’re able to watch as he fists his cock over his soft pants, the light grey fabric darkened with precum where the head of him leaks. “So you're going to have to clarify which one you were hoping for.”
“Past my bikini. Past the line you always—” Your breath catches as his fingers brush inside your underwear, skating the skin he's never touched. “—always stopped at.”
“Like this?” His fingers slide deeper, tracing along the edge of your slit as he strokes himself more firmly, still not quite touching you properly.
“Further.”
“Greedy.” He removes his hand entirely, and you wince at the loss. “And then what? If I hadn't walked away. If I'd let my hand keep going while you lay there in the sun pretending to be innocent. What did you want to happen next?”
“I wanted you to—”
Your thoughts are interrupted by a blunt pressure against your center from behind—not Zayne’s hand this time, but his cock. The tip nudges between your thighs over the soaked cotton, the warm weight settling against the outline of your needy cunt.
“Keep talking,” he says, voice nearly a groan. He stays motionless, the thick head of him pressing the fabric further into you, letting you feel exactly what he’s withholding. “You wanted me to what, princess?”
“I wanted—” You try to push back against him, and his hand blocks your hip. “I wanted you to stop thinking and just take what you wanted.”
“What I wanted.” He rocks forward slightly, a small movement that drags his leaking tip down the length of you, his precum mixing with your wet arousal as he slides toward your clit. “You were eighteen years old, lying outside on a pool chair, and you wanted me to put my hand into your bikini and touch you.”
“Yes.”
“In the middle of the afternoon. Where your parents could have walked out and seen.”
“As if they’d bother paying attention.” He smacks his cock against your underwear deliberately, and any attempt at keeping your voice casual shatters. “Besides, I didn't care.”
“No. You didn’t.” Your panties cling to every part of you, slick enough that he slides easily between your thighs. The friction is obscene—his cock hard and throbbing where you’re soft and needy, separated by nothing but a scrap of ruined underwear. “I had to care enough for both of us. And you made me pay for it with every little scheme you pulled to put my hands on you and watch me try to walk away.”
“And?” You dare through gritted teeth, smirking into the pillow. “Did it work?”
His hand at your hip guides the rhythm into something more punishing. His mouth finds the back of your neck, and the kiss he presses there is soft and completely at odds with the way his hips are bucking against yours.
“I’m grinding my cock against your pretty little cunt in your childhood bed, sweetheart. What do you think?”
He pulls away suddenly, and between the filthy words and loss of his weight you think you actually could cry.
“These—” His fingers hook under the center strip of your underwear, knuckles gliding up and down between your swollen folds as he assesses. “—have been through enough tonight.”
“So ruin them the rest of the way.”
He tears the fabric with two hands, ripping them off you in one clean pull. His hands spread you open from behind, and the sound he makes at the sight of you—bare before him for the first time—goes straight to your core.
“Christ.” His thumbs trace the inside of your thighs, spreading you wider. “Look at you.”
He lowers his mouth to your low back and kisses his wa down, patient even now, following the path of your spine, nipping the curve of your ass, outlining the crease of your thigh with his tongue. You feel his breath against your center, warm and unsteady, then the lightest brush of his nose against your entrance as he breathes you in.
“Fuck, Zayne—”
“Language,” he chides, the word humming against you. His tongue drags a single, slow line through you from behind, and you both groan at the contact. “If you could follow instructions even once in your life, this would go much faster.”
“I don't want faster. I want more.“
“You'll get more. When I decide you've earned it.”
His tongue works in long strokes, tasting every inch of you he can reach from this angle, and when he finds a spot that makes your thighs tense under his palms, he stays there.
“You're—that’s—”
Your lack of composure only seems to spur him further. “Articulate as always.”
He licks into you over and over again, and you feel yourself clench around nothing, feel your body begging for something to hold onto that he hasn't given you yet. The angle this way, his mouth against you from behind, is indirect and maddeningly intimate and never quite enough and always almost there.
“Zayne—I swear to god.”
“Swear all you want.” His tongue barely grazes you, keeping you suspended with a laziness that borders on cruel. “Begging looks good on you.”
He spreads you apart wider with both thumbs and builds you back up with wet, hungry strokes that don’t have a rhythm, that aren’t meant to serve a purpose other than to let him taste what he does to your body, what he’s been doing to it since long before he answered the bell tonight. Pleasure pools low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter, and you're right at the edge and—
He pulls away.
“No—” you whine. ”I was right there—Zayne, don’t—“
“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Not from this.”
“You can't just—”
“I can. And I did.” You hear him moving behind you, feeling the shift of weight against the mattress as he discards the last of his clothes. “The only place you’re going to come tonight is around my cock, and that’s not open for negotiation. I've waited too long for it to happen any other way.”
You feel the head of his cock press against you, this time bare against your slick skin. He doesn't enter yet, resting there with one hand on your hip, the other flat on the mattress beside your head.
“Last chance to ring the bell,” he murmurs. “Tell me to stop.”
“If you stop now I will scream.”
He pushes in.
It’s slow, so slow you feel the stretch of every inch building in a long, devastating ache that empties your lungs and fills you with him. He groans hot against the back of your neck, fingers digging into your hip, and when he bottoms out you both need time to breathe. You’ve never felt so complete as you do in this moment, so perfectly full, Zayne’s cock thick and heavy as it throbs inside you. Your walls flutter around him involuntarily, pulling him deeper inside.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Language,” you mutter, the tremble in your voice undermines any sense of authority.
“You're right. How unprofessional of me.” He pulls back in a slow drag against your walls that makes your mouth fall open—and pushes forward again. “I’ll submit a formal apology. After I’ve made you come so hard you can’t speak, let alone critique my vocabulary.”
He starts to move, the full length of him withdrawing and filling you whole, and when he finds the spot that makes your thighs shake he doesn't say a word. You're soaked—you feel it on your thighs, hear it in every wet slide of him inside you, and your face burns even as your body seeks his with every thrust.
“You get tighter every time I pull out,” he observes. “Like you're trying to keep me inside you.”
"Am not—"
“You are.” He grinds forward and you clench around him again—hard—and his breath comes out in a hiss. “And it's making it very difficult to think straight.”
You turn your head on the pillow, looking back at him over your shoulder, because you need to see his face, need to see what Zayne looks like right now, inside you and undone. With his jaw tense, eyes dark, sweat at his temples—he looks nothing like the butler who irons his shirts twice and arranges bookshelves alphabetically. He looks like a man who has wanted something for a very long time and is finally, finally taking it.
“Eyes on me,” he commands when he catches your gaze drifting away. “You started this. You're going to watch me finish it.”
You scrunch your nose and stick your tongue out at him. “Make me.”
His eyes narrow with a flash between amusement and danger, and he wraps your hair around his wrist and pulls—enough to keep your face turned toward him, your neck arched, your eyes locked on his while he drives into you from behind.
“There's your make me, princess,” he says low, hips bucking harder with the leverage. “Any other requests?”
“Several,” you manage between thrusts, “but at your age I’d hate to put too much strain on you.”
“In all the scenarios I’ve imagined.” He gathers your hair tighter, using the grip to tilt your head back, and his tongue traces the exposed line of your throat from your shoulder to the bone of your jaw. “Not once did stamina come up as a concern.”
“You've been dreaming about me?” You try to sound unaffected despite the fact that your voice is shaking and your knuckles are white in the sheets. “Should I be flattered?”
“You should be terrified. I've had a long time to plan,” he says against your neck. “Though in my head, you were slightly less mouthy.”
You clench around him deliberately, and his groan vibrates against your back. “And in mine, you were considerably less smug.”
Zayne sucks hard at the sensitive skin above your collarbone in response before releasing your hair, letting it fall down your back. He braces both arms on either side of your head, and the change in position lets him go harder and deeper, his hips driving you into the mattress with each thrust.
“You've spent your whole life making sure no one could take care of you the way I do. Making sure no one else fit. Ruining yourself for anyone who wasn't me.” His hand reaches beneath you, and the first touch to your swollen, aching clit makes your entire body tense. He circles with barely any pressure, in time to the grind of his hips, and the combined sensation is almost too much to bear. “So now I’m going to give you everything you’ve been asking for all this time. Take care of you the way I’ve always wanted to. And you’re going to be good for me and take it.”
Every edge he pulled you back from tonight, every almost, every year of wanting with nothing to show for it—all of it—collects into a single climax that tears through your body in waves. You clench around him so hard his hips stutter, and his mouth is at your ear the whole time—
That's it—that's my girl—you've been waiting so long for this, haven't you? So long. I know. I know. I've got you. Feel that? That's all for you. You earned this—you earned every bit of it—
—and his voice is the anchor you cling to while the rest of you drowns, his name the only word left in your mouth, your mind, your heart.
He slows, letting you breathe as your aftershocks tighten around him in involuntary pulses. And you wait for it—for his hips to drive forward one final time, for the heat of him to fill you from the inside the way you've always imagined it would.
He pulls out instead, and the sudden emptiness makes you frown, your hips pressing back against nothing, searching for him.
“Zayne—why did you—” You turn your head, and the confusion must be written across your face, because his gaze softens even as he strokes his cock, slick from you, in long pulls.
“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he says, and the two words form a promise that makes your heart flip—that there will be other nights, that this is the first and not the last, that he’s already planning the ones that come after. “Tonight I want to see it on your skin.”
He straightens behind you, settling both hands on your hips. His thumbs press into the dip of your lower back, pressing circles over the skin there.
“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you asked me to put my hands on you by that pool. And I've thought about it every day since.” His palms trace the canvas of your back a final time. “Marking you. Imagining how pretty you'd look with the evidence of what you do to me all over your body.”
“You don’t have to imagine, Zayne. I’m right here.” You arch your back for him in shameless offering, and the sound he makes at the sight is low and wrecked and strips away any remaining possibility that either of you will ever recover from this night. “I’ve always been right here.”
“You're going to be the end of me,” he says through a ragged sigh. “You know that. You've always known that.”
“Promise?” you murmur, tilting your hips higher, giving him more of yourself.
His laugh is barely a sound, and his hand picks up speed, rougher now, knuckles brushing against your skin with each tight stroke. You watch his lips part, watch his brow furrow, watch the moment arrive on his face before you feel it on your skin—the warmth of his release spilling across the small of your back in pulses, painting your body with the proof that he was here, that this happened, that you belong to him in a way no amount of respectable distance will ever undo.
He stays like that for a while, breathing hard, looking at you looking at him. His expression softens into something so affectionate it makes your chest ache, and he leans down and presses a long, lingering kiss between your shoulder blades.
“Promise.” His hand finds yours on the pillow, squeezing once before pressing a kiss between your shoulderblades and lifting himself off you. “Now don't move. Give me ten seconds.”
“Was that an order? Because I've been told I'm bad at those.”
He grabs his pants from the floor, sliding them up over his hips. “Nine seconds.”
You hear the tap running, the drip of a towel being wrung out in the sink. He's back before you can count to four—warm cloth in one hand, cold glass of water in the other—and sits beside you on the bed.
He cleans you with a care that shouldn’t surprise you but makes tears prick behind your eyes anyway, following the path his mouth traveled earlier, rewarming the cloth twice because it cooled too fast and he noticed before you did. He wipes your thighs, the backs of your knees, places that don't need cleaning but get attention anyway. When he reaches the small of your back, he presses his lips against the clean skin there one final time before setting the cloth aside.
He helps you into fresh pajamas—a matching flannel set he selects from the second drawer of your dresser—lifting your arms, guiding them through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders and down your back. The gesture is so careful, so him, so entirely removed from everything his hands were doing ten minutes ago that a tear actually escapes down your cheek before you can catch it.
His thumb finds it, though, and wipes it away without comment, without concern, without making it into something you'd have to explain. He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders, tucking the edge beneath your chin the way he's done since you were small, and reaches for the glass on the nightstand.
“Drink,” he says, holding it to your lips.
“I’m fine—"
“Humor me.” The corner of his mouth lifts, barely. “I’ve been humoring you all night.”
He watches as you drink, gives a small nod of approval once he’s satisfied you’ve had enough, then sets the glass on the nightstand. He pulls on his t-shirt—you mourn the loss of his bare chest immediately—and slides under the covers beside you.
When you curl against him, his arms wrap around you like a reflex he's done fighting.
“I should resign,” he murmurs.
“You should absolutely not resign.”
“This is a rather significant breach of professional boundaries.”
“I don't care about your professional boundaries. I care about you staying in this bed.”
He lifts his head to look at you in the lamplight. With his hair wrecked, glasses long gone, and an expression so open and unguarded, he looks…younger. Lighter. Like something heavy has been set down after years of carrying it.
“Stay,” you whisper. “Not as my butler. Not as my anything. Just stay.”
His arm tightens around your waist. You feel his heartbeat match yours, both rhythms slowing to something calm. His chin settles on the top of your head, and for a while neither of you speaks, but the silence is nothing like the one that scared you an hour ago.
“Mm,” you hum against his chest. “I always get what I want eventually.”
“You do.” His thumb traces a lazy circle on your shoulder. “It’s your single most irritating quality.”
“And yet you keep indulging me.”
“You are exceptionally difficult to say no to.”
“So stop trying.”
“I suppose that would simplify my schedule considerably.” He pulls you closer. “Free up the hours I currently spend on damage control and cold showers.”
“See? Efficient. You love efficiency.”
“I do love efficiency.” His mouth presses against your hair, and you feel him smile. “Though I suspect you're going to be far more work than you were before tonight. Not less.”
“Probably.”
“Almost certainly.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” His fingers find the spot behind your knee—the left one, the one he knows is ticklish—and you yelp, squirming against him, your laugh bright in the quiet room. He catches you before you can escape and pulls you back against his chest. “Now promise me you’ll ring the bell again tomorrow.”
“That depends. Will you read me more Austen?”
“If you behave.”
“And if I don’t?”
His teeth graze your earlobe, tongue teasing the sensitive skin just below. “Then I suppose I’ll have to resort to alternative methods of tiring you out.”
You give his chest a playful shove and he catches your hand, kissing each knuckle one by one. You melt closer, curling yourself tighter against his chest, letting the cadence of his breathing, the warmth of his arms, the undeniable sense of home pull you under.
The house continues its symphony through the night—wind whistling through the cracks, pipes bellowing deep in the walls, wood floors sighing under the weight of the night.
morning sex with the LIs and whether or not you make it to work on time (all separate). explicit sexual content, mdni. cw in each part.
clit stimulation.
valko has already been up for two hours, worked out, made breakfast, prepped lunch, even sent a few emails. and you're still in bed, arm folded over your eyes to shield you from the morning sunlight. he's smiling as he slides back into bed behind you, pulling you close. he presses a warm kiss behind your ear when you snooze your alarm for the third time. ya gotta get up baby, he reminds you. but you only whine, pulling his strong arms tighter around you and wiggling your butt against him, feeling the hard curve of him pressing against you. it only encourages you, and you wiggle more insistently. he chuckles, warning that you don’t have time for all that. you just whine again, more pitifully, always so needy in the morning. so he pulls your back to his chest, rolling so you're on top of him. he doesn’t waste time, pining one of your knees out, thick fingers slipping into your underwear, and you’re already so wet for him as he uses your slick to circle your clit. his hot breath is on your neck, panting praises into your skin as he works you mercilessly, until your sleepy moans fill the bedroom, not awake enough to be embarrassed at how vulgar you sound. he adds just the right amount of pressure to your sensitive clit, startling you over the edge with his name on your lips, and your body shakes against him, trembling in his arms. your head is a hazy mess and you’re drifting back into the warmth of sleep as he rubs a warm hand over your stomach, the perfect anchor, your thoughts full of him, his voice and mouth and scent- before his teeth catch your ear, nipping harder, just enough to be mean. you’re gonna be late, baby.
much to your annoyance, you make it to work right on time.
somno, cunnlingus, overstim.
sylus is just coming to bed when your alarm is meant to go off. he's tense, body rigid like a predator waiting to strike. the night hadn't gone as planned, stealing him from you far longer than he cared for. he silences your alarm before the first note of it can break the stillness of his bedroom. he needs to put the night behind him, needs to losen the coil of anger that's twisting in his chest. and there you are, having fallen asleep waiting for him in the pretty silk neglige he'd bought you. a grunt escapes him as he sinks down over you on his expensive black sheets. your hands reach for him in the dark before you're even awake. he sighs at your touch, his warm, broad hands pressing your knees up and over his shoulders before your brain has fully registered that he’s there. he trails hungry wet kisses down your stomach as you’re still fighting off sleep, a low groan rumbling in his chest when his lips finally meet your skin where the fabric brushes the tops of your thighs. you murmur sleepily, a question he doesn't hear as he presses you into the mattress, kissing your pussy over your panties, locking his arms around your hips to keep you where he wants you. his tongue greedily traces your slit over the dark lace, until your breath is labored and strangled in your throat and your struggling against his hold. he's watching your face with those burning crimson eyes, only pushing the fabric aside when your voice breaks on his name. he presses a soft tsk against your skin before he latches onto your clit, suckling the bud until your vision is made of blinding stars, your fingers knotting in his silver hair and pulling hard- and he doesn’t stop when you cum, too hard and too fast, not after the second or the third, not when you start to cry from overstimulation - no. you’re going to take it, you want to take it, until he's made the lost night up to you.
you have to send a text to captain jenna. you have no voice left to call out of work.
somno, p in v, cowgirl.
xavier always sleeps hard, especially after a mission like yesterdays, that had you both collapsing into bed earlier than usual. you wake first, you always do, watching the way his chest steadily rises and falls and how the morning light casts shadows from his eyelashes onto his cheeks. you trace the line of his jaw with a careful finger, and his plump bottom lip, and he doesn't so much as twitch. after a while, you slip your hand beneath his baggy hoody, running over the hard planes of his chest, searching for a response. you trace feather light circles over his nipples, finally drawing a soft moan from his lips. but the sweet sound just encourages you, hands pressing down, down, until you’re palming his length over his boxers. he hums in his sleep, hips lazily rolling to meet your touch. you don't understand how he gets you so needy and desperate without even trying. he’s just so pretty when he’s like this, his body reacting without his brain. you crawl over him, straddling his hips, pressing down against his hardening cock with a slow drag back and forth, flushed with need. when it's not enough, you tug his boxers down and slip your panties aside, pressing him into you with an appreciative moan. you’re gentle at first, grinding against him in measured circles, chasing your pleasure, but it just isn't enough. and when you press your hands against his stomach and lift yourself, desperate to ride him properly, he blinks open those big blue eyes, looking up at you like you’re his favorite dream- before his hands clamp over your hips, and slam you down, punching a squeak from your throat. you can do better than that my star, he teases, voice still low with sleep. he sets a brutal pace, and you're completely at his mercy.
unsurprisingly, you’re both late.
handjob.
rafayel never came to bed. you're securing your earring in place when you find him in the studio, exactly where you expected. there are bags under his eyes, a paint brush hardly steady in his hand as he tries to finish the piece that’s been plaguing him for days, a distant complaint about deadlines on his pretty pink lips when he sees your frown. easily, you pull the brush from his grip, and he’s slumping back into your chest with a half hearted complaint. but then you’re kissing his cheek, and jaw, and neck, and his shoulder where his billowy shirt has slipped down, and who is he to argue? your hands are absolutely reverent as they slide down his chest, as you count his ribs, tracing a teasing nail over each one, and lower. and then you're dipping beneath the waistband of his pants, and he can't hold back a whine, too tired to begrudge you. he wraps his pretty fingers around your arm to steady himself as you slowly stroke him, its only moments before he hardens in your gentle hand, softly sighing as you coax him toward bliss. his head is filled with nothing but you, with your sweet praises and the love he finds in your eyes when you tilt his head back by the pretty column of his throat, worshiping your beautiful sea god until he can't help but moan, surrrendering to your ministrations. until you have him softly pleading to cum, promising you anything you want in return. and so kindly you kiss his lips and tell him what you want, just for him to sleep, and it's so easy to give in when you make him feel so good.
with him sleeping soundly on the couch, you're only fifteen minutes late in starting your day.
p in v.
caleb is nearly finished making breakfast in the kitchen when you pad in from the bedroom, practically drowning in his shirt from the night before. you pull your coffee mug into your hands with a yawn, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you perch on the stool at the counter, body aching and brain still tired with the bit of sleep you'd managed with your boyfriends surprise visit. it had been too long since you'd gotten to spend the weekend together. you hear the burner click off on the stove and his strong arms are turning you to face him before you even register what's happening. his smile is so warm when he pulls your legs around his hips, tilting you back into the counter, and his kisses are so sweet as he hums a pleased good morning into your lips. you can’t help but giggle as your arms circle his neck, nuzzling your nose against his. it's always such a gift to finally see him like this. he whispers how much he missed you against your throat, soothing a circle into one of your hips with his thumb. you tease that he'd just seen you thirty minutes ago, but he just complains it was too long. then he's shifting to free himself from his sweatpants, leaning into the warmth between your thighs, fighting a startled moan when he realizes you didn’t even bother with panties. it’s needy and sweet as he rolls his hips into you, melting into the way your body wraps around him like you were made for him to fit, murmuring his thanks against your lips. you're pulling him closer, closer, until there isn't any space to keep you apart-
you’d woken up early just to spend more time with him, greedy for every second you could get. you had plenty of time.
shower sex, hand job, fingering.
zayne is already out of bed when you tumble your way from beneath the sheets. you drag yourself to the shower, on autopilot as you step out of your sleepware and into the warm spray. after a few moments there’s a soft rap against the shower door. may I join you, my love? you hum your approval, and your handsome husband, hair still mused from sleep, slides the door open enough to join you. his hands find your waist, leaning down to give you a soft peck on the lips as he steps into the spray. you try to focus on washing up, really you do. and your dear dotting husband is so helpful, massaging shampoo into your hair and rubbing the lightly perfumed soap over your body, his skilled hands as efficient in completing tasks as doling out affection. when his lips ghost over your pulse and he pulls you back into the damp planes of his chest, you can feel his affection pressing hard against your thigh, and you can’t help but get distracted. he buries his face against your shoulder when you reach back, curling your hand around his cock, his own hand trailing down your body before two of his long fingers easily curl inside you to ease your own ache. he matches your pace as you stroke him, a desperate need fogging your mind as thoroughly as the steam on the bathroom mirror. he murmurs soft praises into your wet skin, until his hips are canting into your hold on their own and he cums with a soft gasp, pulling you with him as he presses that spot inside that makes your vision spot and your knees give out. he holds you up as you come down, before lovingly putting you back together again.
somehow, you’re both on time, though a little rumpled from the long kiss goodbye in the car when he dropped you off.
Valko who can’t fully control his tail, so sometimes it’s a dead giveaway of his true emotions.
Like when you do something to piss him off and he’s trying to ignore you, pouting and crossing his arms—though he would deny the pouting—but you won’t have it.
You get up close to him and start poking his biceps. He swats at your hand gently, just enough to keep up his facade of upset-ness. So you move to his face, poking his cheeks and then kissing one instead.
“…Stop…” he tries to argue, “I’m mad at you.” He turns away further so you can’t access his face. All that does, though, is give you a better view of his tail, which is now thumping against the couch.
“Arrreee youuu?” You tease, giggling a little, leaning down to kiss his shoulder now.
You keep your eyes on his tail as it speeds up, now making a noise against the leather of the couch. It sends you into full laughter.
His cheeks flair up in a full blush, turning back around so you can’t see more of his tail, but his ears are flopped as he covers his face and groans in embarrassment—doing absolutely nothing to quell the cuteness aggression in your heart.
“Just let me be mad at you!” He complains.
You just keep kissing him, and his tail just keeps on thumping.
The LADs Mens’ Favorite Positions (including Valko)
Caleb
Caleb has a difficult, stressful job. He is either commanding argumentative idiots, or shells of former humans due to their chips. Is it so wrong that he needs a little release sometimes? Caleb’s favorite thing is to bend you over a surface, especially his office desk, and bully himself into your poor pussy. He’s so mean about it too, mocking your whimpers and gasps as he presses himself against you, flattening your chest further against the cold wood. “What’s wrong, pips? You can’t handle this dick?” He can be rough with his tempo, his hips meeting yours with a punishing pace as he works himself up to his climax. Caleb loves to shove his fingers into your mouth while he has you bent over, feeling you pant and drool on his digits makes him all the harder. Your childhood best friend has always been a gentleman at fault, so he will make sure you finish, rubbing rough circles into your clit to push you over the edge as he pounds into you.
Zayne
Call him vanilla if you want to, but Zayne can not find another position he loves more than missionary. This isn’t to say he doesn’t enjoy other positions necessarily, depending on his mood of course, but something about having you laid out, your legs hooked around his waist as he plows into you, is irresistible. He truly enjoys every aspect of this position. Zayne loves being able to see your face, the way your expression twists in pleasure when he hits the spongy part deep inside, your mouth dropping open to let out whines and moans. The fact that he gets to watch your tits bounce is an added plus. “You are so beautiful…” His favorite part of missionary is being able to look down and watch the spot where you two are connected, your drooling pussy sucking on his cock and gripping it for dear life. It also helps that he has such easy access to your clit, so it's simple for him to either edge or overstimulate you to his liking.
Xavier
Xavier is a munch. Always has been and always will be. He would die between your legs if he could. Because of this, his favorite position has always been 69. The pressure on his body as you lock your thighs around his head, forcing him against your soaking wet pussy as you close your lips around the tip of his cock makes his world spin. Being there, tongue diving to separate your folds as he laps religiously, is the happiest he has ever been. You suck his dick dutifully, using your hand on the part you can’t fit into his mouth, pushing him as deep inside as you can. “You taste so good…” When he moans it vibrates you to your core, making your legs tremble around his head. You two usually cum at the same time, but Xavier will continue licking, sucking, and lapping up your essence until your mind is foggy from overstimulation.
Sylus
Sylus has a high libido naturally, so it’s safe to say he has tried (and loves) most positions. His favorite, however, is having you face down and ass up. The way you are slotted against him, and unable to escape as he grinds his huge cock deep into you always makes him smirk. “Poor baby…” He teases, thrusting harder in response to your whines, which are muffled by the sheets below you. He loves grabbing your arms and putting them behind your back, a move which makes you even more powerless. Your ass clapping against his powerful thighs as he pulls out and sheathes himself back inside has to be one of the most beautiful sounds he has ever heard. He usually can’t help himself and has to spank you quite a few times, unable to control himself when it comes to your beautiful body. If he is feeling especially punishing, he will grab your hips and use them as purchase to pull you closer harder when he thrusts, fucking you so hard you almost have the breath knocked out of you.
Rafayel
Rafayel is a sea god. He used to be worshipped by the masses, followed around and waited on hand and foot. Things have changed since then, of course, but he can’t deny that he loves letting you take the reins sometimes. The view he has when you are bouncing on his cock, desperately trying to pleasure him, satisfies a need deep inside. You are so cute, the way you fuck yourself on top of him, eyebrows knit together in focus as you move. He always watches with heavily lidded eyes, dragging his hands up your sides to grip your waist lazily. “Mmm… good job, cutie. You make your god feel so good…” When you speed up in response to the praise, he almost purrs. Adorable, silly human, doing everything you can to pleasure him. When he is close, Rafayel grabs your hips with inhuman strength, gripping tightly as he thrusts up into you to bury himself inside as he cums.
Valko
Valko has a lot of physical needs. The need to be near you always, nuzzling into your neck and running his hands over your sides. The need to constantly be touching you, always having some body part laying over yours or his fingers laced through your own. And, last but certainly not least, the need to be buried deep inside you at least twice a day. Because his libido can be so demanding, your wolf boyfriend wants you to do as little work as possible. His favorite position is prone boning, you laying on your tummy while he ruts against you, cock pushed into your weeping hole from behind. Valko gets so desperate and needy seeing you like this, lounging while he fucks you, his sweet little mate all ready to be bred. “U-ugh… Good puppy… mm, fuck… look so pretty like this!” He can’t stop babbling as he uses your cunt, drool dripping from the side of his mouth as he bites his lip to stifle the pornographic moans tumbling out. He needs to empty himself at least twice before he is spent, slipping out and pushing his fingers inside to ensure you finish two times as much as he did.
hii guys! hope you enjoy this, i wanted to try another multichara post! -kitty
When Zayne had asked for complete silence while he made a few phone calls, you figured he wanted you outside the room.
You never in a million years would have pictured this.
"Mhm!" You whimper quietly around the tie in your mouth, tears running down your face. You're sitting in his lap, sheathed on his cock, while he presses a vibrator against your clit almost absentmindly. He'd made you cum three times already, and it's clear this isn't over until all his calls are.
"Yes, I understand that. I still believe my method would be better." The stern tone of his voice makes you clench, even if you aren't the recipient. His eyes flick over to you, balancing the phone between his shoulder to free his hand, pulling out the tie and replacing it with two of his fingers.
Evil bastard.
You suck on them with wide eyes, gagging a little when he pushes deeper with an almost curiosity in his eyes.
"Apologies, but something has come up. I'll speak to you on Monday." The moment the call disconnects, he switches the vibrator to a higher intensity.
"Z-Zayne!" You nearly scream, the word coming out garbled around his fingers. He pulls them out, trailing his saliva-coated hand down to your chest, pinching your nipple almost out of boredom.
"You did a good job being quiet...do you think you deserve a reward?" He circles the vibrator in brutal circles, watching you whimper as you cum once more, pleasure burning through you.
"Y-yes. Yes please I-I'm being good can I please...please have a reward?"
"I don't see why not. How about you cum a few more times? Does that sound good?"
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