cw. kinda condescending sylus ?? (except he sounds a lil nice in this)
It wasn’t like you were completely oblivious on how to do certain things. At first, you were pretty inexperienced and only relied on Sylus’s help with stuff you didn’t know how to do.
But as time passed, you were slowly beginning to learn on your own. And Sylus’s help was only something you rarely needed.
Except for one thing that was difficult for you to master.
Ever since you’ve met Sylus, you were rarely satisfied with touching yourself. It wasn’t like it was completely impossible, but you never felt fulfilled when you finished.
“Sylus–”
“Relax, sweetie.” He mumbled, leaning forward just inches away from you while his hand lingered on the fabric of your shorts. He twirled the string between his fingers, being awfully—poorly slow.
That only made you even more eager.
Without thinking, your fingers wrap around his wrists as you try to control him at a quicker pace; when he notices, though, a sly smirk creeped up his lips.
“Greedy.”
“Please Sylus, I- I had a long day-”
That sentence only made his movements stop and he pondered for a moment. The fingers that were once, just mere inches away from slipping under your shorts, were now slowly slipping away in seconds.
You purse your lips, waiting for his next moves but when he presses his lips against your temple, slowly trailing warm kisses along your face, eventually stopping at the corner of your mouth, you wince.
A whisper of his name left your lips at that very moment, your legs twitch ever so slightly and you were just itching to just grab his hand again. But you hold back, gripping the sheets and—
“You think you could do it yourself this time?”
The question made you freeze. He didn’t ask it in a normal manner, there was a sarcastic almost mocking tone laced in his voice, and you couldn’t help but scoff.
“I.. I don’t think it’ll feel good.” You reason.
Sylus raises an eyebrow and inches back to see if there was any hint of you lying. Because he knows you too well to know that it won’t not feel good. But your expression was just too hard to read this time.
“Alright,” Sylus skipped his gaze down to your fingers, which were already playing with the strings of your shorts, before biting the inside of his cheek in anticipation. “Are you sure you don’t want to give it a try?”
“What if-”
“If you can’t do it then I'm here, yeah? Just give me the signal.”
You couldn’t deny it anymore. As much as you wanted it—wanted his fingers, the needy sensation bubbling inside you, almost making you throw up was getting unbearable.
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you start rushing. Like he said, if you couldn’t do it, then he would be there to help. Simple. All you had to do was do a sloppy job, act like you’re struggling and—
“Slow down.”
Despite the warning you were already too much in a haze to properly listen. It was like if he told you something horrible, his voice already sounded like he was saying something so sweet.
“Restless girl.” He chuckled.
Embarrassing as it was, you couldn’t help yourself to snap back at the remarks; your fingers were already shaking, lazily rubbing small circles against your clit, causing you to twitch.
Your middle finger glides against your slick folds, leisurely rolling in an unrhythmic manner, the more you started moving, the less you felt like you were enjoying this.
Every stroke left your wrist aching more and more, all you wanted to do was to finish, or let Sylus take over, just anything to help you feel better than you–
“hck- Sylus, I can’t!”
“You can,” He murmured. “Relax, sweetie. Don't focus on anything else, besides me.”
When he notices your eagerness rising, he only sighs. “Breathe. Slow down your pace.”
You whine, bucking your hips desperately for any chance he could read into your actions, just hoping that he would feed into your unfulfilled desire. But when Sylus doesn’t do anything immediately and instead adjusts himself, continuing to watch you while staring down with a stare that could kill—you were already too pent up to counter back.
Your fingers eventually curl, deepening inside you while you thrust at an unrhythmic pace, making your fingers wet with every stroke, the sounds of your digits pumping you every second filled the room, your moans and whimpers leaving your lips like a love song.
“Pathetic.”
You swallow hard when he creeped closer. Finally! Finally he was able to help!
“This is all you’re able to do, sweetie?”
When he placed his hand on yours, practically caging it so you’re unable to escape, you knew you were fucked. Instead of using his own fingers however, he instead was guiding you into a smoother tempo that he would use on you.
And yet, it still didn’t feel right.
It didn’t feel the same.
“Look how fast you were going, it was like you were doing it on purpose—wanted to finish quickly on purpose.”
You bite your lip when the grip on your wrists tighten and he starts moving your hand back and forth. You didn’t know if it was a placebo effect or something but you swore there was a change when he was the one guiding you.
“Now relax. You were thinking of me during it, right?”
You nod.
“Mmh, alright, keep thinking of me, think of my fingers.”
As your hand continues moving, you slowly begin to feel better. His voice, that was once pestering you with annoying words, was shifting into a sweeter, more melodic tone the more he spoke. “It seems it is quite different for everyone.”
“And it’s better when you do it…” You grumble, sinking your head into his shoulder, shuddering when you feel his fingers trail against your palm, cascading lower and lower until his fingers were exactly where yours were.
“Poor thing,” He grins, applying a little pressure to your fingers before leaning in and planting kisses across your face.
“Looks like I have more to teach you, then.”
a/n. sort of a remake of an old fic (i ddint know how else to title it so it’s gna be bunz if u search the other one (plz dont)) also I dont think he was really teaching cuz i got embarrassed halfway thru 😓
-NERD!ZAYNE TEACHING THE GUYS HOW TO MAKE YOU CUM, SQUIRT AND OTHER TRICKS. Part 4 (Xavier)
Part 1 here Part 2 here Part 3-here
🔞MDNI🔞
The walk to Xavier's dorm on Wednesday felt nothing like the panicked sprint you'd made a few days ago, but the knots in your stomach felt exactly the same.
Things with Rafayel had been—a lot. Since that night your phone hadn't stopped, a steady stream of dramatic updates about an exhibition schedule pulling him out of town, and the occasional message that was just a reminder of what his mouth had done to your skin. He'd be gone two full weeks. You'd exhaled when he told you that, and then immediately felt guilty about it, and then felt annoyed at yourself for feeling guilty, and that had been Tuesday afternoon.
You kept checking your phone anyway. Paranoid he'd said something to the others, let something slip in the group chat without thinking, like he sometimes did when he was caught up in his own head. Nothing so far. That was either reassuring or a bad sign and you couldn't tell which.
But today was Wednesday. Wednesday meant math tutoring. Wednesday meant Xavier.
He'd been helping you with your math classes because he never sighed when you asked him to explain something twice. Never made you feel stupid for losing the thread halfway through a formula you'd understood perfectly ten minutes ago. He'd just turn the notebook around and start from the beginning, patient in an unhurried way that was so him. You'd gotten used to his dorm, his desk, the way he organized his notes in colored tabs that he denied caring about.
What you hadn't gotten used to was the five days of silence sitting between you now. Or the fact that the last time you'd seen him, he'd been on his knees with his face between your thighs and his fingers inside of you.
You shook your head hard, like that was going to do anything.
The morning had been a whole exercise in damage control. You'd stood in front of your mirror for a long time, turning sideways, checking necklines, holding up three different tops before settling on a sweater. The marks Rafayel had left weren't subtle—he'd been thorough about that, almost pointedly so—and the last thing you needed was Xavier noticing something you'd have to explain. Comfortable sweater. Favorite jeans. Just enough makeup to look like you'd rolled out of bed this way, which had taken an embarrassing amount of effort to pull off. You'd looked at yourself in the mirror and thought, this is fine, then left before you could change your mind.
Campus was busy, it was mid afternoon and people were moving between buildings, someone's music was bleeding out of a cracked window on the second floor of the humanities block. You walked with your hands in your pockets and tried to think about literally anything else.
It didn't work. Your brain kept circling back to that night in Zayne's dorm.
You arrived at his building a few minutes early on purpose, not wanting to be standing awkward in the hallway when he showed up. The spare key he'd given you months ago—back when this was all still simple, back when tutoring was just tutoring—was already in your hand before you reached the door. You let yourself in, dropped your bag on the desk, and stood in the middle of the room for a moment just breathing. It smelled like him in here.
You pulled out your textbook. Pulled out your notebook. Uncapped a pen, stared at the blank page, and wrote the date at the top like that counted as being productive.
He'd be back from lecture any minute. You pressed the pen down harder on the page and stared at the date until the words stopped swimming.
----------
Xavier had been having a terrible day and was not going to pretend otherwise.
The past two days had been running on a loop he couldn't shut off. He'd seen Rafayel walking with you across campus. He knew that look on Rafayel's face. He knew it because he felt it himself every time you were within arm's reach.
Since Zayne's dorm, Xavier had been hiding a hunger that had nothing to do with food. He'd had his mouth on you. Had felt you cum on his tongue and he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it.
You hadn't texted back. Not once in five days, not even a heads up about today. He'd checked his phone every 30 minutes and by early afternoon he'd made his peace with the fact that you weren't going to show up and settled into a foul mood about it.
It was jealousy. He wasn't going to dress it up. He'd been crazy about you since day one and the idea of Rafayel getting there first while he sat in his dorm being patient and reasonable was the kind of thing that made a bad day significantly worse.
All he wanted to do was sleep. Maybe eat something. Sit in the quiet of his room and not think about any of it for a few hours.
He unlocked his door, pushed it open—
And stopped.
You were at his desk. Exactly where you always sat, textbook open, pen in hand, looking up at him the second you heard the door.
"Hey," you said softly, and smiled.
Xavier didn't move.
He stood in there with his keys in hand and just looked at you. The afternoon light from the window. The way you were watching him, trying to read him. The small smile that was starting to waver as you noticed something was off.
He dropped his keys on a small table and stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him.
"You look tired," you said carefully.
"I am."
"We can reschedule." Standing to give your back to him you started stacking things, moving with a nervous energy he'd learned to recognize over several months of Wednesday afternoons. " You should rest and we can figure out another—"
"I've been texting you for five days"
You went still. Your hand stayed flat on your notebook.
"I know,"
"And you've been what...Busy."
It wasn't a question and you both knew the answer. You looked at him and he watched you try to figure out what version of the truth to offer.
"I just needed some time," you said finally. "To think."
"About what happened?"
"Yes."
Xavier unslung his bag and let it drop to the floor. He crossed the room without rushing, footsteps silent on the rug, and came to stand directly behind you. He felt you register how close he was, the slight change in your breathing, your shoulders pulling in just slightly.
He didn't touch you yet.
"And?" he said, low, right behind your ear. "What did you decide?"
"Xavier—"
"I've been thinking about it too." His hand found your waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweater "Every single day."
You made a small sound, your knuckles had gone white around the notebook.
"I thought—" you started and then stopped.
"What?"
"I thought maybe it would be easier if we just... didn't talk about it."
He almost laughed. "How's that working for you?"
"Not great," you admitted, barely a whisper.
His lips found the skin just below your ear—barely, just the suggestion of a kiss, the warmth of his mouth hovering more than landing—and the breath you pulled in was loud enough for him to hear.
"You've been avoiding all of us"
"I haven't—"
"You are taking a different way to class now." Another barely there brush of his lips, this time along your jaw. "I've seen you."
Your knees buckled slightly.
"You're not going to say anything?" he asked softly.
"You're not giving me a lot of room to talk."
"You've had five days to talk."
"That's—" You let out a shaky breath. "That's not fair."
"You're right." His lips brushed along your jaw again, in no particular rush. "It's not."
Despite everything, something close to a laugh escaped you, breathless and reluctant. Your fingers were still around the notebook, the only thing keeping you grounded.
"You are genuinely terrible at math and you still show up every week. You're not scared of hard things."
You went very still.
"So stop running," he said. Simple.
Before you could find an answer to that, both his hands settled on your hips—grip firm—to turn you around and then lifted you onto the desk in one easy motion, papers scattering off the edge to the floor.
Neither of you looked at them.
Your arms went around his shoulders and you held on, fingers twisting into his shirt. He leaned in close and stopped just short of your mouth. His lips brushed yours so lightly it barely counted.
"Do you want me to stop?"
You shook your head.
"Words." His thumb pressed into soft skin under your sweater, "Bunny."
You looked at him and noticed the sleepy ease was completely gone. What replaced it was something dark and very, very hungry.
"Don't stop"
He stepped between your knees.
His mouth came down on yours and his hands gripped your thighs to hold you at the edge of the desk. He kissed you with the full weight of however long he'd been waiting to do exactly this. Months of Wednesday afternoons. Months of watching you chew the end of your pen, pretending he wasn't. His tongue slid into your mouth and you felt all of it at once, his patience and restraint and the end of both.
When he broke away his hands dropped straight to your waistband—button, zipper, no hesitation—head down, focused entirely on the task. You pulled your sweater over your head. He didn't look up. You got the sweater off and dropped it somewhere and sat there in your bra watching him work the denim down your legs.
The jeans hit the floor and his eyes moved up your body, you watched the shift happen. His focus didn't leave his face, it changed into something else. Something colder. You'd seen that expression exactly once before, at a party freshman year when a guy behind you had gotten too comfortable, and Xavier had gone very still across the room. He hadn't even needed to move. The guy saw him and took two steps back on instinct.
He was looking at your chest.
The bruises. Rafayel's bruises. Clear in the afternoon light. The silence in the room was excruciating.
"Was this—" He stopped and then started again, quieter. One thumb came up and traced the edge of the darkest mark with a touch so light it made your throat tighten, while his other hand found your hip and held it in a grip that was the opposite of light. "Rafayel."
He already knew the answer and was just giving you the chance to say it.
You nodded. Your voice wasn't available.
The sound he made was low. Short. A sound that meant something had cracked open and he was choosing not to let out all the way. He stood there for a second with his thumb still resting against the bruise and then he got his hands under the backs of your thighs, lifting you off the desk.
He carried you to his bed and set you down against the sheets, the light from the window was not on your side—it hit every mark with even more clarity, nothing softened, nothing hidden. Xavier stood over you and looked at them for long enough that you started to feel every single one.
"He paints like he does everything else," he said as he climbed over you, hands trailing down your sides. "Loud and fast. Like the point is for everyone to know he was there." His fingers traced the edge of each bruise, one after the other, "He wasn't thinking about you. He was thinking about what he wanted to leave behind."
"Xav—"
"I'm not angry at you." His eyes came up to yours briefly, clear about that. "I'm not."
He reached behind you and unhooked your bra with one hand, pulling it off and dropping it over the side of the bed. The breath he drew in through his nose when he saw more bruises all over your soft breasts was slow and controlled.
"He's known you two years," Xavier said, almost to himself, hands cupping you, thumbs moving in slow circles across your skin. "Two years and he still went at you like he was on a timer." His eyes flicked up. "Were you even ready?"
The question caught you completely off guard.
"I—yes."
"Did he ask?"
"He did"
His hands moved back to your waist, then the waistband of your panties—slow the whole way down, no sudden movements, making a point about the difference between his way and the alternative.
He pulled them off and sat back on his heels to look at you for a moment.
"I've known you for two years too," his hand ran up the inside of your calf, unhurried, no destination. "I know when you're stuck before you say anything. I know which problems make you want to give up and which ones just need more time." His palm reached your knee and stopped. "He doesn't know any of that. He doesn't know you."
His eyes came up to yours and held there, you knew he wasn't just talking about math problems anymore.
"I do," he said. Not a boast. Just a fact he'd been sitting on for a while.
His hand moved higher, and your breath caught, the afternoon light kept falling across both of you while the room got really warm, really fast.
His hand pressed flat against your pussy and you felt it everywhere, a warm steady pressure right where you'd been aching since he'd lifted you onto the desk. He held it there and then his body slid lower on the mattress and his mouth found the inside of your thigh.
"You're soaked" he murmured against your skin, and you could feel him almost smiling when he said it.
"Xavie—"
"I heard you." He pressed his lips to the other thigh, higher this time, dragging slow. " And no matter what you say, I'm not rushing."
Your hips lifted off the bed and his hands came down on them immediately, pinning you back to the mattress without looking up.
"I need you to—"
"I know what you need." His mouth moved higher. Still not close enough. "That's exactly why I'm taking my time."
You made a sound that was mostly frustration and he had the audacity to hum against your inner thigh like he was perfectly comfortable staying there all afternoon.
"Please..."
He looked up from between your thighs, chin resting against your skin, watching your face with that particular focus that had been driving you insane for months. "Tell me what you want."
"You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
Your hands twisted into the sheets. "My pussy. I want your mouth on my pussy."
His next kiss landed directly beside where you needed him, deliberately off center, and you cursed loud enough that it surprised both of you.
"Say it again," he said, lips hovering close enough now that you could feel his warm breath.
"Xavier, I swear to god—"
"Again."
"I want you to eat my pussy." The words came out steadier than you expected.
That was what he'd been waiting for. Not the polite version of you that sat across from him every Wednesday with a highlighter and a textbook. He wanted the other one. The one underneath that. The one that had come apart in Zayne's dorm and hadn't fully put herself back together since.
His mouth found your clit.
Your hands flew to his hair before a moan finished leaving your throat, fingers twisting in, and your thighs tried to close around his head on reflex—too much, too direct—but his hands had your legs pinned wide.
"Don't," he said against you.
"I can't—it's too—"
"You can." He pressed a single open mouthed kiss to your entrance "Stay open for me."
Then his tongue moved again. Long, slow strokes from your entrance all the way up to your clit, learning you, tasting how long you'd been waiting for this to happen again. You stopped trying to be quiet. Stopped trying to be anything in particular. Your hips rocked against his mouth and your fingers pulled at his hair. He swallowed every bit of you and kept going.
Your hips rolled harder, chasing pressure, and Zayne's voice surfaced somewhere in the back of Xavier's head with terrible timing.
"Her body will tell you when she's ready to take control. Give it to her when she does. There needs to be trust, or she'll feel uncomfortable."
Xavier pulled his mouth off you.
The noise you made was indignant. "Don't you —"
"Come here." He was moving, shifting his body flat against the mattress, hands at your waist pulling you up with him. "Up."
"Fuck, I was literally about to—"
"I know." He looked up at you from where he was lying, mouth still wet "Come up here."
You stared at him. He waited. His hands were steady on your hips.
"You want me to—"
"Sit on my face." He said it the same way he explained math. Clear. Direct. No room for misunderstanding. "Put your weight down and let me finish what I started."
His words made your face go hot all over again. You shifted forward anyway, bringing your knees to either side of his head, hovering just above him.
"You're not sitting down," he observed.
"I'm aware."
"I'm not going to break."
"I know that."
"Then—"
"I'm just—" You exhaled. "Give me a second."
He gave you time. His hands stayed loose on your hips, not pulling, just present. Waiting. His eyes were on your face the whole time, just watching you work through whatever was keeping you hovering five inches above him.
"What if I'm too—"
"You're not."
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"You were going to say too heavy, or too much, or something like that." His thumbs moved against your hip bones. "You're not. I promise you're not."
Something in your chest went a little loose at that.
You let your weight down.
His hands pulled your hips flush against his face the second you did, tongue finding your clit immediately and the sound that came out of you echoed off every wall in the room. Your hands grabbed his shoulders and then his forearms, whatever you could reach, your whole body trembling with the effort of staying upright.
He was thorough, paying attention to every small reaction. Every time your breath snagged on a particular stroke he came back to it. Every time your thighs tensed he slowed down and built it back up from the beginning. Your fingers ended in his hair, pulling harder than you meant to, and he made a rough sound against you that meant he didn't mind.
"Xavie—" His name came out wrecked "Fuck, I'm gonna—please, I—"
His mouth lifted.
"Nononononono, I will fucking ki—"
"Ask me." his hands were holding you just above his lips with an iron grip. "Properly."
"I'm going to kill you."
"Ask me first."
You looked down at him—hair completely destroyed, mouth slick, looking up at you with those eyes and something short circuited in your brain.
"Please make me cum," you begged. "Please—"
"Dirtier."
Your face went crimson. His expression didn't change.
"Please," you said, the embarrassment burning through your whole body and dissolving into something else, "make my needy pussy cum on your mouth."
He groaned, the sound vibrating against the inside of your thigh as he pulled you down hard and put his mouth back on you, making every previous thing feel like a warm up.
He used his thumb and middle finger to spread your pussy open, forefinger lifting the little hood over your clit so there was nothing between the bundle of nerves and his tongue. He licked into you in heavy, soaking strokes, relentless and consuming, like he'd been waiting specifically for those words and was paying back every second of the wait.
You broke. Completely and loudly and without a single shred of composure.
Your hands twisted so hard into his hair you felt him grunt against you, thighs shaking around his head, his name and sounds that weren't words spilling out of you into the quiet of his dorm room while the light from the window fell across both of you steady and indifferent.
He didn't stop. Even after. Even when you were too sensitive to bear it and your hands were pushing weakly at his head instead of pulling, he kept his tongue moving through every aftershock, slow now, drawing out every last shiver, like stopping would mean missing something he wasn't willing to miss.
"Please stop, Xavie—"
"But you just said—" he started.
"Don't."
"—very clearly, very specifically—"
"Xavier."
"—that you wanted—"
"Don't say it"
"—you are being," he paused and smiled "remarkably shy. We've done this twice"
"I hate you."
"No you don't." His hands were still on your hips. "Sit down again. I'm not done"
Sylus was mad at you. And he was showing it in a very Sylus-like manner.
“Please-please I can’t!” His evol holds you to the bed, your hands pinned to the headboard and legs spread open.
“I wasn’t asking if you can.” Sylus murmurs, licking some of your slick off his chin. You’d lost track of how long you’d been here, and how many times he’d made you cum.
“Sylus I-I said I was sorry! Please…” Tears stream down your face as you beg. He’s never quite punished you like this before, preferring instead to pamper you. This was a drastic change in pace.
“I don’t believe you’re sorry. I told you to tell me when you do something dangerous, did I not?” A thick finger presses into you, making your back arch off the bed.
“Y-you did! You did I-I know but I just…” You bite your lip, trying not to scream as you get closer.
“Just what? What’s your excuse this time?” He moves up to be face to face with you, but you can’t look at him. The guilt for worrying him settles heavy in your stomach, quickly outweighing the pleasure.
“N-no excuse. I’m sorry. Pl-please…” Your whole body feels like it’s on fire, every muscle aching. The energy surrounding you releases, and then you’re pulled into a tight hug.
“I was worried you were dead. Call next time, alright?” He presses a gentle kiss to your temple, squeezing you carefully. You mumble your agreement, kissing his cheek before letting your hand slowly trace the plane of his abs.
"So...isn't it your turn now?" Your suggestion makes Sylus raise a brow, slightly intrigued.
When you spot Sylus leaning against his motorcycle, sunglasses on, waiting for you by the entrance of the building, you suddenly become very aware of yourself. Not your appearance, god knows Sylus has seen you in worse states.
No, it’s the fact that your male coworker leans in just a little too close, murmuring a joke that you laugh at without thinking.
You say your goodbye quickly, heading over to Sylus with confusion on your face.
“What are you doing here?” You lean a little close to him, making sure the variety of people ogling your Greek god of a boyfriend get the hint.
“You wanted to try that restaurant down the street, yes?” Sylus smirks when he sees what you’re doing, hands finding your waist and fiddling with the buckles of your uniform.
“I am starving…”
“I assume all that laughing stirs quite the appetite.” He’s teasing you, because of course. You shove him a little, only slightly pouting.
“We’re just friends. I promise.”
“You don’t need to explain yourself, kitten. I understand.” He’s smirking, but you can tell he’s being genuine.
“You’re…not jealous?” He huffs a laugh at your question, leaning down to brush his lips against yours.
“Why should I be? I’ve known my treasure is desirable for quite some time. But as long as she chooses me, I have no reason to worry.”
NERD!ZAYNE TEACHING THE GUYS HOW TO MAKE YOU CUM, SQUIRT AND OTHER TRICKS. Part 3.
Guess who's free from the mature label? 🥳🙌🏻
Part 1 Part 2
The walk back to your apartment felt surreal, it felt like stepping out of a fever dream into something cold and sad. Zayne's dorm room had been suffocating before you left. Caleb, Rafayel, Xavier, even Sylus fought over who'd take you home. Zayne stayed by the window, quiet, but his eyes followed every move you made. You turned them all down. Heart hammering, you scrambled out the door before anyone could stop you, desperate for air, for space, for anything that wasn't his room.
How were you supposed to look at them now?
The images wouldn't stop. You had seen them hard and visibly leaking through their clothes just from watching you. The memory of Xavier’s dark eyes right before he buried his face between your thighs made your stomach flip. And Zayne—God, his voice. That calm cracking into something that ordered you to let go. It wouldn't leave you alone.
Now, sitting in the university library three days later, you couldn't focus on a single line of text in front of you. You were supposed to be studying, but the quiet just made the noise in your head louder. Close your eyes for even a second and you felt it again, four fingers buried inside you, stretching you past what you thought you could take, your pussy clenching around them in little aftershocks. The warmth of Zayne’s cum soaking through his trousers against your bare ass.
The library's silence felt exactly like the silence after you'd come.
Dread settled low in your chest. Was this it? Had you wrecked the only thing that ever felt safe? You hadn't seen any of them in days—dodging texts, taking the long way to class, hiding in corners of campus you didn't even know existed. Two years of friendship and you'd thrown it all away because a little bit of alcohol got you horny. Fuck!
You didn't hear the sneaker scuff against carpet a few rows over. Didn't notice the eyes tracking the nervous way your finger kept dragging across your bottom lip.
Rafayel stood half hidden by art history, knuckles white against the shelf, watching you with the same burning focus he'd had three nights ago.
Forty eight hours after you fled Zayne's dorm, the deadbolt on his door slid shut again. Everyone—except you— was back again.
Caleb leaned against the wall spinning a basketball on his finger until it dropped, thudding against the floor. He'd mutter something under his breath, scoop it up, start over. Rafayel paced the strip of carpet between the twin beds, flipping through a stack of index cards he wasn't reading—snap, snap, snap. Sylus stood by the window with his back to the room, fingers tapping some restless rhythm against the glass. Xavier was the only one still, flat on his stomach on Zayne's bed, chin in his hands, staring blankly at a stray bobby pin left behind on the floor. Zayne sat at his desk pretending to study an anatomy chart. He'd adjusted the lamp three times. Tried to ignore the testosterone fogging up his room. But between the ball, the pacing, and the tapping, focus was a lost cause.
He slammed his textbook shut, took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Caleb dropped the ball.
"Stop pretending," he said, voice dropping into flat calm. "You didn't come here to study. Just say what you actually want to say so I can kick you all out."
Silence. Quick, guilty glances passed between them—nobody wanting to be the one to crack first, to admit they'd all been picturing the same thing. You, two nights ago, coming apart under their hands.
Rafayel cleared his throat first, tossing his index cards onto the bed "Fiiiiine. Hypothetically. Say a guy's already inside a girl. All the way in. How do you hit that spot? Is there a specific angle?"
A muscle jumped in Zayne's jaw. "The angle doesn't change just because your dick is inside her, Rafayel. Shallow thrusts, angled up. Not just slamming into her. Though I doubt you have the stability to hold that for long."
"I have great stability!" Rafayel hissed, ears burning pink, thumb rubbing against his middle finger as the memory of you made his pulse spike.
"He once held a paintbrush at the exact same angle for an hour straight," Xavier offered, not lifting his chin from his hands.
"See? Stability."
"That's your wrist, Rafayel. Different muscle group entirely," Caleb said.
From the bed, Xavier's voice cut through again, quiet and lazy. "What about when she's on top? Or on the edge of a desk. How do you go down on her so she can grind as hard as she wants? For when she needs to control the movements herself."
Caleb snorted "A desk? Real smooth, Xavi."
"Better than what you're about to ask."
"You don't even know what I'm about to ask."
"I've known you for two years. I know exactly what you're about to ask.”
Caleb's ears went red, but he plowed ahead anyway. "Okay. Hypothetically, say a guy's bigger than average. How's he supposed to use her mouth without hurting her throat?”
"Bigger than average?" Rafayel repeated.
"I am."
"Compared to what?”
"Compared to the general population."
"You've never seen the general population's dick. You've seen yours and you've seen ours and apparently that's all the data you needed?."
Caleb opened his mouth, found nothing, and closed it again.
Sylus finally stopped tapping the glass and a low laugh rumbled out of him "If a guy's significantly bigger than average…”
“Not you too…” Rafayel groaned
“How does he make sure he actually fits, without hurting her? If she's tight. Really tight. Where's the point her body just gives up and takes it?”
Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose again. "I cannot believe I'm hearing grown men compare dick sizes in my dorm room while pretending it's for science."
"It is for science," Caleb said.
"It is not for science, Caleb."
"Reproductive science."
"Get out of my room."
Nobody moved. Zayne let out a long breath through his nose, the kind that meant he was three seconds from actually losing it.
The silence came back, heavier.
Zayne put his glasses back on slowly, fingers locking onto the edge of his desk until his knuckles went white, whatever calm he usually wore was completely gone.
“Every single one of you needs patience and a lot less idiocy than you're currently showing," Zayne said "I'll answer each question once. Once. And then you're all getting the hell out of my dorm. Am I clear?”
Their faces stayed blank. None of them realized they were all in the same boat.
Rafayel thought he was the only one picturing your breasts. Caleb thought his face fucking question was a private fantasy about your mouth, Xavier was silently planning how to put his tongue to use on you again and Sylus was quietly calculating exactly how to stretch you open and how slow he'd have to go. They were entirely oblivious to the fact that not a single one of them was thinking about an imaginary girl. Every single question in that room had your name underneath it.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The shadow over your book solidified into something real. Rafayel had stepped out from behind the art history shelves, and walked straight over, pulled out the chair across from you, and dropped into it like he owned the table.
He propped his chin in his palm and smiled at you. Easy. Unbothered. Like three nights ago he hadn't had your leg pinned wide open over Zayne's leg, staring at you with eyes blown wide and wild.
"You've been reading the same page for ten minutes," he said, voice smooth, carrying that familiar teasing lilt like nothing in the world had changed. "Is it the most boring book ever written or are you hiding in here?"
Your mouth had gone dry. You closed the book slowly, hoping he wouldn't notice your hands weren't steady. "Just studying, Raf. Got a lot going on."
"Clearly," he said, dragging one finger in a slow circle against the table, eyes never leaving yours.
He didn't take the hint to go. He pulled a sketchbook out of his bag instead and started doodling something on the margins while you tried, and failed, to read the same sentence for the fourth time. Every few minutes he'd glance up, catch you watching, and smirk like he'd won something. You'd duck back to your notes. He'd go back to sketching. The cycle repeated itself until you couldn't tell if you were studying or being studied.
"You're doing it again," he murmured eventually, not looking up from his sketchbook.
"What?"
"Biting your lip…” He flipped the sketchbook closed before you could see what he'd drawn. "It's distracting."
"You're the one distracting me."
"I'm just sitting here, very quietly, minding my own business."
"You sat down across from me, uninvited."
"I go to this school. I'm allowed in the library." He grinned, and it was the same easy, infuriating grin he always wore.
When you finally packed up, he packed up too, slinging his bag over one shoulder and falling into step beside you without asking if that was okay. You walked across campus together. He talked sbout a canvas he was prepping, about a professor who kept docking him points for too much emotion in his color theory, about some gallery downtown that wanted his portfolio. Normal things. Easy things. He never once brought up the dorm. Never said Xavier's name, or Zayne's, or anything about orgasms or the sounds you'd made that day.
But it was there anyway. In every silence. In the half second too long his eyes dropped to your mouth mid sentence before flicking back up like nothing happened. In the way his shoulder kept finding yours on the narrow sidewalk, brief and electric, like he was doing it on purpose and daring you to call him out. You grabbed coffee. He ordered for you without asking, remembering exactly how you took it, and didn't comment when your fingers brushed his over the cup and you both pretended not to notice.
The whole afternoon felt like holding your breath.
By the time you made it back to your building Rafayel was still beside you. Still talking. Still walking like he had every right to be there. You didn't stop him at the stairs. You didn't stop him in the hallway. And when your key finally turned in the lock and the door swung open, whatever fragile, careful normalcy you'd both been playing at for the last three hours fell apart completely.
You barely had time to kick the door shut.
Rafayel's palms hit the wood on either side of your head, and then his mouth was on yours and there was no easing into it, no polite preamble, just him, kissing you like he'd been thinking about nothing else for three days. He tasted like dark coffee and barely leashed desperation. Your hands found his chest on instinct, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
He'd been your first crush out of all of them. The beautiful, dramatic, slightly impossible artist who always seemed to exist outside of your reach. And now he had you pinned against your own door.
"Three days," he breathed against your mouth "Three days of you hiding and leaving my texts on read."
"Raf—"
"I counted the hours." His forehead dropped to yours "I had to stop because… it was embarrassing."
His hands moved before you could say something else—down your neck, across your shoulders, fingers curling into the hem of your shirt and pulling it up and over your head. He dropped it somewhere. Didn't look where it landed. He was too busy looking at you.
He'd been replaying it for three nights straight, stroking his cock raw. The light catching your skin. Zayne's hands on you. The sounds you'd made. The image had lodged itself somewhere behind his eyes and refused to leave.
His fingers found the clasp of your bra, knuckles brushing the curve of your spine, and you shivered so hard it traveled through his hands. He undid it carefully—not slowly, he wasn't capable of slow right now—and slid the straps off your shoulders, tossing it aside.
"I kept thinking about this," he said, half to himself. "Zayne had his hands on you and I was sitting three feet away going completely insane." He had been dying to see your breasts again since he had seen your nipples turn tight under Zayne's fingers.
He cupped you gently, and the slight roughness of his palms against your skin pulled a sound out of you immediately. He felt it more than heard it.
"Yeah, just like that" he murmured.
His hands were trembling slightly, he noticed and hated it but couldn't stop it. His hands never trembled. But this was you, and you were looking up at him with those eyes, and his hands were shaking like he was an eighteen year old that had never touched anyone before in his life.
His thumbs dragged over your nipples as he watched your face, not your chest, the way your lips parted, the way your head tipped back an inch. Cataloguing. Filing it away. Learning the shape of you the way he learned everything—through touch, through attention, through taking his time even when every instinct was screaming at him not to..
"You have no clue," he said quietly, thumbs circling again, "what it was like to watch you and not be able to—" He stopped. Pressed his lips together. His jaw worked like he was deciding how honest to be. "I kept thinking about what sounds you'd make if it was just me. If I got to take my time."
His hands lifted your breasts slightly, testing the weight with the same attention he gave to everything he cared about. His eyes tracked the movement.
"I want to draw you like this someday," he said, almost offhand, like the thought had just surfaced. Then his gaze flicked up to yours. "Can I?.”
Your back arched off the door and he took that as the invitation it was, mouth closing over your right breast with a hungry sound that vibrated against your skin. His tongue worked tight circles around your nipple before he pulled it deep, sucking hard enough to make your knees buckle, hands moving to grip your waist to keep you upright. When he finally pulled off, he dragged his mouth across to the other side, slower this time, lips brushing the soft underside before he bit down carefully and then sucked until a mark bloomed red against your skin, exactly where he wanted it.
He pulled back just far enough to look at it. Something satisfied moved across his face.
"There," he said quietly before he pressed his face back into your skin and groaned like you were killing him.
You didn't fully register the part where you moved from the door to your bed. Clothes came off in pieces—his shirt somewhere by the desk, your jeans a problem that took both of you longer than it should have, both of you half laughing for about three seconds before his mouth found your throat and the laughing stopped. The sheets felt cold against your back when you finally went down. Rafayel was all heat, hovering over you, weight braced on one arm, looking down at you with the same burning eyes that had been watching you from across that library for the better part of an hour.
He'd shed his pants and underwear at some point. He was fully hard, thick and leaking, a bead of moisture gathered at the tip that made your stomach flip because you remembered what he'd looked like three nights ago, damp fabric, clenched jaw and eyes that couldn't look away from you.
He parted your thighs and settled between them. He'd painted you in his head a hundred times in the last three days. He kept going back to the image of you spread open and wanting, the way you'd looked when you were right at the edge. He'd tried to work through it. Picked up a brush, stared at a blank canvas, put the brush down. Made coffee. Stared at his phone. Almost texted you seventeen times.
He guided himself to your entrance, and Zayne's voice chose that exact moment to surface in his memory. "Shallow thrusts, angled up. You have to use your hips to angle the pressure up against the anterior wall with every thrust. And internal targeting alone isn't always enough. You'll need to add direct stimulation to her clitoris at the same time if you actually want her to cum."
He almost laughed. Instead he shifted his weight and looked at you with an expression that was equal parts focused and insufferable.
"I did some research..." he said.
"Raf..."
"For artistic purposes." He pressed forward, just barely, just enough to feel the heat of your pussy against the tip of his cock, and watched your face.
He let out a slow, shaking breath and pushed inside you.
The sound he made wasn't dignified. It was pulled out of him by the way you gripped him—tight and hot—your body drawing him in like it had been waiting specifically for him. He sank all the way to the hilt, pelvis pressed flush against yours, and stayed there for a moment with his forehead dropped to your shoulder and his jaw locked so hard it ached.
He needed a second. Just one second.
You were clawing at his shoulders, nails dragging, and the sting of it helped him focus.
Pull back. Shallow. Angle up. Zayne's voice was sitting in the back of his skull like an annotation in the margin of a textbook. He wanted to be annoyed about it, but not right now, he was going to be annoyed about it later. Right now he pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, felt you clench around the tip of his dick like you were trying to keep him inside, and thrusted back in with his hips tilted up.
The sound you made rattled something loose in his chest.
He felt it, the moment the angle caught, the way your whole body seized around him, legs snapping tight around his waist and heels digging into the small of his back trying to pull him deeper. He'd hit it exactly. The spot Xavier had worked open with his fingers three nights ago, and the memory of watching that—watching you cum for Xavier—made something possessive and dark curl through him.
It was his turn now.
He reached down between your bodies, fingers sliding through the slick until his thumb found your clit, swollen and twitching, and pressed down.
"Is that—" His voice broke halfway through the question. He cleared his throat, face burning. "Is that it?"
You answered by moaning his name, which he was choosing to take as a yes.
He kept the same rhythm, thumb working circles around your clit. Your walls fluttering around him in little pulses was making it extremely difficult to think. He had to remind himself several times that he was an artist. He had the patience. He was going to make you cum and squirt just like Xavier did.
His hands were shaking again.
"I've got you," he pressed his mouth to your temple, your cheek, wherever he could reach. "I've got you, I've got you, cutie"
He picked up the pace slowly, maintaining the angle through sheer stubbornness. The sounds filling the room were obscene—wet and unavoidable—and Rafayel didn't care about any of it because you were falling apart underneath him and he couldn't look away from your face.
He'd painted a lot of things. Spent years chasing the right light, the right color, the right moment that made something ordinary look like it meant something. He'd never painted anything that looked like you did right now and he was already furious at himself because he knew he would never be able to.
He drove into you harder, felt the headboard knock once against the wall, and decided he didn't care.
"You're so tight," he choked out, the words barely making it past his teeth, pressed into the wet skin of your neck. His lips dragged down to your collarbone, teeth grazing, and his thumb kept its pressure on your clit without mercy. "You keep...fuck...every time I hit it you...It feels so good"
The pressure was building fast, coiling low in your abdomen, that same terrifying weight you'd felt under Xavier's fingers—except this was different, this was Rafayel, his chest against yours and his mouth on your throat and you couldn't think about anything else.
You bore down without thinking, muscles releasing the way Zayne had told you to, pushing back against him, and Rafayel made a sound against your neck that was almost pained.
"Raf...please, I'm gonna..."
"Don't hold it, cutie. Give it to me" he whispered right against your ear.
A rush of heat soaked the sheets beneath you as you cried his name into the quiet room. Not a whisper. Not a gasp. His name, loud and completely undone.
Rafayel groaned like something in him gave way.
Whatever control he'd been holding onto—the careful rhythm, the patience, the angle, all of it, shattered the second he felt you cum around him. He buried himself as deep as he could go and followed you over the edge, shaking, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he poured into you in long spurts.
He collapsed onto your chest.
His heart was slamming against your ribs, your fingers were tangled in his hair from some point you couldn't remember. The room was quiet except for both of you trying to remember how lungs worked.
His lips moved against your collarbone
"I sketched you. In the library today. While you weren't looking." His fingers traced something slow and shapeless against your ribs. "You looked like you were carrying something heavy." A breath. "I wanted to take it from you.”
If you asked to be tagged and I didn't it's because I couldn't find your username. If you are not on the list and want to be tagged on the next part let me know.
NERD!ZAYNE TEACHING THE GUYS HOW TO MAKE YOU SQUIRT.
PART ONE HERE
CW: Oral, fingering, squirting. 🔞MDNI🔞
"Yeah," Xavier said "Can you teach us how to make her squirt?"
------
The room had gone completely still. Sex and whiskey hung in the air, thick enough to taste. You were breathing wrong, every breath felt heavy, caught in a throat made raw by whiskey and sharp gasps. Zayne's chest felt warm and unyielding at your back, getting up would have required a kind of effort the room didn't seem to allow for.
Xavier's tongue was tracing the edge of his knuckle where your first release had coated him. His eyes had gone almost entirely black, pupils blown so wide there was barely any color left, every bit of that darkness was fixed between your thighs.
Behind you, Zayne exhaled, low and unsteady, the sound catching in his throat before it reached your skin. He hadn't moved back. He had moved closer, pressing his hard cock between your ass, the friction made it clear his medical textbooks hadn't prepared him for how much he actually wanted to ruin you right now.
"That requires an entirely different approach," Zayne's voice was thicker and rougher than it had been. His hands tightened on your waist before he said anything else. Then he bent his head, lips just barely grazing the shell of your ear.
"Are you alright with this? Do you want to show them?"
Your head had already begun to fall back against his shoulder and the whimper that came out of you wasn't something you'd planned.
"Yeah"
His patience didn't leave exactly, but it changed shape, it became something slower. His hand moved from your waist, sliding up until his palm curved around your breast again, broad, warm and unhurried. His thumb found your nipple without searching for it and he began to roll it between his fingers with a steady pressure that sat right on the edge of too much and didn't waver.
"The G-spot," he said, his voice settling back into something that almost resembled composure, "isn't about surface stimulation. It isn't about rhythm either." He pinched your nipple lightly, and your breath caught. He continued as though he hadn't noticed, or perhaps because he had. "Squirting isn't something you can rush. We've spent nearly twenty minutes on foreplay and that's perfect because the entire pelvic region needs time to fill with blood, to become fully engorged. Without that, it won't work."
His thumb moved in a slow circle around your nipple, like he had all the time in the world and intended to use it.
"The targets are the paraurethral glands. Small, about the size of a pea, sitting on either side of the urethra, close to her G-spot. Most people don't know they exist. Most people don't know what they're capable of." A pause. "You're about to learn."
Xavier's voice came quiet and low. "I want to try."
Whatever remained of the quiet, compliant boy from freshman orientation—the one who'd handed you a campus map and apologized for bumping into you—was gone. Completely. He moved forward until he was wedged between your legs, his thighs pressing firmly against your calves.
A cold spike of something, fear, want, the particular overwhelm of both arriving at once, shot straight down your spine. Your thighs tried to close on instinct, a reflexive flinch against the intensity of his gaze, the nearness of him and the reality of what was about to happen. Your knees had barely begun to move before something stopped them.
Caleb moved to the edge of the mattress and closed his hand over your right knee. Not gently. He pressed it down and out over Zayne's thigh, his grip immovable, the kind that didn't invite negotiation. You weren't going to close yourself off. He'd made that clear without saying a word.
Rafayel took your left. His fingers found the inside of your knee and held on with trembling pressure.
You looked down at them through the blur of whiskey and heat.
Caleb's jaw was locked, a muscle jumping in his cheek like he was chewing through something. The flush on his neck had darkened to something almost bruised, creeping up toward his jaw, his breath coming in audible hitches he wasn't bothering to hide anymore. Rafayel had his bottom lip caught between his teeth hard enough to drain the color from it, his eyes tracking every shiver that moved through your body like he was trying to memorize them.
And then lower.
A small, damp circle had bled through the gray of Rafayel's sweatpants. The front of Sylus's pants were pulled tight, a matching wet spot darkening the fabric, spreading slightly every time he exhaled.
"Keep her steady." Zayne's hips kept moving, that same slow roll against you, while his fingers worked both of your nipples at once, rolling and pinching until heat shot straight down through your stomach and didn't stop.
"Xavier." His tone shifted into something clinical "Two fingers, palm facing up toward her navel. Her arousal is sufficient as a baseline, but you need to use the lubricant on my nightstand. I don't want friction, I don't want any tissue irritation." A pause, weighted. "Once you're inside, feel along the anterior wall. There will be a ridge, different from the surrounding tissue. Think of the roof of your mouth."
Xavier reached for the lubricant and coated his fingers slowly, his hands were shaking. Then he brought them to your entrance, just the tips at first, barely making contact, and paused there for a breath that felt longer than it was.
He pushed in slowly.
Inch by inch, the stretch of it opening you around him, his fingers pressing through the heat and slick of you with patience. His eyes had gone wide by the time his fingertips swept up and found it, the ridge Zayne had described, unmistakable, exactly where he'd said it would be.
A cry tore out of you before you could stop it, fractured and too loud. It rang off the walls and you knew without question it had carried straight down the hallway outside.
Sylus shadow fell over you before he leaned down, face unreadable, there was a particular stillness of someone exerting tremendous control. His thumb caught your chin and pressed your jaw down, and then his fingers were in your mouth, muffling whatever came next. You closed your lips around them without thinking. Your tongue found his knuckles and you pulled him in, sucking hard, needing the solid reality of him to hold onto, something grounding while everything else was coming apart.
"Keep it down, sweetie." he said. Low. Almost gentle.
"Like this?" Xavier's voice came from below, strained thin.
He had begun to move, curling his fingers up, knuckles dragging against your entrance with every stroke while his fingertips pressed into the ridged wall above. He went deeper with each repetition. Not faster. Deeper, the hook of his fingers catching on the sensitive texture inside you and holding there just long enough before pulling back and doing it again.
"Slower."
Zayne's breath was scorching against your neck, his fingers never stopping, working your nipples with a precision that had stolen most of your ability to think. Behind you his hips pushed forward, heavier than before, a frustrated grind that he didn't bother to disguise.
"You're skimming the surface," he said. "Press into it. Maintain the motion and add external pressure to the clitoris, combine both. Increase as the tissue expands." His voice dropped slightly. "Can you feel how she's changing around you? How she's pulling you in?"
Xavier made a sound low in his throat, almost involuntary, his head dipping forward. His thumb came down against your pelvic bone and he adjusted his angle, pushing deeper until his knuckles were completely slick. His strokes slowed and firmed, each one pressing up into you with a patience that was clearly costing him something.
"It's getting tighter," he said, voice fraying at the edges. "It's... it's pushing back. She's so hot inside."
"She's engorging, the fluid is building in the glands. You cannot break the rhythm, not now, not for anything. If you ease up even slightly, the accumulation dissipates and you lose everything you've built."
He said it like a warning. Like he was saying it to himself as much as Xavier.
It was nothing like before.
Not the sharp, electric jolt of Zayne's thumb. this was something else entirely. Deeper. Heavier. A fullness that built with every stroke and didn't recede, coiling low in your abdomen like pressure with nowhere to go. Every time Xavier's fingers found that spot and pressed, a wave rolled through you, enormous and terrifying, making you want to beg for something you didn't have words for. You bit down on Sylus's knuckles without meaning to, eyes losing focus, your whole body tightening around a point you couldn't reach.
On either side of you, Caleb and Rafayel hadn't moved. Couldn't. Their knuckles had gone white where they held your legs open, and their eyes were fixed on Xavier's hand, on the way his fingers disappeared into you and came back slick, on the wetness that had gone past the point of containment. It was pooling at your entrance, spilling over and running down Xavier's wrist.
It was Rafayel who broke first.
"Zayne." His voice came out cracked, barely holding together. He swallowed hard, his gaze still locked on the fluid stringing between your skin and Xavier's hand, his body giving him away beneath the fabric of his sweatpants. "She's...fuck...it's leaking. Is she close?"
"She's almost there."
Zayne's voice had lost everything clinical about it now. Whatever composure he'd been maintaining had come apart completely, leaving only this—his fingers digging into your nipples, pinching hard, driving the sensation past the point of bearable while his hips pressed into you with desperation.
"Xavier. Fast circles on her clit, other hand, now." A beat. "Force it."
Xavier looked up at your face instead.
Your eyes had gone hazy, barely tracking, tears gathering at the corners from nothing but sheer overwhelm. Your lips were still wrapped around Sylus's fingers, your chest heaving in ragged pulls, small broken sounds escaping around his knuckles every time Xavier moved inside you. You were completely undone. Anyone could see it.
Xavier saw it too.
He didn't raise his hand to your clit. Something shifted behind his eyes, a flash of something reckless and deliberate, the look of someone who had been quietly calculating this exact moment and had finally decided to take it.
"You said anything I can do with my hands," he murmured, his voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, "I can enhance with my mouth, right?."
His blonde hair fell across his forehead as he leaned down.
"Xavier—" Zayne's voice came sharp with warning.
Too late.
Xavier buried his face between your thighs.
The heat of his mouth hit you without warning.
Xavier's tongue sealed over your clit and the sound that came out of you was strangled, swallowed by Sylus's fingers, barely contained. He didn't tease. He remembered every word Zayne had said, flattened his tongue broad and wet against you, using the full weight of it to meet the pressure building from inside, while his fingers hooked harder and began to move in a rhythm that was merciless and gave you absolutely nothing to brace against.
"Breathe." Zayne's lips found your temple and pressed them there, warm and close. "What you're feeling, the fullness, the urgency, it will feel exactly like a need to release. That's correct. That's exactly right." His breath shook against your skin. "Don't fight it. Bear down. Let your pelvic floor go completely. Let it happen."
You stopped fighting.
You exhaled and let go. Your pelvic floor released and you bore down against the hook of Xavier's fingers, against the wet relentless press of his tongue, and for one suspended second everything went very still.
Then your body locked.
Every muscle seized at once, thighs convulsing against Caleb and Rafayel's grip. They leaned their full weight into your knees and held. Caleb let out a breathless "fuuuuck look at her". You bit down on Sylus's fingers hard enough to feel his knuckles against your teeth, vision narrowing to nothing.
It came in a rush, clear and forceful, spilling over Xavier's chin, across his cheeks, soaking into the fabric beneath you. His fingers stayed where they were, buried deep, riding out every contraction as your body clenched around him in waves that didn't stop, that pulled at him and wouldn't let go.
He didn't pull back. His tongue kept moving through it, his jaw working, his nose pressed to your skin while you sobbed through the aftershocks, open, head falling back against Zayne's shoulder again, with the full dead weight of someone who had nothing left to hold onto.
The room went quiet before you heard the slow, wet sound of Xavier withdrawing his fingers. Sylus drew his hand from your mouth just as slowly, his thumb dragging across your lower lip, catching a smear of saliva and wiping it away. He didn't look away from your face. The darkness in his eyes hadn't lifted. It had settled into something that made it very clear this wasn't over.
Xavier raised his head.
His face was flushed deep, his lips wet, a streak of fluid catching the lamplight as it ran down the line of his jaw and dripped onto his collarbone. He looked up at Zayne.
He looked like someone who had just discovered something he couldn't un know.
"Like that?" Xavier asked. The smugness in his voice was not even slightly hidden.
Zayne didn't answer right away.
He was staring down at the space between your thighs, at the soaked mattress, at the evidence of everything his careful, clinical framework had produced. His chest rose and fell hard against your back, his breath coming uneven against your neck, and you felt it before you fully understood what it was, a spreading warmth behind you, seeping through the fabric of his trousers, pressing into you. Unmistakable.
"Yes," Zayne said finally. His voice was stripped of every careful layer he'd spent the entire evening constructing "Exactly like that."
oh no! today just happens to be peak ovulation day...
STARRING: caleb, sylus, zayne, xavier, & rafayel [separate] x f!reader
CW: needy bsf!caleb, dry humping | husband!sylus, breeding | lots of reader solo play (sorry snow girlies i failed us w this one), mirror sex | light somno?, eating out | teasing, orgasm denial
happy late valentines day <3 i hope i proofread good enough lol
✮⋆˙— caleb
The soft glow of the tv is the only light in the room, flickering blues and golds across the walls. Rain taps gently against the windows in a soothing beat, an excuse you happily use to curl a little close to Caleb on the couch. Best-friend movie nights were a ritual. You never missed them. Caleb never missed them. One night a month where the world didn't exist and it was just the two of you, uninterrupted.
And tonight just happened to be the night for your body to betray you.
You’d been squirming for the last five minutes, trying to find a position that doesn’t make you hyper-aware of the stickiness that won't stop gushing into your panties. First you’re to hot, then you’re too cold. Every brush of the blanket feels like too much.
You huff and pull back from Caleb, slumping into the cushions and pretending to watch a scene you haven’t followed for the last twenty minutes.
He glances sidelong. “You alright?”
You nod too fast, cheeks heating as you tug the blanket higher, squishing your thighs together, praying the movement looks causal.
“Are you sure? You’ve been… I dunno… weird tonight.”
“Weird?” you squeak. “What do you mean?”
Caleb turns fully toward you, and you stubbornly keep your gaze locked on the screen. Something shifts in the air under his attention, the room warming and suddenly shrinking two sizes too small.
“Hey,” his voice is gentle. “Look at me.”
You swallow hard, finding your will, and turn your head.
Caleb’s eyes are wide, but not with concern alone. They drift over the blanket wrapped around your body, then back to your face, soft but intent.
“You don’t have to lie,” he murmurs. “I can tell you’re uncomfortable.”
“I’m not!” you defend quickly. “I could never be uncomfortable with you. I’m just… having one of those days…”
“Yeah?” His voice drops then, like he already knows. He shifts just an inch closer and it makes everything worse. “Y’know you don’t have to lie to me, pips.”
You close your eyes, exhaling. He’s not going to let it go.
“It’s just… that day during my cycle,” you mutter, fingers twisting in the blanket. “It… makes me all flustered and…” you trail off, never more embarrassed.
“Can I help?”
Your eyes snap open. “W-What?”
“Can I help?” he repeats, already moving closer to crowd your space. Large arms brace on either side of your hips. His gaze goes hazy, hungry in a way you’ve never let yourself notice before. “Please?”
You choke on a gasp, the sound breaking into a needy whine. Your mind pulls in two opposite directions–your pussy throbbing helplessly at the offer while your heart twists at how much could change if you give in.
The decision is made for you. Caleb sees the hesitation, but the desire in your eyes win. His lips crash onto yours.
You melt instantly. Of course you do. Your fingers tangle in his hair, dragging him close while you pant into his mouth like you’ve been craving this for far longer than just tonight.
Your heart pounds in time with the pulse between your thighs, completely soaking you through the dainty fabric.
No more words. Caleb's hands do the talking, rough and impatient as they yank your shorts down your legs. His gaze immediately darts to your panties and he groans low in his throat.
“Oh my… fuck…” he breaths, already shoving his sweats down. “Why didn’t you let me help you earlier?”
“I–I was embarrassed.” You admit, failing against the cushions.
“You never have to be embarrassed, baby…” the pet name curls around you, warm and possessive. “Never for this.”
He settles over you, sweats pushed low but boxers still on. His cock is painfully hard, straining against the fabric, but he doesn’t touch himself—just presses the thick length right against your soaked, cotton covered core.
You gasp, the contact is electric, exactly what your pussy’s been begging for. Caleb dips down and captures your lips, the kiss turning messy almost instantly. You cling to each other, exhaling loud out of your noses to not separate. His hips drag, pulling sweet little whines from your throat.
Caleb’s lip part as a raw moan slips free, his lips still dragging wet kisses across yours. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded and completely fixated, like he can’t believe this is real. The hard line in his boxers grinds against the thin cotton covering your heat again.
Best friends definitely weren’t supposed to be doing this. But the forbidden edge tastes so sweet, and the simple, devastating fact that it’s him, only makes it more addictive.
You lift your hips aggressively, chasing friction when the head of his cock brushes your swollen clit through the layers. Your panties are drenched now, letting him slide easily, every drag spending sparks up your spine. The wrongness of it, the rightness of him, is intoxicating.
Your sweet, protective best friend, reduced to nothing but a man desperate for any form of contact from you.
“Pips…” he groans, pressing harder. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
A wicked smirk curves your lips before you pull him back into a messy, open-mouthed kiss that's full of a hunger neither of you wishes to hide. Your teeth sink into his bottom lip, then your tongue soothes the sting.
His large hands roam up from your hips to squeeze your breasts through the thin fabric of his t-shirt you’d stolen tonight. You–all bare legs, skimpy panties, and his shirt–has him twitching in his boxers.
“Fuck…” he pants, pulling back from the kiss, but never stilling his shallow thrusts. Conflict suddenly flashes in his eyes. “We…we shouldn’t be—ah!—doing this.”
You manage a sweet, dangerously innocent voice, slowly rocking your hips—just once, over his throbbing need. “W-Why not, Caleb? You’re just helping me. We’re…mmph…not doing anything wrong.”
He groans at the obvious lie, bracing himself on his forearms to suspend his weight over you. His muscles are wound tight, straining against his restraint, which crumbles with his next sentence.
“I need to… see you,” he grunts. “See what I’m doing to you, pretty girl.”
Before you can think, his trembling hand hooks your panties aside. The choked sound he makes at the sight of your glistening, swollen pussy, goes straight to your core, then he’s slamming his still-clothed cock right over your directly exposed wetness.
His hips lose rhythm, jerking wildly in a desperate, uncoordinated rut. His cock throbs violently in his boxers, chasing a release he can’t hold back. The friction is filthy, intoxicating, your whimpers mixing with his wrecked moans.
“So beautiful…” he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut. “God, you’re so beautiful, honey.”
The most captivating sounds spill from Caleb’s lungs, a mix of whimpers and guttural moans as a sudden warmth blooms and soaks the material of his boxers, seeping out onto your puffy core. He collapses forward, breathing ragged against your ear.
“Did you just–”
“Mhmm…” he hums, voice shaky but completely unashamed. “All in my boxers. I couldn’t help it.”
You huff a gentle laugh, still trembling with want, thighs slick and aching. “Wanna do it inside me now?”
✮⋆˙— sylus
Your bare feet pad into your shared bedroom, steam spilling out behind you and curling along the ceiling like a lingering sigh. Droplets cling to your skin, sliding down the curve of your throat and between your breasts before disappearing beneath the collar of your robe. You tug the fabric tighter, shifting your hips as the restless heat returns low in your belly.
The bath had meant to ease the tension that haunted you all day, yet all it’s done is make you more aware of it.
To your surprise, Sylus sits propped up against the headboard in nothing but a pair of black pajama pants, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, a book open in his hand. He must have returned home while you were submerged.
The second you step into the room, his gaze lifts slowly and pins you in place. The pupils in his eyes widen, something soft but hungry in his gaze.
He knows exactly what today is.
“Come here,” he says sweetly, patting the mattress beside him.
You oblige without hesitation, climbing onto the bed and crawling up the sheets before flopping onto your stomach with a muffled groan. The cool fabric against your flushed skin makes you shiver.
“You didn’t enjoy your bath?” he hums, palm gliding over your robe-clad back in slow, soothing passes that only only makes the ache worse.
“No, I did,” you mumble into the pillow. “I’m just…” your voice trails off, embarrassment tangling your tongue. The words feel too exposed, even to your husband.
“I know.” His tone drops, husky and threaded with quiet amusement. “You’re so warm.”
The mattress dips as he shifts to settle behind you. Strong fingers slip to your front to find the tie of your robe and loosen it, peeling the damp silk from your shoulders. His lips follow the path of exposed skin, pressing hot, lingering kisses along your shoulder blades.
“You even smell sweet today,” he murmurs against your skin.
Heat floods all over again, a slick gush seeping from your sweet hole and onto the mattress. A quiet whimper slips free as you lift your hips, brushing your ass back against the firmness straining beneath his pajama bottoms.
“Sylus…” you breathe.
“Yes, kitten?” his hands slide down to your hips, thumbs kneading the soft skin. “Use your words.”
He rolls his hips forward in a slow grind, letting you feel the heavy weight of him exactly where you’re aching most.
“I need you…” you whimper, voice small.
Sylus smirks, peppering kisses just beneath your ear. “And why do you need me?”
You're grateful your face is buried in the mattress because your cheeks burn instantly. His teasing is gentle, but relentless–he wants to hear it.
“Because…” you swallow. “you know… ‘m ovulating.”
Sylus groans as he presses his cock deeper against you. Your robe is peeled down your arms, the silk whispering against your skin as it gives way before it’s tossed aside. Cool air kisses your heated skin, replaced quickly by the warmth of his body hovering over yours.
“Is that so, kitten?” his hands trails down your bare back, fingers tracing every dip of your spine. “Do you want me to take care of that for you?”
“Please.”
A kiss is pressed to your head before he lifts himself long enough to push his pajamas down. You feel him a second later, the gentle tap of his cock once against your ass, a bead of precum smearing onto your skin. The sensation makes you shudder, hips instinctively pressing back for more.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with admiration as his hands spread over your lower back, keeping you still. “You’re so wet for me.”
His cock drags slowly between your slick folds, the glide torturously slow. You can feel every vein, every pulse, your pussy clenching around nothing as he coats himself in your arousal. Praise falls from his lips in soft murmurs—good girl… so sweet… so ready for me—each word sending another wave of heat through you.
When he finally lines himself up and begins to push inside, it's agonizingly slow. Sylus wants you to feel every stretch until you’re gasping into the sheets, fingers curling into the favor. His hand rubs soothing circles into your hip while his forehead presses between your shoulder blades.
At first, it’s gentle. Deep, steady thrusts rock your body forward, the headboard tapping the wall in rhythm. But your soft, broken mewls and the way you push back against him, smearing your slick heat across his abdomen, wears down that compose.
Fingers dig into your hips, tightening until you’re certain the marks will linger. The pace quickens, each thrust landing harder than the last, the quiet room filling with the wet sounds of skin meeting skin and the desperate hitch of your cries. He has you exactly where he wants you.
Well, almost.
His arm snakes around your waist while his other hand splays possessively across the top of your spine. The weight of him forces your body into a deep, supplicating arch that maximizes the depth.
There.
He grunts a low, satisfied sound as your walls flutter around him in reply to the new angle. “You like that, sweetheart?”
A round of sharp, breathless inhales answers his question. “Y-yes–hicc–y-yes!”
His hips surge forward violently at the sweet sound, losing any remaining gentleness.
“I’m so deep like this, kitten,” he gasps, each word punctuated by the heavy slam of his cock driving into you again and again. “Could stuff you so full right now…”
A needy whine spills from you, drool dampening the pillow as pleasure muddles coherent thoughts. “C-Could you n-now?” The question tumbles out with a desperate sincerity between gasps.
Sylus leans forward, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. “I could. And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
A shudder runs down your spine as he pulls you upright against him, your back flushed to his chest. Your head falls onto his shoulder, baring your throat. He takes immediate advantage, slowing his frantic rhythm to deep, punishing thrusts that make your toes curl while his lips work at the sensitive skin of your neck, sucking dark love bites onto the supple skin.
“You’re already so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with affection as he drags himself out to the tip before slamming back in, forcing a sob from your lips. “Imagine how beautiful you’d be swollen with me right—”
His hand slides from your waist to your stomach, palm spreading wide as his fingers splay possessively over the skin there.
“—here.”
Your eyes flutter shut as the image floods your mind—round and full of him. The thought alone makes your pussy clench, slickness leaking down his length in a fresh rush.
“Oh, you’d let me, wouldn’t you, kitten?” His hand glides upward, fingers curling around your jaw, firm but tender as he tilts your face back towards his. He needs to see you, need to see the honesty in your eyes. “You’d let me fuck a baby into you?”
The words ignite something molten in your core, spewing a string of moans from your lips. Your gaze locks with his, and the seriousness in his expression steals what little breath you have left.
His grip on your jaw tightens just enough to keep your focus as his thrusts pick up again. “Words. Use them.”
“Y-Yes,” you sputter.
“Yes what, sweetheart?”
“Yes I’d l-let you—hah!—fuck a b-baby into me, Sy!”
A strangled growl tears from his throat. Your answer unlocks something feral in him. His pace turns ruthless, ramming his cock into you with one intention.
“Gonna fuck you so full, sweetie,” he promises hoarsely. “I’ll make sure it—nngh—takes.”
He’s already throbbing inside you, completely captivated by the sheer thought of getting you pregnant. His lips crash against yours in a heated, desperate kiss, swallowing your moans as his movements grow sloppy with need. With a groan that rumbles through both of you, his tip slams against your soft cervix, releasing hot pulses of his seed. He doesn’t stop, rolling his hips in slow thrusts to ensure it took.
When he finally stills, he rests his sweaty forehead against yours, a dazed smile tugging at his lips.
“We have to ensure it takes, kitten,” in a smooth motion he flips you both, letting you sit atop him. “Show me how badly you want it.”
✮⋆˙— zayne
You watch the clock tick past, the small hand resting on the hour, officially signaling that Zayne is off shift.
Unfortunately, he still won’t be home for at least another hour. Judging by his lack of reply to your texts, there’s probably mountains of paperwork, last-minute calls, and traffic standing between him and this house. You’ll be lucky if you see him before nightfall.
You groan, slumping against the edge of the bed, tilting your head back to stare at the ceiling. The one day you really need Zayne, and he’s nowhere in sight.
Your body aches with need, each pulse a reminder that ovulation has turned you feral. Heat blooms in your lower belly, soaking your panties, and you can't stop pressing your thighs together to try and relieve it.
Your gaze flicks to the mirror. Your reflection stares back with flushed cheeks. You bite your lip and glance at the clock again. There is a solution.
Zayne will probably be exhausted when he gets home. If you take care of yourself now, you can tend to him later.
Fuck it.
With zero ceremony, you kick off your shorts, the fabric of your soaked panties clinging to your pussy. Your cheeks burn an even deeper crimson as you push them down, peeling away the damp material and leaving your lower half exposed to the reflective glass.
Desperation makes your movements sloppy. Your fingers dip inside your dripping cunt, index and middle finger instantly slick with your need. You twitch as they withdraw, then drag up to twirl them in gentle circles over your swollen clit, shivering at the surge of pleasure.
A tiny moan escapes your lips, high and breathless. It's been a while since you’ve touched yourself solo—because you usually have Zayne. But tonight, he’s just an image in your head, and that thought alone is enough to make you squirm.
You mimic his touch, spreading your folds and teasing your swollen bud just like he would. Stop. Start. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing the delicious burning building in your core.
“Z-Zaynie…” you whimper to the air, eyes flicking to your reflection, watching your pussy flutter around what would be his cock if he were here. Your thighs threaten to slam together, but you force them apart.
You lose yourself in the sensation of your fingers' newfound rhythm. Pressure builds, threatening to boil over the edge. Your breath catches, lips parting in moans that are muffled but urgent.
And then—
Your eyes snap open and they aren’t just seeing you in the mirror. Zayne is in the doorway, tie loosened from work. His expression is unreadable, but dangerously hungry. His arms are crossed, like he’s trying to seem annoyed—but you know that look. He’s definitely turned on and fully amused by your shame.
“Shit—mmgh—Zayne—!” you squeak, yanking your hand back and slamming your thighs together as if that could hide the evidence of your crime.
He steps in slowly, never breaking eye contact as he sets his glasses on the nightstand.
“It’s not—” you start, then stop, as you realize it is. “I’m sorry, I just… ugh.” You bury your face in your hands, cheeks burning hotter than ever.
“There’s no need to be ashamed,” he says evenly, taking a single step in the room. “Continue.”
You glance at him, confused. “But Zayne—“
“Did I misspeak?” His voice is unnervingly calm.
“N-No,” you stammer. “B-But I don’t understand. I only did it because you weren’t here, and now that you are—”
“That doesn’t change anything.” He interrupts, voice low and commanding. “You were doing it when I wasn’t here. You couldn’t wait. So go ahead. Finish without my help, just like you intended all along.”
A shiver runs through you. His words are cold, but utterly thrilling. You stare at him, searching for a crack in his expression that isn’t there.
Swallowing your embarrassment, you part your thighs again and place your hand back between your legs. The time you look at him—not at the mirror—as your fingers slide inside yourself. Your slick folds glisten under the bedroom light, fully displayed for him, yet he doesn’t even look. Zayne moves around the room, loosening his cuffs, rolling his shoulders, and going about his normal post-shift like you’re not bare and dripping a few feet away.
The normalcy of it makes your stomach twist. He’s doing it on purpose, and every second he doesn’t look is a silent command to keep going.
So, you continue. The pressure builds, unbearable now, and you bite your cheek to hold back a moan. “Zayne…” you pant, eyes fluttering shut as you buck helplessly into your own hand.
Before you can register it, he’s crouched beside you. His presence is sudden, the faint scent of soap and hospital antiseptic clinging to his skin. When his voice comes, it’s soft, but firm. “Are you going to come?”
You nod, breath hitching, unable to answer. His hand darts out, cradling your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek as he tilts your face towards the mirror.
“Watch.”
You whimper, locking onto your reflection in the glass. Your fingers move of their own accord, gliding across your puffy clit as you push yourself over the edge. Your body trembles and tips sideways, instinctively leaning against him as the waves roll through you.
But he isn’t done with you.
You can’t even fully recover, because suddenly he’s pushing off his pants, his cock springing free before he’s settling in right behind you. One hand tugs greedily at your shirt, dragging the fabric up and off so your tits spring free, nipples tightening instantly in the cool air at the heat of his stare in the mirror.
“C’mon,” he orders quietly, fingers digging into your hips as he guides you back. “Ride me.”
You flush as you move to hover over him, still sensitive from your release. The reddened tip of his cock nudges against your entrance, smearing the sticky precum as you line him up with shaky hands.
“You get so needy when you’re ovulating,” he murmurs, amusement threading through the lust as he fixates where you will be joined. His hips raise once to poke your entrance in impatience.
“H-How do you–”
He chuckles under his breath, nipping your shoulder. One hand slides up your side to pinch your perked nipple, then swipe the bud of his thumb over it to soothe the sting. “You think I don't know my sweet girl?”
You whine and shake your head before you sink slowly onto his length, a lewd moan spilling free as the stretch makes your thighs tremble all over again.
But the pace is too slow for Zayne. His fingers flex, then grip your hips and pull you down until you're seated flush against him, his swollen tip nudging your cervix.
“Is it better than your fingers, love?” he asks, lips brushing the curve of your spine as his hand smooths up your back, pressing lazy kisses against the overheated skin.
“Mmm, y-yes. F-Fuck, yes,” you whimper, rolling your hips while your eyes stay glued to the mirror. Your breasts bounce with every motion, your juices slicking his pelvis. The obscene intimacy of watching yourself take him making your stomach flutter.
A breathy, almost strained groan slips from him. Zayne’s grip tightens, just shy of rough, as his thumbs dig into the soft flesh of your lower back.
“That’s it… look at you,” he mutters, voice dipping darker, a little mocking. His cock twitches inside you as he leans in, lips grazing your ear. “I love how you feel like this. When your body’s begging for me.”
You clench at the words and ride him harder, chasing the friction. The mirror shows everything—your flushed face, his hungry eyes, the way he watches you fall apart for him.
“Next time,” he groans, lifting his hips to meet your thrusts, never once breaking eye contact with your reflection. “You’ll wait for me.” His hand slides up to your throat, not squeezing, just holding. “Or at least send me a picture. Understood?”
Your pussy throbs in time with your heart, moans punching out from each snap of your hips colliding. “Y-Yes! I understand—!”
“Good. Now come for me again.”
✮⋆˙— xavier
Your eyelids flutter to the barely-there presses of his lips.
It starts on your cheek, then trails to your jaw. You keep your eyes closed as he buries his nose into your neck, inhaling your scent before peppering a few more kisses along the sensitive line beneath your ear. His breath is warm and uneven as he savors you before you fully wake.
Your body reacts subconsciously, shifting closer to him and giving a tiny shiver at the affection so early in the morning. If you had to guess, the sun hasn’t even risen. The world feels dim and soft, wrapped in the stillness.
You’re aware you lie on your side. Of the weight of the comforter. Of the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your back.
You’re also aware of his stiffness pressing against you—but it floats through your mind like a distant thought, something you register without fully grasping.
“Good morning, angel.” Xavier’s voice is a hoarse rasp near your ear, signaling that he too just woke. His hips subtly shift, pressing him more firmly against you before he exhales. “You can go back to sleep, lovely.”
You hum in reply, still drifting. His hand glides down the curve of your waist, slow and absentminded at first, like he’s memorizing the shape of your curves. The touch keeps you suspended in the blissful space between dreaming and reality—where every sensation feels warmer, heavier, and sweeter.
You almost sink back under. Until his kisses don't stop.
They linger longer now, and his fingers toy with the hem of your waistband as if testing whether you’ll stir. You inhale softly, something incoherent slipping from your lips when his warm hand slips beneath the fabric, his palm settling on your abdomen. His thumb traces patterns that send quiet sparks up your spine, each pass making your thighs tighten just a fraction more.
You should wake. You should turn and face him, acknowledge the warmth that you are suddenly very aware is pooling in your panties—and fast. But you're so comfortable, so pliant against him, letting his touch wander while your thoughts drift like mist.
“Do you know what today is?” Xavier murmurs, breaking through the haze.
Your blink your eyes open slowly, the dim room slowly taking shape in blurred outlines. You search your memory, but nothing important surfaces. Only the steady rhythm of his breathing and the way his hand stills, waiting.
But your body seems to know before your mind does. There's a heightened sensitivity humming under your skin, every brush of his fingers sending a ripple through you that feels unfairly intense for how half-asleep you still are.
Oh.
“It’s a good thing,” he continues softly, his words threaded with a gentle hunger. He finds the hem of your panties, gently rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re extra sweet today… softer. Smell so good…”
Heat creeps into your cheeks even in your drowsiness, and your legs part slightly without conscious thought. The small movement draws a low breath from him, a quiet surrender to how much he wants you. His forehead rests against your shoulder as his hand dips beneath your panties.
He finds you wet and murmurs out grateful praises into your skin, kissing you again and again like he can't help himself. His fingers instantly begin a gentle dance against your clit, making you arch back into him with a soft, sleepy moan.
“I saw the calendar… that cute little app,” he pinches your bud softly, soothing the action with slow passes of his fingertip. “So you’re super sensitive for me. Especially in the morning.”
You whimper, clutching your pillow as you let breathless sounds slip free, your body melting into the pleasure despite how foggy your mind still feels. Even though his touch only abandons you for a second, a needy whine escapes your throat. He pushes your pants and panties down just enough, the material pooling at your ankles.
“Just stay where you are, star,” he says softly as the warmth of his body leaves yours.
Xavier trails a path of wet kiss along the back of your thighs, unhurried and worshipful. You shudder but stay curled like he asked, fingers tightening in the sheets. When he reaches your pussy, finding it dripping and open, he lets his warm breath ghost over you first, making your hips twitch.
He inhales deeply, his hips shifting mindlessly against the mattress at your sweet scent. He doesn’t wait another second before his mouth finds you.
You grasp a handful of blonde hair, whining as his tongue licks a stripe from your entrance upwards, then settles to circle your clit. He continues to lap at your heat, devouring how syrupy you are today, sucking you into his mouth and burying his face deep between your thighs like he never wants to come up for air.
“Feels s-so good, Xavi…” you moan, trembling.
Your orgasm is already hovering. He groans against you, one hand gripping your ass, kneading the skin encouragingly. Each swipe of his tongue is a silent plea.
Come for me. Let me taste you. Let me make you feel good.
You break seconds after, squirming against the sheets as pleasure takes over you in warm waves. Pants leave your lips as he doesn't let up, his mouth relentlessly working you through the euphoric waves, and long after they pass. His face is sticky with your cum, dripping down his chin, making him look as if he’s the one who just finished.
“B-Babe–” you cry out, trying weakly to push his head back. “Honey… ‘s too much…”
He presses one last lingering kiss to your puffy pussy before finally lifting his head. His cheeks are flushed, blue eyes dark and thoroughly satisfied. “Sorry,” he breathes, brushing his thumb along your thigh. “I couldn’t help myself.”
His hands are gentle as they turn you from your side onto your back. Your gaze drifts downward, catching the darkened patch of precum blooming against the front of his tented sweatpants. The sight sends a fresh pulse of heat through your still-sensitive body.
He follows your gaze before palming himself through the fabric.
“Think you can handle a bit more for me?”
✮⋆˙— rafayel
The car ride was silent.
You knew you’d pushed Rafayel’s buttons a little too far at his gala tonight. But honestly… could he even blame you?
He’d shown up dressed like sin in one of his sharpest suits, hair styled to perfection, eyes gleaming the entire duration of the exhibit. And all of it—all of it—on the exact day you were ovulating.
Of course you were going to touch him.
Of course you were going to kiss him.
Of course you were going to corner him beside a marble sculpture and slide your hand a little too low.
“Raaffff,” you drawl into the thick quiet of the car, leaning over the console with a pout that’s half apology, half provocation. “C’mon. Please don’t be mad. I said I’m sorry!”
Rafayel’s brows turn downwards, but there's a sparkle behind the annoyance. “Sorry for kissing my neck while I was speaking to that artist,” he replies coolly, “or sorry for grabbing my dick before I had to greet the commissioner?”
You smirk, entirely unrepentant. “Both. And you liked it! You were hard when I touched you.”
He scoffs, but the sound melts into a quiet laugh under his breath. He isn’t mad, he never really is, and when you poke his side to confirm, he squirms just enough to betray himself. The twitch at the corner of his lips is your victory flag.
You think you’ve won.
That is, until you get home.
The moment the door clicks shut behind you, he moves. There's no warning. One second you’re toeing off your heels, the next his arms are around you, sweeping you up bridal-style. A startled laugh leaves you as he carries you down the hall, his hold possessive and unhurried.
His lips find yours before you reach the bed, and they are soft but insistent, pulling quiet gasps from your chest. The heat that’s been simmering in your belly all day flares hotter, burning brighter.
You land against the mattress with a muted thud, sheets cool beneath your back. “Undress,” he tells you, already slipping open the button of his shirt with graceful fingers.
You obey immediately, giggling as you shimmy out of your dress, fabric clinging to your hips before you kick it away. Anticipation hums under your skin like static.
Rafayel, meanwhile, is still mostly dressed. His shirt hangs open just enough to reveal his toned skin, a teasing glimpse of chest that makes your fingers itch for a touch. You reach for him instinctively, only for his hand to close around your wrist mid-air and guide it back to the mattress, pinning you there.
“Raf–”
“Do you really think I’m going to let you have your way after tonight?” His voice is playful, smug, and dripping with amusement. The smirk he gives you is pure trouble. “You’re so cute.”
You squirm, a fresh gush of warmth gathering between your thighs. “But… I said ‘m sorry.”
“Oh, I know you did, cutie,” he hums, leaning down to brush a single kiss against your cheek. Then your jaw. The column of your throat. Each one is soft and savoring.
“So then…” you mumble, tilting your neck to give him more space. “Why are you still dressed?”
His lips curve against your skin as he trails lower, the gentle presses of his lips turning wetter, slower. Goosebumps rise across your body when his hands find your thighs, and ease them open for him.
He pauses, eyes settling on the soaked material clinging to you. His thumb presses against it, just once. You squeak, and arch into his hand, sensitivity dialed painfully high today. He chuckles, rubbing your pussy through the panties in lazy strokes, up and down, just enough to make you ache.
“I’m going to take care of you,” he coos, but his eyes are dark. “But you teased me all night… so I’m getting my revenge.”
You gasp when his thumb circles firm over your swollen clit through the fabric. The friction is electric and not enough all at once.
“Raf… please, this isn’t fair,” you whine.
“Not fair?” he juts his lip in a mock pout. “I didn’t think it was very fair when you were handsy in public.”
Before you can argue, he hooks a finger under your panties and slides them aside, revealing your dripping cunt. He huffs in amusement, admiring the slick evidence of your arousal like its art he curated himself. (He did)
His finger drags through your folds, collecting the sticky mess. He spreads you open, glides over your clit, circles your entrance, but never lingers enough to satisfy.
Your thighs twitch. Your hips lift. Your fingers clutch the comforter.
It’s torture. Sweet, earned, torture.
And just as a complaint forms on your lips, his fingertip settles over your clit and begins slow, gentle circles. Pleasure sparks outward, instantly bowing your back and spewing moans from your lips. Every sensation feels amplified.
“R-Raf… Raf, fuck—baby,” you cry, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure builds, winding tighter and tighter.
Rafayel laughs softly, continuing to play with your pussy, admiring how much more wetness gathers at his touch. “You close, cutie? Gonna come?”
You nod in rapid succession. “Y-Yes…yeah ‘m gonna—“
His fingers stop.
The sudden absence makes you gasp, blinking your eyes open “W-Why did you stop?”
He lifts his gaze to yours, expression all polished mischief and arrogance. His thumb is still resting maddeningly close to where you’re throbbing. “Did you really think I was going to let you come?”
Your frustrated whine only makes his smile widen. He leans down, brushing his lips against yours in a slow, taunting kiss.
“After the way you behaved tonight?” he murmurs against your mouth. “You’re going to beg for it.”
His fingers return before you can even form a reply, and they're faster this time. The slick sounds of how wet you are fills the room. What started as gentle coaxing turns into purposeful rubbing that makes you fist the sheets and sob out. When your legs try to close, he simply prises them back open.
“You want it so bad, don’t you?” he whispers. “All worked up and needy… yet you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.” His thumb presses just right, drawing a broken sound from your throat.
“I do… f-fuck I really do…” you whimper, hips chasing him without shame. The pressure builds once again, and just as the waves begin to crest, he stops.
The absence is devastating. His words following are cruel.
“Poor thing,” he murmurs, brushing his slick finger against your thigh. His cock strains against his pants, a visible twitch he pointedly ignores as he keeps his attention on you. “You’re soaking our sheets.”
You lie there in the heat of it, trying to gather yourself. When your heartbeat finally slows enough to think, he starts over. Fingers dragging through your warmth, starting slow, then faster. Each time he brings you near the edge, letting desperate cries and whimpers that you’re close spill from your lips, he stops again.
By the fourth time, tears sting the corners of your eyes. Your thighs shake uncontrollably, pleas dissolving into half-formed syllables that barely resemble words.
“R-Raf… p-plea–suh–ahh–” his fingers slide into your gummy walls.
“Think you’ve been good enough?”
“Y-Yea–mmgh–yes–!”
He exhales through his nose, finally satisfied. His fingers curl to your sweet spot, and this this they don’t pull away.
Sylus barely has a time to greet you, let alone process your words, before you’re climbing into his lap and kissing him passionately. Your fingers fist his shirt, tugging at the fabric.
“Eager, are we?”
“Went to visit Zayne during his lunch. I was-fuck-two seconds away from cumming when he got called away.” The desperation in your voice is clear as your hips weakly grind against his.
“Poor thing. Have you been this needy all day?” Sylus’s voice is heavy, the desire coming off of you in waves that makes his right eye burn brighter.
“Y-yeah. Please Sylus I-I need you now.” You whimper, undoing his belt with a shocking speed.
“Zayne will be home soon. You can’t wait?” He hums, helping you out of your clothes. Clearly, you do want to wait for him, your head falling to Sylus’s forehead as you sigh.
“I-I can’t. Just m-make me cum once? And then we can wait, I’ll be good I promise!” You’re practically trembling already, the thin fabric of your panties soaked.
It doesn’t take much. He finds your clit with ease, coating his fingers with your slick and circling steadily. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you cum, crying out his name and biting his shoulder.
“Didn’t I tell you to wait till I got home to cum?” Zayne’s unamused tone makes you go rigid, and Sylus raises a brow at this new information, clicking his tongue in disappointment.
“Sweetie, we really need to teach you a lesson in patience.”
Zayne blinks as if he thinks he's misheard you. He's still panting as he comes down for his orgasm, cock slowly softening inside you.
"You want me to what?"
"Just stay inside! We can just go to sleep like this. It'll be nice!" Your sweet tone clearly does little to sway his, as Zaynie is quickly replaced by Dr. Zayne.
"That's horrible for you. You'll get a uti." He states resolutely, slowly pulling out despite your pouting.
"But Zayneeee it'll be so nice to be close to you all night!" You whine, but your complaints fall on deaf ears. He returns with a wet towel, carefully cleaning the mess between your legs.
"We can still be close without putting your health at risk." He helps you into your pyjamas, dressing you carefully with a soft smile. It's difficult to complain when Zayne takes such good care of you, so you decide to let it go.
"Fine. But you'll let me cockwarm you tomorrow right?" You ask with a hopeful smile. He settles into bed behind you, spooning you with your back to his chest. Sure enough, you find yourself perfectly content to be held like this in his arms.
"It really isn't very hygienic..." He murmurs, sleep already creeping into his voice.
"Just while you do your paperwork? I'll behave, I promise." An empty promise, but it still counts. He hums in response, pressing a goodnight kiss to your shoulder.
"Alright. As long as you behave. You know what happens if you don't."
STARRING: zayne, caleb, rafayel, xavier, & sylus [seperate] x f!reader
CW: jealousy, handjobs in a bathroom | PATHETIC caleb, dry humping, cumming in pants, recording? | bratty!raf, panties in mouth, vibrator play, mention of overstim | heavy breeding kink, riding | aether core actin up, blowjobs | they are all desperate and begging lowk (highkey)
j says... idk if i love or hate this. i miss posting though and hope i proofread good enough (if theres mistakes just ignore them ok) thank you to @gardenialily @rafayelkisses @berrylus + everyone else who helped me brainstorm. inspired by this ask! thank you anon!
✮⋆˙— zayne
You and Zayne never argued. The two of you usually saw eye to eye, and honestly, you didn't see each other enough to waste time on disagreements. It just wasn't worth it.
Or so you thought.
The entire car ride had been silent, tension simmering thick between you, built from something neither of you seemed willing to touch further. The bickering had started small, but kept layering over itself—too many nights apart, too much distance, and something deeper you knew was bothering Zayne that he refused to talk about.
What should have been an easy night turned sour fast.
The Akso hospital charity event was usually something you enjoyed attending—especially on the arm of the most prestigious surgeon in the room—but tonight, you find yourself distracted. Zayne moves through the crowd like a storm cloud in a tailored suit, brushing off every attempt you make to soften the mood.
It wasn't like him, and you couldn't quite pin down why he seemed so irritated. But instead of pushing, you eventually excused yourself to the refreshments table.
There, you fell into conversation with a visiting surgeon from a few cities over. He's easy to talk to, warm, engaging—and most importantly, good at distracting you until you could get Zayne home and figure out whatever stick had lodged itself up his ass tonight.
You laughed softly at one of his comments.
And then Zayne was there.
He materializes at your side, one hand sliding around your waist and pulling you flush against him like he hadn't spent the entire evening acting upset with you. He introduces himself, made a pointed emphasis on your relationship, and after a few clipped exchanges, he's steering you away.
"What was that for?"
"What do you mean?" His voice stays level, but he won't meet your eyes as he guides you through the crowd.
"All the sudden you just… pulled me away like that."
"You could have been having a conversation with me," he states, stopping in a shadowed corner. His head dips, lips grazing the shell of your ear while his hands roam possessively over the silky material hugging your form.
Your brows lift at the sudden affection, but you lean into it regardless. "I've been trying to all night."
A muscle ticks in Zayne's jaw. He nips lightly at your lobe before finally pulling back enough to meet your gaze.
And his eyes—oh.
Oh, you know that look anywhere.
And suddenly everything clicks into place. Why he'd been snappy since the moment he picked you up in your simple little gown. Why he'd been acting wound so tight all evening.
"Is this entertaining for you?" he mutters, immediately catching the glint in your iris.
"Maybe."
Your smirk widens as his grip tightens. Before he can say anything else, you grab his hand and tug him further down the empty hall, towards the family restroom.
"You know," you state lightly, "you don't have to be jealous. You can just tell me if you're horny."
Zayne's ears go pink immediately. "That's… not it."
"Oh? You sure?"
The door is unlocked. You shove him inside, lock it behind you, and crowd him back towards the sink without much resistance at all. In the next second, your hand slip down, pressing gently against the hard bulge straining beneath his slacks.
"Because this says otherwise."
Zayne inhales sharply, both hands bracing back against the countertop as your palm rubs over his cock through the fabric.
"I've just…" he begins to admit, cut off by a groan when you squeeze him. "Missed you. And I handled it poorly earlier. I'm—fuck—sorry."
Your grin only widens as you start to undo his belt. "Aren't you always the one lecturing me about communicating my feelings?"
"Yes."
His zipper comes down, and he lifts his hips just enough to help you shove his pants and boxers lower. His cock springs free, flushed and slick at the tip, hissing softly at the cool air that hits him.
"Then why..." you murmur, wrapping your warm hand around the base just to hold the weight, "didn't you just tell me you were just desperate for attention?"
Zayne bites down on his lip as you finally start moving. Slow strokes drag up his aching cock, making the blush dusting his face spread lower on his throat and chest.
"Hm?" Your thumb traces the prominent vein along his length before smearing the wetness gathered at the tip. "Are you too proud to admit you're a needy mess? Is that why you picked a fight with me?"
His head tips back towards the mirror, breath catching hard.
"Yes—god—I did, and I'm sorry, just please don't go slow." His hips jerk helplessly into your fist. "I need—just… faster. Please. I cant—"
"Yeah?" you hum, keeping your pace just shy of slow. "It's that bad?"
"Yes." The word comes sweet and honest. "I've been thinking about you all week. I can't focus, can't sleep—it's been incredibly frustrating." Zayne groans quietly. "I just need you. Please."
"Poor thing," you coo, feigning sympathy before tightening your grip and speeding up, eyes fixed on the way your hand pumps his cock. "All worked up and angry because nobody touched you. Now you need me to take care of you in a bathroom."
He folds forward with a shaky exhale, forehead pressing against your shoulder. A broken little whimper slips out as you he pulses against your palm, chasing more of your touch.
More of you.
So when you suddenly pull away, the frustrated whine he makes is almost pathetic.
Your eyes lift and sparkle.
"After the cruel way you treated me… I think you'll have to beg to cum."
✮⋆˙— caleb
He really didn't think you were serious.
You two played around all the time. Sure, he pissed you off sometimes, but there was nothing a little kiss behind your ear and his hand sliding down your front couldn't fix.
Well—until you banned him from sex.
Caleb had laughed. You were just as needy for him as he was for you. There was no way that you'd last a full week without him stuffing you full. So he'd smiled, kissed your cheek, and gone about the rest of his day like it was nothing.
But a day turned into two, and then five.
Five whole fucking days without anything from you.
You had said no sex. Not no making out, not no spooning, not even no showering together.
But you gave him absolutely nothing.
No wandering hands and definitely no sitting on his lap just to tease him. You barely even let him touch you longer than a few seconds before pulling away with that unimpressed little look on your face.
And it was driving him insane.
Caleb shuts the front door harder than necessary, not even bothering with his boots as he stalks through the house looking for you.
He's the colonel, after all.
He takes want he wants.
And the whole drive home he'd been imagining exactly how he was going to do it. Probably backing you against the mattress, pinning your wrists down and forcing you to listen while he told you exactly how cruel you'd been. Maybe he'd kiss you until you forgot why you were mad in the first place. Maybe he'd drag those tiny shorts down your legs and remind you that you needed him just as badly as he needed you.
But then he finds you standing in the kitchen in your cute little pajamas, all soft skin and sleepy eyes, something in him folds.
Suddenly, it isn't just about dominance anymore.
Because part of wanting you involves wanting your forgiveness too.
"Hey," his voice comes softer than expected as he steps closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. "Missed you."
"Mmm, missed you too, 'leb."
Caleb doesn't pull away after the kiss. Instead, he presses his nose into your hair and inhales deep. Your sweet scent goes straight to his head, turning everything fuzzy.
"No," he murmurs, arms sliding around your waist as he pulls you against his chest. "Like—I really missed you."
You just hum softly, rubbing his back as he melts into the embrace.
He dips lower until his face buries into the space between your neck and shoulder, breathing you in like he's starving... because, well, he is.
You're so warm and soft and his, and fuck it's making every drop of blood rush straight down to his cock.
"It's been so long," he whispers, almost pleading in hopes he can get you to crack just a little. "C'mon… I'm sorry. I've been good. I need you, Pips."
"I told you," you say firmly, though you don't pry him off. "Two more days. Keep whining and I'll make it longer."
Caleb groans, the sound low and full of true misery.
His pants are unbearably tight now, because something about your tone and flat out refusal is making him lose his mind.
He can't stop himself.
His hips jerk, grinding his erection against your side, and oh god, the friction feels heavenly.
You gasp, turning sharply. "Caleb—!"
But he's already past caring about reprimand. His face burns red as he buries himself back into your neck, rocking against you again with a shuddering breath.
"'m sorry…" he mumbles, tightening his grip on your waist. "I need you… please…"
"Caleb…" you warn.
He doesn't care and can't find it in him to stop.
It's been too long without you, and this is the closest you've let him get in days. So instead of backing away, his hands spread desperately over your body, fingers slipping under your shirt just to feel your skin.
A broken little whimper leaves him at the contact, and his hips pick up into messy, desperate thrusts he can't control.
"You're being pathetic, Caleb."
And he moans.
Actually fucking moans.
He hides deeper in your neck, embarrassed and turned on all at once.
"I know," he stutters. "I know, baby, I'm sorry—I just—I c-can't. Need you… s'bad…"
"What would the fleet think, hm?" you murmur. "Seeing their colonel like this?"
Caleb chokes on a broken sound, because his hips have found a rhythm that drags his cock perfectly against your hip through his boxers. He's too far gone to notice the phone in your hand, which is recording every humiliating second.
"C'mon Caleb," you coax, tilting his face up.
His eyes are glassy when he looks at himself on the screen, bottom lip caught between his teeth. It so shameful that his cock twitches.
"Tell them," you demand. "That you're so desperate you're gonna hump me until you cum in your pants."
"I'm—fuck—" his voice cracks. "I'm gonna cum—"
And he does.
A low, pathetic whimper spills out of him as he cums untouched in his boxers, staining the front of his uniform. His hips keep moving, dragging himself through the sticky mess, riding out the orgasm with sloppy kisses scattered along your neck.
It takes him a long moment to come back down.
And when he finally does, his eyes darken at the phone stilled pointed at him.
"Delete that."
✮⋆˙— rafayel
"Raf, I swear…" you hiss through gritted teeth.
"What! I'm not even doing anything!"
A muscle ticks in your jaw. "You're not doing anything?"
"No!" he protests dramatically, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm just… being your lover, okay? Don't you care about me and my affection?"
"You're being annoying."
Rafayel gasps like you've actually offended him. "Am not!"
You shake your head and focus your attention back onto your report, scratching your pen across the paper while he continue sulking beside you.
There's about five more minutes of peace before his hand is back and caressing your thigh.
"Are you almost done?" His voice turns syrupy sweet, clearly trying to coax his way into getting what he wants. He squeezes your thigh gently. "Please. I need attention."
You don't reply.
Rafayel groans loudly at being ignored, melting next to you. He nuzzles into your shoulder, lips brushing your neck as he whines.
"I'm horny…"
You set your pen down with far too much force, finally turning your attention to him.
Rafayel perks up instantly at having your eyes on him, face brightening with smug satisfaction like he won.
"Fine," you say. "Go sit in that chair. And you better be naked when I get back."
Without another word or glance back, you disappear from the room, entirely pleased to return to sudden obedience.
Sitting tall in the chair, completely naked, legs spread slightly as he lazily strokes himself, is your one and only. His expression still homes that smirk, but the desperation underneath it is obvious now. His cock twitches with every slow tug of his hand.
"Gonna come and take care of me, pretty?"
You hum thoughtfully. "With that mouth, I don't think so."
The smirk turns into pout, bottom lip jutting out as he strokes himself a little faster.
"Please? Look at how hard I am. It hurts… you have to take care of it."
"I think I need to take care of something else first."
He cocks a brow suspiciously, watching closely as you peel down your leggings, then your panties.
"See?" he starts smugly. "I knew you couldn't resist me. Now c'mere and—mmph!"
You shove the bundled fabric that was just against your cunt into his mouth, muffling the rest of his sentence.
His eyes widen in genuine shock while his hand stills on his cock, though it throbs visibly at the switch in control.
"You're so mouthy," you shake your head. "Keep them in, or else I'm not touching you at all."
Rafayel's eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. He nods immediately.
"Gooood boy," you drawl, tracing your fingers down his chest. You circle one of his nipples until his skin prickles in goosebumps.
You let your gaze fall to his cock, smirking as it drips steadily against his stomach.
"So messy already."
A muffled, pathetic plea comes from behind the gag, his hands sliding up your bare thighs, inching higher and asking permission without words.
"No," you deny. "You've been a brat."
His brows knit together.
"And brats…" you continue, flashing the silicone vibrator you discreetly brought in with you, "get punished."
You thumb the toy to life, watching the pleasure and panic war on his face before pressing the buzzing head lightly against his hipbone.
He whimpers and squirms away from the sensation, thighs twitching as the vibrations travel through him.
You smile sweetly. "Hold it."
Rafayel blinks at you like you've lost your mind.
"Now."
With a bit of reluctance, he obeys.
The second the toy settles into his palm, another muffled noise leaves him at the strength of the vibrations. You guide his wrist.
"Rub it along your cock," you instruct. "Find where you're sensitive."
Rafayel swallows hard around the fabric in his mouth.
The toy touches him and he moans instantly, body jerking as he shakily drags it along his length. The moment it presses beneath the tip just right, his head falls back with a strangled sound.
"Hold it there. You were soooo horny, yeah? This will help."
Within seconds, Rafayel is a whimpering mess.
His eyes glaze over, body thrashing while saliva soaks the cotton in his mouth—that doesn't fully muffle the desperate little noises escaping him nonstop now.
You stroke his cheek gently, then trail your fingers down the column of his throat. The touch is more than enough, and his cock throbs as cum spurts and drizzles from the tip, coating his abdomen and the toy.
"Don't move it," you order firmly. "You're gonna make yourself cum again."
✮⋆˙— xavier
You can't breathe.
Xavier's mouth has been pressed against yours the entire elevator ride, barely giving you a gasp for air as he fumbles with the buttons before shoving you gently against the wall to kiss you again.
It's not unusual for him to be this hungry, but after an ordinary day—visiting your friends and their new baby—it just wasn't what you expected.
Not that you're complaining.
Instead, you let him guide you through the hallway between messy kisses and fumble with the keys while your lips trail down his neck. Xavier shivers beneath the affection, unable to shove you both inside fast enough.
The lights don't even turn on.
He just walks you backward towards the nearest surface—the couch—before sitting down and dragging you straight onto his lap like he physically can't stand having space between you.
"You're so eager tonight," you giggle.
"Is that a problem?" he asks immediately, voice rough and husky.
"Of course not."
Xavier hums, dipping his head to press slow kisses along your jaw and neck. His hand grab your hips tightly, fingers flexing in encouragement for you to move.
You obey, rocking against the hard line pressing in his pants, gasping at the delicious friction it creates despite the layers.
"You're… ovulating right?" he ask suddenly, almost dazed.
You blink and still your movements. "I… I don't know. Why?"
"No reason."
His cheeks flush immediately after saying it, almost as if he regrets letting the thought slip out loud. Before you can question him further, he changes the subject entirely by tugging his shirt over his head, revealing firm lines of muscle.
"Come on. I wanna see you."
In the dim glow spilling from the window, clothes disappear piece by piece until there's nothing left to separate you both.
Xavier stares at you like the sight alone might kill him.
"You're so beautiful, my star," he whispers reverently, hands gliding over your skin like he can't help himself. "So pretty… always so pretty for me."
The praises makes warmth curl low, your cheeks turning as pink as his. His hands settle on your waist again, thumbs stroking softly as he looks up at you with blown pupils.
"Please," he says quietly. "Ride me. I'll be so good for you. Please, baby."
And you absolutely can't deny that face.
So you settle above him, and sink down onto his length slowly, both of you gasping at the stretch. His head immediately tips back against the couch, broken moans spilling from his lips.
"Oh god…"
You start moving instinctively, bouncing slowly in his lap and he watches you with completely glassy eyes.
He's unbelievably responsive tonight. Each roll of your hips pulls helpless sounds from him, his hands roaming your body and settling on your breasts. His thumbs swipe your nipples and pinch them when they pebble.
Praises spill endlessly, coming faster as he began to meet your thrusts.
Pretty. Perfect. His star.
His cock is throbbing inside you within minutes, and upon the feeling, you shift to lift off—only to be met with a firm grip on your hips, plunging you back down.
"N-No," he gasps.
Your eyes widen in surprise.
"Stay," he pleads softly, holding you down as he thrusts up. "Please stay on me."
"Xav—"
"I wanna cum in you," he admits. "Please.. you looked so beautiful today with their baby. Imagine how gorgeous you'd look carrying my baby."
The words clearly embarrass him the second they leave his mouth because his face burns bright red immediately after. But he doesn't take them back.
If anything, he looks needier for admitting it.
His forehead presses against your chest as he whimpers softly, sucking a mark into the supple skin while his hips continue twitching.
"Please, star… please let me."
You cradle his face, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before you set the pace again. The second you whisper permission, Xavier moans so sweetly it almost sounds painful.
He cums instantly, pressing his tip up until it nestles against your cervix, letting warm spurts of his seed spill deep inside you.
Something passes in his expression as his orgasm subsides, and his hands slide beneath your thighs to flip your position, laying you on your back and hitching your legs around his hips.
He withdrawals his cock nearly all the way before plunging it right back in.
"i'm gonna fuck a baby into you. Tonight."
✮⋆˙— sylus
Onichynus' boss man was about to wear a hole into his living room floor.
He had been at it for at least the ten minutes since you'd arrived and starting watched him—probably longer before that, if you had to guess.
Sylus had been short with your messages all day, clipped responses that lacked their usual teasing edge. Instead of waiting for him to maybe confide in you over the phone, you'd taken a quick ride over to the N109 yourself.
"I know you know I'm here," you drawl, sauntering in the room. "Yet you still haven't greeted me. How rude."
Sylus stops at your voice but doesn't turn around, gaze fixes on the glittering city sprawling beneath the windows. The glow paints sharp lines across his face.
It's not like him to stay so silent.
You pad closer, brow furrowing in concern.
"Hey," you whisper, slipping your arms around his waist. "Are you alright?"
Sylus inhales sharply at your touch.
And his body is burning with a feverish heat.
You tilt your head, trying to catch his expression in the reflection of the glass. His face is flushed nearly as red as his eye, the glow in his aether core pulsing faintly.
And when you glance down, it's almost as if the bulge in his pants is about to pop the button clean off.
Usually, Sylus' desire when it came to an unstable aether consisted of devouring you whole—whatever form that happened to take. But this time feels different. The desire weaving through the space between you is softer somehow. Less demanding and far more desperate.
Sylus swallows hard, throat bobbing, and when he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse.
"Sweetie…"
"Sy," you soften instantly. "Why didn't you tell me your core was acting up?"
For a moment, he says nothing and just exhales shakily. His cock throbs visibly beneath the fabric at the sound of your voice.
"I thought it'd pass," he admits quietly. "Usually it's not this bad and usually..."
Embarrassment flashes across his face as he mutters, "it wants me to be more dominant."
Oh.
Poor thing.
Your turn him in your arms, sliding your hands up his chest. The red glow brightens as you rest your hand over the violent pound of his heart, making him shudder hard. A tiny smile tugs at your mouth when his face burns even hotter.
"Sensitive, are we?"
"Don't tease me," he says instantly, though it lacks its usual bite, making it sound more like a cute plea.
You glide your hands up to cup his face, stroking lightly beneath his eye. A strained sound catches in his throat as his hips jerk forward involuntary the second the core pulses again.
"Oh, baby…" you murmur softly. "What does it want?"
Your fingers drift lazily down his neck, making him tremble.
"It wants… it needs…" he stops, struggling with the admission. "Sweetie, I want you to take care of me."
You bat your lashes up at him. "Yeah?"
"Please, kitten," Sylus whispers. "Please."
You don't need much more incentive than that.
You guide him gently towards the couch, hands smoothing over his shoulders when his legs nearly give out halfway there. He sinks down heavily, spreading his thighs with a shaky exhale when you kneel between them.
His eyes stay locked on you, blown wide with desperation as you undo his pants, fishing out his weeping cock from the confines of his boxers. He's painfully hard. Angry red at the tip, leaking steadily, and twitching the second your hand wraps around him.
Sylus throws his head back immediately, mouth falling open in pure ecstasy at just your palm around him.
"Oh, fuck—"
Teasing feels almost too mean, so you only kitten lick the salty bead that gathered at the tip before wrapping your lips around the plush head.
His thighs tremble as you take him deeper into your mouth, fingers gently carding through your hair to encourage the motion.
"S-So good, sweetie," he stutters. "Fuck… oh god…"
You begin bobbing softly, gagging once on the size, which makes drool slip down the corners of your mouth.
Sylus begins to whimper.
"T-Too much—fuck—"
His aether core pulses brightly, making every pleasurable drag of your tongue feel amplified. You hollow your cheeks, bobbing your head while your hand strokes what you can't fit.
Within seconds his length is throbbing in the warmth of your mouth.
A salty rush explodes on your tongue as Sylus moans brokenly, shaking while you suck him gently through the orgasm. Apparently not gentle enough though, because he jolts hard from the oversensitivity.
'Ah—ah, sweetie—"
You pull off with a pop, swallowing everything he gave you before wiping at the saliva coating your mouth. You smirk at the completely dazed, blushing man slumped before you.
A stack of completed reports sits next to you as Zayne types away on his laptop from the opposite side of the desk. You'd had quite a few reports to catch up on, and Zayne had various charts to make notes on. So, the two of you had agreed to get your work done together and then spend time together after.
Apparently, you were much more efficient than Zayne.
With no ways left to entertain yourself, you decide on something that's never failed you.
"What...are you doing?" Zayne's typing falter as you kneel by his chair, running your hands over his muscular thighs.
"Don't mind me." You smile, palm running over the already growing tent in his pants. His jaw clenches, gaze shifting to the locked door, before sighing in exasperation that you know is just for show.
You don't wait for him to get fully hard, taking his cock into your mouth immediately. He sucks in a breath, his typing getting much faster as he practically races you, trying to get his charts done.
Still, it's futile. He cums in mere minutes, a true testament to how pent up he's been due to your busy schedules as of late. He's still panting as you clean him up with your tongue, leaning back in his chair.
The thing is, you're still stuck here for at least 30 minutes. So why stop now?
You don't bother pulling off, tongue swirling around the senstive tip of his cock. Zayne shivers, a hand shooting out to grasp your wrist. You peer at him through your lashes, surprised to see him already losing his composure. Still, you can't help but want to break him a little more.
He nearly whimpers when you take him all way again, biting his fist to keep silent, charts abandoned. You keep his hips pinned to the chair with your hands, the wet sounds of your mouth filling the otherwise quiet room.
❥ pairing: sugar daddy/ceo!sylus qin x assistant!reader
❥ summary: “She has spent three years loving a man she cannot have. He has spent three years wanting a woman he won’t allow himself to reach for — until the day he decides, quietly and without hesitation, to reach anyway. What neither of them realises is that they’ve been finding each other all along. She just doesn’t know he’s the one on the other side of the screen yet.”
❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)
❥ word count: 50K+??? (I am insane and not normal about sylus <3)
❥ status: COMPLETED - 1st of April
❥ warnings/tags: sugar daddy!sylus, alternative universe, ceo!sylus, yearning/longing, sylus is 39 in this, assistant!reader, sugar baby!reader, power imbalance, eventual boss/employee relationship, idiots in love, mild hurt/comfort, emotional/sensitive!reader, very long fic, banter, sylus the rage baiter. mutual masturbation, sexting, size difference. reader is shorter than sylus. reader is always audhd coded in my writing but anyone can read it. sylus is soft for reader, flirting/teasing, inexperienced/virgin!reader. dry humping, grinding, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, full on daddy kink… I mean… it’s a sugar daddy au. so… <3, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten. sweetie. sweetheart etc.), multiple sex positions, pleasure dom!sylus, aftercare. mc loves the color pink a lot.
⟶ a/n: HIIIIII here I am with a new fic. as of the moment I am writing this it's still a wip. this fic is probably gonna be over 60k words. either way I still wanted to share the post on tumblr already. I always wanted to write a sugar daddy au BUT didn't find inspiration until RECENTLY. so in the lads server I'm in they are currently doing a 'kink bingo'. it's a little event that writers can participate and write a story around a certain trope. I went with sugar daddy 🤭💖 I said I wasn't gonna write for a while but what can I say… sylus brainrot. he's literally my muse. EITHER way. I hope you enjoy this story. 🥺💖 for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy another lengthy fic from me again! also because I don’t wanna post it in parts you’ll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length you’ll have to head to ao3. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 title inspired by the song 'provider' by sleep token. (I don't normally listen to that type of music but my bestie leah recommended me this song for the fic) 💕💕💕
ps: for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. (without the blood and scratches) 🤭😋🤤🥵🥴🫠😵💫
this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3
AO3 • masterlist
New York City does not care about your feelings.
This is something you’ve made your peace with over the years — the way it moves around you without slowing down, all noise and glass and cold wind off the Hudson in the early mornings when you’re walking the four blocks from the subway to Linkon Tower, coffee cup in hand, trying to remember if you forwarded that document last night or only dreamed that you did. The city asks nothing of you emotionally. It simply expects you to keep moving.
You are, in this way, well-suited to New York.
What you are less well-suited to — what you have been quietly, privately, catastrophically less well-suited to for approximately three years now — is being in love with your boss.
The elevator opens on the fifty-third floor.
You are fine.
“Good morning.”
His voice reaches you before you’ve fully stepped through the glass doors of the executive suite — low and unhurried, carrying the particular warmth he reserves for very few people, and you are, for reasons that keep you awake sometimes, one of them. Sylus is already at his desk, as he always is, as he has always been every single morning in the three years you’ve worked for him, because the man apparently does not sleep like a normal person. The Manhattan skyline stretches silver and pale behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the early light, he looks almost painterly — silver hair, dark suit, those red eyes lifting from the document in his hand to find you the moment you walk in, the way they always do, like he has a sense for you specifically.
Like he was waiting.
“Good morning,” you say, and you are very proud of how normal your voice sounds.
“How was the commute?” He asks it with genuine interest, setting his document down, which is one of the things that got you in trouble in the first place. The way he actually listens. The way Sylus, who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise from this office and commands rooms full of people who are intimidated just by his posture, always has time to ask how your commute was.
“Cold,” you say, unwinding your scarf. “The L train decided this morning was a good time to have an existential crisis.”
“The L train always does that.” He tilts his head slightly. “You should have taken the car.”
“I’m not taking your car to work, Sylus.”
“You could.”
“I know I could. I’m choosing not to.” You drop your bag at your desk and pull out your tablet, already scrolling to his schedule. “It makes me feel like a kept woman.”
The silence that follows is approximately one beat too long.
You look up. Sylus is watching you with an expression you can’t fully decode — something that passed through his eyes too quickly, smoothed back over by the composed, unreadable surface he wears most of the time. The corner of his mouth curves.
“Heaven forbid,” he says mildly, and goes back to his document.
You turn back to your tablet and breathe.
Three years, you remind yourself. You have survived three years of this. You will survive today.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
Here is what three years has taught you about Sylus:
He takes his coffee black, no sugar, too hot for comfort, and he drinks it while standing at the window with Manhattan spread out below him like something he’s quietly fond of. He is pathologically early to everything and has zero patience for people who aren’t, with the single exception of you — for you, he simply comes to find you, appearing at your workspace door with that unhurried patience, as though waiting for you specifically is a different category than waiting in general.
He reads physical documents even though everything could be digital because he thinks better with paper in his hands. He keeps the office two degrees warmer than the building standard because he noticed, in your first winter working for him, that you were always cold. He has never once mentioned this to you directly. You figured it out yourself, six months in, when you checked the building’s climate control records out of sheer curiosity, and you had to sit with that knowledge quietly for a long time afterward.
He is privately, genuinely funny — not the performative wit he turns on in meetings, but something dryer and warmer that surfaces only in the quiet moments, usually aimed at you. He reads in at least four languages. He grew up far from here, far from any of this, and there are moments when something in his expression goes distant and careful and you sense the geography of everything he’s built between himself and whatever came before.
He has never raised his voice at you. Not once. In three years of high-pressure deadlines and impossible situations and the particular chaos that seems to follow a man of his ambition, he has never directed anything at you that wasn’t measured, and considered, and — underneath its careful composure — surprisingly kind.
He is also tall — unreasonably, almost absurdly tall, the kind of tall that means the rest of the world simply exists lower than him — broad-shouldered, white-haired, and red-eyed, and standing next to him, which requires you to tilt your head back at an angle you’ve gotten quietly used to, makes you feel both very small and, inexplicably, very safe.
This is the problem.
This is the entire problem.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
“You have the Meridian Capital call at nine,” you say, following him into his office with your tablet. This is another part of the choreography — the morning briefing, where you trail after him and he listens without looking at you directly, which you have learned means he’s paying the most attention. “Board review at eleven. You have a lunch block—”
“Clear it.”
You glance up. “You specifically asked for that block last week.”
“I know what I asked for last week.” He settles into his chair, leaning back in that easy way of his, long legs stretched under the desk. Even seated, the man is an unfair amount of presence. “Book somewhere for lunch instead. Somewhere quiet — not the Meridian district, I’ll have been on a call with those people for an hour and I’ll want a change of air.” His eyes come to you, and they’re soft in the way they sometimes are when it’s just the two of you and the morning is still early. “Somewhere you’d like. You choose.”
You pause. “You want me to choose.”
“Is that not what I said?”
“You’re very particular about restaurants, Sylus.”
“I’m particular in general,” he concedes. “But I trust your taste.” A brief pause. The softness in his expression doesn’t waver. “Lunch for two, somewhere you’d like. That’s all.”
You look at him for a moment too long — which you do sometimes, which you’ve been doing for three years, and he always holds the look, always lets you, like he has nothing to hide and all the time in the world, which is terrifying because it makes you feel seen — and then you nod and look back at your tablet.
“I’ll find somewhere,” you say.
“I know you will.” He picks up his pen. “You always do.”
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The Meridian call runs long, as you predicted, and you have reorganized two schedules and soothed one very anxious junior analyst by the time it wraps. Sylus emerges from his office at eleven-oh-three, jacket on, expression still and composed from the professional armor he wears in those spaces, and crosses directly to your desk.
He sets a cup of tea down at your elbow.
Your tea — your specific order, the one you’d mentioned offhandedly to him eight months ago and apparently never needed to mention again — brewed at the temperature you like, with the little paper sleeve because the cup gets hot.
“Your eleven o’clock moved to eleven-fifteen,” you tell him, not trusting yourself to acknowledge the tea directly, “which means you have twelve minutes, and also I found a restaurant — it’s on the Upper West Side, French-American, supposed to be very quiet on weekdays—”
“Perfect.” He’s reading something on his phone, already walking, and he pauses at the edge of your workspace and glances back.
“You barely ate this morning.”
You blink. “I ate some cereal. How could you possibly—”
“You have the look,” he says, simply, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “The one that means you ate something that technically qualified as food and decided it counted.” The faintest curve of his mouth. “It doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely—”
“Book a table for twelve-thirty.” He’s already moving again, unhurried, like the conversation is entirely settled. “I’m not signing a single thing until I know you’ve had a real meal.”
Then he’s gone, moving down the hallway toward the boardroom, and you’re left staring at the empty doorway with your mouth still open and the faint, traitorous warmth of being known so precisely by someone spreading all the way up to your ears.
You close your mouth.
You book the table and then pick up your tea.
It is perfect.
You are in so much trouble.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The restaurant he lets you choose is a small place tucked between a bookshop and a dry cleaner on West 74th — French in its bones but soft around the edges, the kind of room that smells like butter and old wood and feels completely removed from the city outside. You’re not sure how it stays so quiet in Manhattan. Maybe it exists slightly outside of time.
Sylus ducks slightly to come through the door.
He does this — accommodates the world’s architectures with a patient, practiced ease, as though he accepted a long time ago that most spaces weren’t built for him and has made his peace with it. You notice this more than you should. You notice the way he instinctively adjusts when he’s close to you too — angles himself, shortens his step, never makes you feel like the difference in your heights is anything other than simply the way things are.
The host seats you at a corner table. The light is golden and low.
“This is nice,” Sylus says, and he means it. You’ve gotten good at knowing when he means things.
“I thought you’d like it.” You unfold your menu. “It feels like somewhere you’d eat if you didn’t have to perform anything.”
He goes still for just a moment. Then, quietly: “That’s a very accurate read.”
“Three years,” you say simply.
Something in his expression moves — warm and careful at once, like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to drop. He looks at you across the small table, and in the golden light of this room outside of time he looks different than he does in the office. Younger, almost. Softer. Like the thing he usually holds back with both hands is closer to the surface.
“You’re distracted this week,” he says eventually. Not an accusation — an observation, offered gently, the way he offers you most things. “You hide it well. But I know your face.”
Your heart catches.
I know your face. Said like it’s simply a fact, something true and uncontested, filed away somewhere in him.
“I found something,” you say, because you can never not tell him things, in the end. He does something to your defenses — doesn’t dismantle them, exactly, just makes you feel like they’re not necessary with him, which might be worse. “An apartment. A loft.” You look at your water glass. “I’ve been dreaming about my own place for years. You know how New York is — I’ve been in the same sublet since I moved here, and it’s fine, it’s always been fine, but it’s not mine. Nothing in it is mine.” You smile, self-deprecating. “I walked past a listing last weekend. A loft in the West Village — high ceilings, big windows, exposed brick. There’s a little terrace that looks out over the rooftops and I just — I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it for a long time.”
Sylus is watching you with his full attention — the specific quality of stillness he gets when you’re saying something he wants to remember. His hands are folded on the table. He’s not eating. He’s just listening.
“It needs renovation,” you continue, quieter now. “A lot of it, still. Which is part of why the price is—” You exhale. “The price is a lot. More than a lot. My savings are good, I’ve been careful, but between the listing and the renovation costs it’s just—” You shake your head. “It’s not realistic right now.”
A long pause.
“Tell me about it,” Sylus says.
You blink. “I just—”
“Not the numbers.” His voice is gentle. “The place. Tell me about the loft.”
Oh.
Oh.
You look at him. He looks back, patient and entirely serious, and something in your chest aches in a way you don’t have good language for.
And so you tell him — the arched windows and the way the afternoon light would fall across the floors, the exposed brick that runs the whole length of the far wall, the little wrought-iron terrace barely big enough for two chairs and a plant but somehow perfect, the ceiling height, the bones of it. The way you’d stood on that sidewalk and seen, with a clarity that surprised you, exactly what it could become. What it could be. You tell him all of it, more than you meant to, more than is probably professional over a two-person lunch that you’re already trying not to read too much into.
Sylus listens to every word.
When you finish, he’s quiet for a moment. There’s something in his expression that’s gone a little careful.
“What’s the address?” he says.
You study him. “Why?”
“Because you’ve just described the place you want most in the world,” he says, very simply, “and I’m interested in things that matter to you.”
The ache in your chest deepens. You look at him for a long moment — this man who runs a company from the fifty-third floor of a Midtown tower, who is a decade older than you and a foot taller than you and should by any reasonable accounting be the most intimidating person in your life, and who instead feels, in moments like this, like the safest one.
You give him the address.
You don’t know what he’ll do with it.
You just know, the way you know most things about Sylus, that he’ll do something.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The afternoon passes the way good afternoons in the office do — with a steady rhythm of tasks and small exchanges, the comfortable back-and-forth that you’ve built between you over three years like a language that only the two of you speak fluently. He stops by your desk at three to ask if you want anything from the coffee cart downstairs, which he would never do for anyone else, and brings you back a hot chocolate without commenting on it. You catch him at five-forty-five standing in the doorway of his office watching you finish up for the day with an expression you aren’t supposed to have seen — unguarded, quiet, something in it that sits low and warm in your stomach for the whole subway ride home.
It doesn’t mean what you want it to mean, you tell yourself, earbuds in, Manhattan rushing past outside the windows.
He’s just kind. He’s kind to you because you work for him and you’ve earned it and that’s all it is.
Forty-three blocks uptown, Sylus stands at his office window with your address on a notepad in his hand and thinks, for a very long time.
❥ pairing: sugar daddy/ceo!sylus qin x assistant!reader
❥ summary: “She has spent three years loving a man she cannot have. He has spent three years wanting a woman he won’t allow himself to reach for — until the day he decides, quietly and without hesitation, to reach anyway. What neither of them realises is that they’ve been finding each other all along. She just doesn’t know he’s the one on the other side of the screen yet.”
❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)
❥ word count: 50K+??? (I am insane and not normal about sylus <3)
❥ status: COMPLETED - 1st of April
❥ warnings/tags: sugar daddy!sylus, alternative universe, ceo!sylus, yearning/longing, sylus is 39 in this, assistant!reader, sugar baby!reader, power imbalance, eventual boss/employee relationship, idiots in love, mild hurt/comfort, emotional/sensitive!reader, very long fic, banter, sylus the rage baiter. mutual masturbation, sexting, size difference. reader is shorter than sylus. reader is always audhd coded in my writing but anyone can read it. sylus is soft for reader, flirting/teasing, inexperienced/virgin!reader. dry humping, grinding, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, full on daddy kink… I mean… it’s a sugar daddy au. so… <3, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten. sweetie. sweetheart etc.), multiple sex positions, pleasure dom!sylus, aftercare. mc loves the color pink a lot.
⟶ a/n: HIIIIII here I am with a new fic. as of the moment I am writing this it's still a wip. this fic is probably gonna be over 60k words. either way I still wanted to share the post on tumblr already. I always wanted to write a sugar daddy au BUT didn't find inspiration until RECENTLY. so in the lads server I'm in they are currently doing a 'kink bingo'. it's a little event that writers can participate and write a story around a certain trope. I went with sugar daddy 🤭💖 I said I wasn't gonna write for a while but what can I say… sylus brainrot. he's literally my muse. EITHER way. I hope you enjoy this story. 🥺💖 for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy another lengthy fic from me again! also because I don’t wanna post it in parts you’ll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length you’ll have to head to ao3. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 title inspired by the song 'provider' by sleep token. (I don't normally listen to that type of music but my bestie leah recommended me this song for the fic) 💕💕💕
ps: for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. (without the blood and scratches) 🤭😋🤤🥵🥴🫠😵💫
this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3
AO3 • masterlist
New York City does not care about your feelings.
This is something you’ve made your peace with over the years — the way it moves around you without slowing down, all noise and glass and cold wind off the Hudson in the early mornings when you’re walking the four blocks from the subway to Linkon Tower, coffee cup in hand, trying to remember if you forwarded that document last night or only dreamed that you did. The city asks nothing of you emotionally. It simply expects you to keep moving.
You are, in this way, well-suited to New York.
What you are less well-suited to — what you have been quietly, privately, catastrophically less well-suited to for approximately three years now — is being in love with your boss.
The elevator opens on the fifty-third floor.
You are fine.
“Good morning.”
His voice reaches you before you’ve fully stepped through the glass doors of the executive suite — low and unhurried, carrying the particular warmth he reserves for very few people, and you are, for reasons that keep you awake sometimes, one of them. Sylus is already at his desk, as he always is, as he has always been every single morning in the three years you’ve worked for him, because the man apparently does not sleep like a normal person. The Manhattan skyline stretches silver and pale behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the early light, he looks almost painterly — silver hair, dark suit, those red eyes lifting from the document in his hand to find you the moment you walk in, the way they always do, like he has a sense for you specifically.
Like he was waiting.
“Good morning,” you say, and you are very proud of how normal your voice sounds.
“How was the commute?” He asks it with genuine interest, setting his document down, which is one of the things that got you in trouble in the first place. The way he actually listens. The way Sylus, who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise from this office and commands rooms full of people who are intimidated just by his posture, always has time to ask how your commute was.
“Cold,” you say, unwinding your scarf. “The L train decided this morning was a good time to have an existential crisis.”
“The L train always does that.” He tilts his head slightly. “You should have taken the car.”
“I’m not taking your car to work, Sylus.”
“You could.”
“I know I could. I’m choosing not to.” You drop your bag at your desk and pull out your tablet, already scrolling to his schedule. “It makes me feel like a kept woman.”
The silence that follows is approximately one beat too long.
You look up. Sylus is watching you with an expression you can’t fully decode — something that passed through his eyes too quickly, smoothed back over by the composed, unreadable surface he wears most of the time. The corner of his mouth curves.
“Heaven forbid,” he says mildly, and goes back to his document.
You turn back to your tablet and breathe.
Three years, you remind yourself. You have survived three years of this. You will survive today.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
Here is what three years has taught you about Sylus:
He takes his coffee black, no sugar, too hot for comfort, and he drinks it while standing at the window with Manhattan spread out below him like something he’s quietly fond of. He is pathologically early to everything and has zero patience for people who aren’t, with the single exception of you — for you, he simply comes to find you, appearing at your workspace door with that unhurried patience, as though waiting for you specifically is a different category than waiting in general.
He reads physical documents even though everything could be digital because he thinks better with paper in his hands. He keeps the office two degrees warmer than the building standard because he noticed, in your first winter working for him, that you were always cold. He has never once mentioned this to you directly. You figured it out yourself, six months in, when you checked the building’s climate control records out of sheer curiosity, and you had to sit with that knowledge quietly for a long time afterward.
He is privately, genuinely funny — not the performative wit he turns on in meetings, but something dryer and warmer that surfaces only in the quiet moments, usually aimed at you. He reads in at least four languages. He grew up far from here, far from any of this, and there are moments when something in his expression goes distant and careful and you sense the geography of everything he’s built between himself and whatever came before.
He has never raised his voice at you. Not once. In three years of high-pressure deadlines and impossible situations and the particular chaos that seems to follow a man of his ambition, he has never directed anything at you that wasn’t measured, and considered, and — underneath its careful composure — surprisingly kind.
He is also tall — unreasonably, almost absurdly tall, the kind of tall that means the rest of the world simply exists lower than him — broad-shouldered, white-haired, and red-eyed, and standing next to him, which requires you to tilt your head back at an angle you’ve gotten quietly used to, makes you feel both very small and, inexplicably, very safe.
This is the problem.
This is the entire problem.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
“You have the Meridian Capital call at nine,” you say, following him into his office with your tablet. This is another part of the choreography — the morning briefing, where you trail after him and he listens without looking at you directly, which you have learned means he’s paying the most attention. “Board review at eleven. You have a lunch block—”
“Clear it.”
You glance up. “You specifically asked for that block last week.”
“I know what I asked for last week.” He settles into his chair, leaning back in that easy way of his, long legs stretched under the desk. Even seated, the man is an unfair amount of presence. “Book somewhere for lunch instead. Somewhere quiet — not the Meridian district, I’ll have been on a call with those people for an hour and I’ll want a change of air.” His eyes come to you, and they’re soft in the way they sometimes are when it’s just the two of you and the morning is still early. “Somewhere you’d like. You choose.”
You pause. “You want me to choose.”
“Is that not what I said?”
“You’re very particular about restaurants, Sylus.”
“I’m particular in general,” he concedes. “But I trust your taste.” A brief pause. The softness in his expression doesn’t waver. “Lunch for two, somewhere you’d like. That’s all.”
You look at him for a moment too long — which you do sometimes, which you’ve been doing for three years, and he always holds the look, always lets you, like he has nothing to hide and all the time in the world, which is terrifying because it makes you feel seen — and then you nod and look back at your tablet.
“I’ll find somewhere,” you say.
“I know you will.” He picks up his pen. “You always do.”
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The Meridian call runs long, as you predicted, and you have reorganized two schedules and soothed one very anxious junior analyst by the time it wraps. Sylus emerges from his office at eleven-oh-three, jacket on, expression still and composed from the professional armor he wears in those spaces, and crosses directly to your desk.
He sets a cup of tea down at your elbow.
Your tea — your specific order, the one you’d mentioned offhandedly to him eight months ago and apparently never needed to mention again — brewed at the temperature you like, with the little paper sleeve because the cup gets hot.
“Your eleven o’clock moved to eleven-fifteen,” you tell him, not trusting yourself to acknowledge the tea directly, “which means you have twelve minutes, and also I found a restaurant — it’s on the Upper West Side, French-American, supposed to be very quiet on weekdays—”
“Perfect.” He’s reading something on his phone, already walking, and he pauses at the edge of your workspace and glances back.
“You barely ate this morning.”
You blink. “I ate some cereal. How could you possibly—”
“You have the look,” he says, simply, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “The one that means you ate something that technically qualified as food and decided it counted.” The faintest curve of his mouth. “It doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely—”
“Book a table for twelve-thirty.” He’s already moving again, unhurried, like the conversation is entirely settled. “I’m not signing a single thing until I know you’ve had a real meal.”
Then he’s gone, moving down the hallway toward the boardroom, and you’re left staring at the empty doorway with your mouth still open and the faint, traitorous warmth of being known so precisely by someone spreading all the way up to your ears.
You close your mouth.
You book the table and then pick up your tea.
It is perfect.
You are in so much trouble.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The restaurant he lets you choose is a small place tucked between a bookshop and a dry cleaner on West 74th — French in its bones but soft around the edges, the kind of room that smells like butter and old wood and feels completely removed from the city outside. You’re not sure how it stays so quiet in Manhattan. Maybe it exists slightly outside of time.
Sylus ducks slightly to come through the door.
He does this — accommodates the world’s architectures with a patient, practiced ease, as though he accepted a long time ago that most spaces weren’t built for him and has made his peace with it. You notice this more than you should. You notice the way he instinctively adjusts when he’s close to you too — angles himself, shortens his step, never makes you feel like the difference in your heights is anything other than simply the way things are.
The host seats you at a corner table. The light is golden and low.
“This is nice,” Sylus says, and he means it. You’ve gotten good at knowing when he means things.
“I thought you’d like it.” You unfold your menu. “It feels like somewhere you’d eat if you didn’t have to perform anything.”
He goes still for just a moment. Then, quietly: “That’s a very accurate read.”
“Three years,” you say simply.
Something in his expression moves — warm and careful at once, like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to drop. He looks at you across the small table, and in the golden light of this room outside of time he looks different than he does in the office. Younger, almost. Softer. Like the thing he usually holds back with both hands is closer to the surface.
“You’re distracted this week,” he says eventually. Not an accusation — an observation, offered gently, the way he offers you most things. “You hide it well. But I know your face.”
Your heart catches.
I know your face. Said like it’s simply a fact, something true and uncontested, filed away somewhere in him.
“I found something,” you say, because you can never not tell him things, in the end. He does something to your defenses — doesn’t dismantle them, exactly, just makes you feel like they’re not necessary with him, which might be worse. “An apartment. A loft.” You look at your water glass. “I’ve been dreaming about my own place for years. You know how New York is — I’ve been in the same sublet since I moved here, and it’s fine, it’s always been fine, but it’s not mine. Nothing in it is mine.” You smile, self-deprecating. “I walked past a listing last weekend. A loft in the West Village — high ceilings, big windows, exposed brick. There’s a little terrace that looks out over the rooftops and I just — I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it for a long time.”
Sylus is watching you with his full attention — the specific quality of stillness he gets when you’re saying something he wants to remember. His hands are folded on the table. He’s not eating. He’s just listening.
“It needs renovation,” you continue, quieter now. “A lot of it, still. Which is part of why the price is—” You exhale. “The price is a lot. More than a lot. My savings are good, I’ve been careful, but between the listing and the renovation costs it’s just—” You shake your head. “It’s not realistic right now.”
A long pause.
“Tell me about it,” Sylus says.
You blink. “I just—”
“Not the numbers.” His voice is gentle. “The place. Tell me about the loft.”
Oh.
Oh.
You look at him. He looks back, patient and entirely serious, and something in your chest aches in a way you don’t have good language for.
And so you tell him — the arched windows and the way the afternoon light would fall across the floors, the exposed brick that runs the whole length of the far wall, the little wrought-iron terrace barely big enough for two chairs and a plant but somehow perfect, the ceiling height, the bones of it. The way you’d stood on that sidewalk and seen, with a clarity that surprised you, exactly what it could become. What it could be. You tell him all of it, more than you meant to, more than is probably professional over a two-person lunch that you’re already trying not to read too much into.
Sylus listens to every word.
When you finish, he’s quiet for a moment. There’s something in his expression that’s gone a little careful.
“What’s the address?” he says.
You study him. “Why?”
“Because you’ve just described the place you want most in the world,” he says, very simply, “and I’m interested in things that matter to you.”
The ache in your chest deepens. You look at him for a long moment — this man who runs a company from the fifty-third floor of a Midtown tower, who is a decade older than you and a foot taller than you and should by any reasonable accounting be the most intimidating person in your life, and who instead feels, in moments like this, like the safest one.
You give him the address.
You don’t know what he’ll do with it.
You just know, the way you know most things about Sylus, that he’ll do something.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The afternoon passes the way good afternoons in the office do — with a steady rhythm of tasks and small exchanges, the comfortable back-and-forth that you’ve built between you over three years like a language that only the two of you speak fluently. He stops by your desk at three to ask if you want anything from the coffee cart downstairs, which he would never do for anyone else, and brings you back a hot chocolate without commenting on it. You catch him at five-forty-five standing in the doorway of his office watching you finish up for the day with an expression you aren’t supposed to have seen — unguarded, quiet, something in it that sits low and warm in your stomach for the whole subway ride home.
It doesn’t mean what you want it to mean, you tell yourself, earbuds in, Manhattan rushing past outside the windows.
He’s just kind. He’s kind to you because you work for him and you’ve earned it and that’s all it is.
Forty-three blocks uptown, Sylus stands at his office window with your address on a notepad in his hand and thinks, for a very long time.
riding zayne so hard he's the one limping the next day
"Why are you walking like that?" You watch Zayne slip into his office for your usual lunch date. He's limping oddly as he walks over to his desk and slips into his chair.
"It's nothing." He tries to reach for the bag of pastries, but you pull it out of his reach.
"Did you get hurt? If something happened, I wanna know Zayne. Just because you're a doctor doesn't me-"
"I didn't get hurt. I'm just...a little sore." His ears have a hint of pink, and you frown in confusion.
"How could you be sore? You had a rest day yesterday and the day before you did your arm workout. How are your legs sore?" You raise a brow when he sighs, almost embrassed.
"I believe it has to do with...last night." He says pointedly.
"What did you do last-oh." Your eyes go as wide as dinner plates, suddenly remembering the intense night you'd shared, which had mostly involved you on top of Zayne, hips slamming down against his.
"I...am so sorry." Remorse fills you, and you're quick to push the bag of pastries towards him. He pulls out a chocolate croissant, tearing it in half and offering you the clearly larger piece.
"Don't be. I have no regrets." He says it so casually, while you eat your pastry in shame.
"I didn't mean to hurt you. I'll make it up to you, I promise!" You smile, though it falters when the corner of his mouth twitches upward.
