༊࿐ ͎. OVERSTIMULATION #. (LADS)
୨୧ — SYN. well, it's in the title I have nothing more to add :p
୨୧ — FEAT. AFAB READER X painter boyfriend!Rafayel, fuck buddie!Caleb, husband!Zayne, boyfriend!Xavier, husband!Sylus.
୨୧ — cw. brat reader with Caleb & Rafayel, shy reader with Xavier, Xavier's kind of mean, 69 with Xavier, pussy whipped men, oral sēx, Caleb talks and talks (that man is LOUD), jealous Caleb, piv in Caleb, unprotected sex in Caleb, rough fingering, brat tamer Rafayel, thumb sucking, rough + possessive sēx in Caleb, creampie, dirty talk, praise and degrading, lovesick Sylus, blindfold in sylus, whipped cream play in sylus, dryhump with zayne, rough make out session in zayne, spit kink (in mouth + pussy), it's wet messy & filthy basically everyone's feral, dūmbification.
୨୧ — author notes. hi hi hiiii, someone requested the whole thing soooo. but I must say: read it at your own risk... I didn't put every single cw (to let a bit of surprise huh) and they're a freaky freaky imma destroy your pussy😓✊ I truly enjoyed writing this and every scenarios is different than the other with a little plot. if I had to choose my fav I'd sayyyyy Sylus and Caleb!!! I just loved how it turned out (even tho their parts are smaller than the others haha) A permanent tag list is open! complete the form if u wanna be added ;)
𓂃۶ৎ RAFAYEL
Your head rests lightly against Rafayel’s shoulder, his deep bluish-pink eyes fixed on the canvas before him.
His studio is in shambles—brushes, rags, and half-dried palettes cluttering every surface, while paintings in every stage of completion cling to the walls. It feels like the room itself has surrendered to his relentless pursuit of art.
You balance on a tabouret beside him, following the fluid sweep of his hand as it drags the brush across the canvas. At times, he moves with practiced grace, at others almost violently, as if painting itself resists him. The veins on his forearms bulge, his jaw tightens, and the faint line on his forehead deepens when something refuses to obey.
“Rafayel. . .” you drawl, your hand sliding boldly onto his thigh, fingers curling with slow pressure. “you’ve been at it for hours now,” you tilt your chin to rest against his wide shoulder, your lips so close to his neck when you spoke now. “Why don’t you take a pause?”
And even though he doesn’t let anything show, you notice the goosebumps raising at the base of his neck.
“Sweetie, I can’t,” he answers firmly, though his hand trembles just slightly as he switches brushes. “I’m close. The movement, the essence—I can feel it.” His gaze flickers toward the strange figure he’s painting: a creature that might have been an octopus… if octopuses had banana-yellow tentacles curling absurdly in every direction.
The longer you stare, the deeper your frown grows.
“I think I’m close,” he insists, brows furrowed in concentration as his hand move faster, almost feverishly. “Close to capturing the movement, the essence. I can’t stop now—stopping would be a waste.”
He continues, completely ignoring you, and after some minutes, you decide to stop being patient. You lean in fully, pressing against his side, making it impossible for him not to feel you. “Rafayel,” you whisper, your lips brushing the edge of his ear, “what if I say you’ve painted enough bananas for one night?”
Still, he doesn’t stop.
So, you pout, dragging your nails lightly over his thigh. “Mmm… fine. Then maybe I’ll just have to make you stop.” Your voice turns singsong, deliberately, as your hand slides a little higher, your body shifting against him.
You throw one of your legs over his lap, straddling effectively the solid muscle.
Rafayel’s head snaps toward you instantly, eyes flashing from your body to the canvas you’ve just blocked from view.
“I told you to—eh! what you—mghn—” your hand traveled to cup his cock through his short, forcing his hand to abandon the brush and clamp around your waist instead.
You lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, your tone feather-light yet dripping with mischief. “That is not fair, Rafa… You’ve got a pretty girl right here, all for you tonight, and all you’ve been doing is painting.”
You grind down, only one motion, back and forth, slowly on his lap.
“Don’t give me that look,” you tease, tracing the line of his collarbone with one lazy finger. “I’m just trying to save you from going completely insane over that…” you throw a look over your shoulder, looking one last time at that—“…thing.”
He stays silent, the only thing giving you is his hand tightening around your waist. A warning he clearly expects you to heed.
You don’t.
Instead, you lean forward, brushing your lips just shy of his, your eyes sparkling with challenge. “What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll win?”
“Win what?” he mutters, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Your attention.”
The silence that follows is thick, tense. For a moment you think he’ll go back to his brushes, pretend you’re nothing more than an inconvenience. But then his fingers dig into your hip, and his gaze finally snaps fully to you.
The brush slips from his fingers and hits the floor with a hollow clatter. You don’t get the satisfaction of gloating. His palm slides to the small of your back, dragging you flush against him as he rises to his feet.
His bluish-pink eyes bore into yours, a dangerous mix of irritation and heat. “Climbing all over me like some spoiled little brat… ruining hours of work for your games.”
You open your mouth to smirk, to tease but it falters instantly. His forearms flex as he sweeps the clutter from the table beside him. Jars, brushes, rags—everything crashes to the floor in a chaotic tumble. And then, with no warning, he drops you onto the newly cleared surface, the impact jolting through your body.
Your gasp earns nothing but the faintest, cruelest curve of his mouth.
“You wanted my attention.” His hands pin you in place, one heavy on your thigh, the other gripping your wrist against the wood. “Now you’ll have it. And you’ll learn what it costs to steal it from me too.”
You squirm, testing him, eyes glinting with defiance. “Maybe you should thank me,” you breathe, forcing your bravado. “That painting wasn’t going anywhere.”
His laugh is humorless. “Careful.” He leans down, his face ghosting yours promising you a kiss that… nevercame—denying you the kiss you instinctively leaned toward to. “Every second you keep talking, I think of new ways to make you regret it.”
“That so?” you deadpan, your legs closing around his waist. “And how exactly will yo—”
Your sentence quiet never see the end of it as you’re interrupted with a mean slap on your thigh, heat blooming under his palm.
Rafayel’s hand that had been pinning you to the table flips in a single, controlled movement. You find the world turning and, in a blink, you’re face-up on the cleared workbench, paint-splattered wood rattling next to you.
Both of your wrists are caught and secured above your head in one iron sweep.
He stands over you, tall and unreachable, the studio’s clutter framing him like a chaotic halo. For a second, he simply looks—cataloguing, assessing—the predatory patience in his gaze sharpening into something darker.
“You think a pout and a little straddle buys you mercy, huh?” his thumb drags once along the underside of your wrist, everything but gentleness covers it. “You don’t get to decide when I work and when I don’t.”
You fling a look up at him, chin high, picturing the smug little grin you planned to give. The grin trembles but refuses to fall away. “Maybe I like to decide,” your voice is breathless, your mind full of anticipation. “Takin’ control and all.”
He snorts. “Yeah, of course you do.” He drops his chest, letting his weight crushes you to the table. “But enjoy it while you can,” sharp teeth bite your lobe, a tiny bite that sends shot of pleasure down your spine. “I’ll make sure you remember why you don’t do it often.”
As for now, he lets the silence stretches until your pulse hammers in your throat. Then, with the slowness of a man who knows the exact point where patience breaks, he traces the heel of his hand from the hallow of your throat, between your shoulder blades and finishes on the small of your back—where you skirt is haphazardly hunched above your ass.
He repeats the motion again and again, and every inch of that line pulls at the composure you’d been so proud of.
Heat crawls through you—indignation and something you won’t name—and the brat in you flares one last time. “You sound like you’re enjoying this,” you say, although it sounds more like a whimper than anything else.
He glances down, and for the barest heartbeat, you catch his expression softening into something almost like affection in the corner of your eye. But the softness is gouged away and replaced with a mockery flick in his dilatated pupils.
“’course I am. You deserve someone who won’t hand you everything on a plate.”
Somewhere between the stubborn pulse at your throat and the slow, mounting pressure of his hold, you realize you’ve called down a storm you’re not sure you can weather.
He’s not frantic, he’s not clumsy. He’s methodical, a patient artist with a new muse to dominate—and he’s going to enjoy every meticulous, maddening minute of it.
His palm is still firmly capturing your wrists when the other finds its way against your panties. A devilish smirk touches his face—they’re wet.
“Who gets worked up from the threat of being punished? Only sluts do,” he pushes your shirt higher, exposing the line of your back, and his mouth lands there. He trails wet kisses, letting his tongue darting out there and here—leaving a series of teasing kisses that are much a claim as they are torment.
His long fingers toy with your clit through your fabric.
Time slows, the studio around you seems to contract until it’s just the two of you and the sound of ragged breaths.
His digits are unhurried against your throbbing core. He coordinates his tempo: fingers circling around your clit—quiet never touching it—and the tip of his hot tongue drawing small circle at the very base of your spine.
You pant onto the wood, your forehead resting against it as your ass wiggle in hope to get his hand where you want it. Your nails dig onto his larger one, squirming under his weight.
“Need something?” his voice’s muffled against your flushed skin. His pink tongue explores lower, not afraid to lick your ass covered with panties and then back up to your spine.
“Fingers.” Your voice is thick with need, your mind is devoid of all thoughts except for the fat of his digits messing up your slick on your fat lips.
A low chuckle rumbles against your back, hot breath ghosting where his lips just were. He presses his hand flat between your thighs, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit through soaked fabric. “Greedy little thing.”
He frees his hand from above your head and comes to tug at your panties, pulling them tight against your swollen folds before snapping the elastic back in place, a sharp sting making your body jolt.
“You’re dripping through these,” he mutters, dragging two fingers over the damp patch. He pushes the fabric aside at last, and the sudden cool air against your bare cunt makes you whimper.
Thick fingers spread the fatness of your cunt aside, two thumbs holding them apart as he crouches to be eyed level with the pretty pussy.
His pretty pussy.
He gathers a generous quantity of saliva in his mouth and spits. His eyes are fixated on the bullets of spit dripping down and mixing with your arousal.
And finally, he presses one thick elegant digit inside. A single and long finger reaching far deeper than some could ever. A messy moan spills free from your parted mouth and Rafayel answers just as enthusiastically.
“Ehhhhh…” he mutters, “…already clenching?”
He twists his wrist, sliding in to the knuckle before pulling back and thrusting again, each motion dragging out more wetness. His other finger teases at your entrance, circling then pushing; forcing its way in beside the first.
Your eyes roll back when his fingers curve and hit the spongy spot. But he doesn’t stop there—it would be too merciful—instead he uses his thumb to stimulate your clit, rubbing slow and in rhythm with his fingers inside you.
He leans in, lips brushing against your thigh as his voice drops to a growl. “Now… what was it you said?” his fingers curl deeper, his thumb pressing harder until your vision blur with tears. “ ‘tryin’ to save me from going insane over that thing’… mm?”
You choke on a moan, writhing under him, but his grip on your thighs pins you wide open. His tone drips with mock affection when he whispers your name, yet his eyes are dark—all the pretty blue and pink of his eyes eaten up by his blown pupils. “Look at you now. Who’s insane?”
Your body convulses when he scissors his fingers inside you, the round end of his middle and ring finger dragging against your walls with every slow pump. The sound is wet, filling the studio like another brushstroke in his masterpiece.
Your teeth sinking into your lip as you try to hold it in. But he sees it—sees the tremor in your thighs, sees your knuckles turning white.
“You’re holding back,” Rafayel says almost softly, “Don’t.”
His thumb presses harder, circling with surgeon’s precision. His fingers find that spongy spot again and again, curling, stroking, coaxing. Your bratty retorts die in your throat, replaced with desperate gasps.
“Say it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing higher up your thigh, wet heat from his breath raising goosebumps.
His thumb slaps lightly against your sensitive button. “Say. It. Whose hands are driving you insane now?”
“R-Rafayel—”
And when you break—when the tension snaps inside you with a cry that tears from your chest—he watches you unravel with painter’s focus. Your slick gushes around his fingers, dripping onto his wrist, pooling under you. He doesn’t look away once, doesn’t let up his rhythm until you’re twitching and sobbing against the polished wood.
“Beautiful,” his lips ghost your slick thighs. His fingers slow, coaxing every last tremor from your cunt. “Messier than paint on canvas. But still…” his voice drops lower when he adds, “…perfect.” Followed by a kiss on your inner thigh.
When he pulls out his fingers, the studio’s light reflects on the slick glistening on his hand. And he’s so intoxicated, he doesn’t wait longer to lick them clean, one by one. As though savoring the work of art he just created.
His lips crash against your swollen cunt, tongue flattening and toying with your sweet spot.
“A-ah—!” You jolt, crying out, thighs instinctively trying to close, and you try to push up from the table.
But Rafayel is faster, stronger. One palm slam on your lower back as the other push one of your legs on the wood, keeping you wide open for him to taste as he wishes.
His tongue works relentlessly, none of that practiced precision from earlier.
You sob, hips lifting, trying to wriggle away and chase it at the same time. His teeth catch on your clit, scraping lightly before he sucks it hard, and your vision bursts with stars.
“Thought you were tough,” he chuckles, blowing a hot breath on your sensitive part. “Gonna paint you with it,” he groans into your cunt, words muffled. “With every drop I’ll pour into your pussy.”
His fingers piston back inside your tight hole, two at once, curling viciously as his tongue never leaves your clit. Each thrust of his fingers punches that swollen spot inside.
Your voice breaks into ragged pants, your body trashing, but his grip on you in firm.
When your orgasm tears through you this time, it’s violent. Your cunt gushes around his fingers, soaking his palm, splattering the floor beneath you. He moans low and feral at the sight, drinking it down; messy slurps filling the room, nose buried against your folds as if he could drown there.
When he finally rips his mouth away, spit and slick drip down his chin in thick strands. His gaze immediately drops to your panties—ruined, useless, soaked through with spit and cum.
One strong arm hook around you, flipping you onto your back. You squeal at the sudden movement, body still spasming from your climax, nerves fried. But when your eyes catch his face—your stomach knots.
He’s gone. Utterly feral.
His lips are swollen red, glistening, and his pupils are blown wide, nothing human in the way they pin you down. He looks drunk, drunk on you. The obscene bulge straining his shorts twitches, leaking dark patches through the fabric, and yet—he doesn’t even touch it. His hand never stops, fingers still thrusting into your soaked cunt, curling, twisting, tormenting.
You’re sobbing, trembling, begging without words, but your body betrays you—milking him greedily, clenching and fluttering around those vicious fingers. He watches you unravel like a madman, chest heaving, a wild smile tugging at spit-smeared lips.
“Again,” he rasps, voice cracked, whispering hot against your ear. His spit dribbles onto your cheek, and he doesn’t even care—he smears it down to your mouth with his thumb.
He lets his fingers come out sloooowly before shoving them back in hard. His breath shakes as his forehead presses to yours, his voice desperate. “Gimme another,” he says twisting his hand so his palm could press your swollen clit until he sees those pretty tears pearling your beautiful eyes.
𓂃۶ৎ CALEB
“You think that was funny?” Caleb slams his forearm into the door right beside your head as he cages you in. the dim light of his frat rooms casts shadows over his sharp features, but it’s his eyes—usually bright, playful violet—that burn into you now.
“Well, you said it yourself, Caleb.” Your tone is casual, dismissive. “We’re only frat buddies. Friends who fuck when we’re bored.” You tilt your chin up, unbothered, lips curling into that smug you know he hates.
“I do what I want at the end of the day.”
He presses in closer, chest brushing yours, breath hot against your mouth. His fingers twitch.
“And if what I want,” you add sweetly, venom wrapped in honey, “is grinding my pretty little ass against some stranger, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
The muscle in his jaw ticks, his nostrils flare. You swear the air between you crackles. His voice drops lower, rougher, barely restrained.
“You’re out here acting like I won’t fuck the attitude out of you for that.”
And you smirk wider, satisfied, because that was exactly the reaction you were pulling for.
A reaction where Caleb sneaks his hand under your miniskirt, roll it above your hips and in an instant got the zipper of his jeans undone. His leaking head of his cock grazes your entrance before you could even blink.
He smears his pre-cum up and down your soaked folds, spreading your mess across his length with a guttural sound.
He spits right onto his palm, then stroking viciously his length. You watch the saliva covering his size and your reaction is immediate—your cunt flutters in need.
And without much warning he drives right in. The stretch is devastating, a white-hot intrusion that steal the air from your lungs. His bicep bulge as he hooks your legs around his waist, pressing your back against the door, holding you up with nothing but raw muscle.
“B-bastard, mghn—!” you rasp, nails clawing at his back, his arms, anything and anywhere you could reach.
Caleb only growls in answer, burying himself inch by inch until his pelvis slams against your ass. The breath shudders out of him, his chest crushing your shirted tits, his mouth dragging spit-slick kisses up your neck.
Your moans grow loud, your mouth falling open for his biggest pleasure.
“Shhh,” he pants, though he sounds just as desperate. his hips grind into you, the fat head of his cock nudging your cervix. “We both love when you’re noisy, but you don’t want the whole frat house to hear how much of a cock-hungry slut you are. . . do you?”
And you’re incapable of answering, because his pace suddenly snaps—brutal, pounding, his heavy balls smacking against your ass with every thrust. The sloppy squelch of your cunt swallowing him down echoes off the walls, mixing with your shattered cries.
“God—fuck—” his voice’s wrecked, caught between a whimper and a moan. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving you aching and empty, before slamming back in so hard the door rattles—his pubic hair not missing to assault your clit too. “Tight—so fuckin’ tiiiiight.”
You whimper, drool slicking your lips, mind blank under the rentless pounding. “C-can’t—”
“Yeah, you can.” His hand finds your throat, squeezing until no sounds can came out of you. His lips brush your ear, hot and desperate. “You’re mine. You’ll take it. You’ll take all of me like a good girl.”
You can feel every thick vein of his cock pulses, already spilling heat deep inside you. But he doesn’t stop, as if he could stop. Not when the sound of his cum and your slick squelching so perfectly around his shaft sounds like a delicious melody to his ears.
The filthy mixture drips down your thighs, staining the floor beneath. A fat ring of white cum is presents at the base of his cock, his happy trail shining with filth.
“Nghhhhhhh,” Caleb moans, eyes glassy, violet gone near black. “Loooook at this, ohhhh, fuuuuck,” His voice cracks, lost in awe, wrecked beyond repair.
His grip shifts, freeing your throat only to yank your top up, shoving your bra aside. His rough palms knead your tits, pinching your nipples until you cry. Sweat drips from his jaw, his grin feral.
“Pretty thing—cryin’ and still squeezin’ me like you wanna wring out every drop. Filthy girl. If you wanted my cock that bad you could have just asked.”
“D-don’t—don’t be so—full of yourself, ngh—” You choke on your own spit, walls spasming around him, an orgasm tearing through you with no mercy. Your body convulses against his wide frame, cunt flooding his cock until it’s a wet mess.
“Yessss—fuck yes, that’s it,” Caleb snarls, pounding through your climax, his own cock swelling again inside your wrecked hole. “lemme wreck you ‘til you don’t remember how to insult me anymore.”
He spits again, this time right into your open mouth, smearing it across your tongue with two fingers. “Swallow.”
Your throat works, obeying, and the sight of it has him losing his mind. His hips stutter, cock dragging out only to slam back in, bruising, needy. He groans loud, desperate, and spills into you again, filling you until you’re overflowing.
He holds you tight as he lays you on the floor, folding you under him as his thrusts turn messy, erratic, his entire weight collapsing on you. his teeth sink into your shoulder, and his voice drops to broken mumbling between grunts and curses.
But your fuzzy mind still catches some words: “perfect pussy… never enough—never stoppin’”
𓂃۶ৎ XAVIER
“C’mon, use your big words,” Xavier looks almost, almost, bored.
Midnight hums in the room, the clock’s ticking in the corner, but you’re kind of… needy. And, unfortunately for you, you’ve never had the heart to propose or the courage to even speak up what you wanted clear and loud.
It just wasn’t your personality…
And now that Xavier leans back against the headboard, sprawled half-naked on your shared bed, with only his boxer clinging low on his hips. . . well it didn’t help your shyness by any kind.
And it’s still not helping that he lets no expression letting out except for his deep blue eyes scrutinizing your fumbling hands playing with your nightgown.
A long finger hooks under your chin, tilting your face up until you’re forced to drown in his gaze. He only lifts his eyebrows, hurrying you to speak.
“It’s nothing really—” but his eyes narrow. That look alone stops you cold. The silent command in them is clear: don’t you dare lie to me.
Your throat bobs. “I just—huh, it’s embarrassing, and, truly, I’d understand if you don’t want—”
“Oh, god,” he cuts in, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Spit it out already.”
“iwantedtotryasixtyninewithyou” the words trip out in a frantic rush:
“What was that?” the bored face cracks to reveal something far more dangerous.
“I—” your cheeks are burning red, your whole body on fire. “—wanted to try a sixty-nine with you.”
The silence that follows could split you in two.
Xavier’s gaze drags down your body, and when it slides back up to your face, his lips curl. A smirk that makes your stomach clench.
“You get shy about that?” his voice’s rougher. He shifts forward, the boxer straining as his cock hardens against the fabric, evidence of just how not bored he is now. “You really thought I’d tell you no?”
His finger traces your bottom lip, pressing until your mouth parts. “You’re adorable when you beg without realizing it.”
Your cheeks flame, your thighs pressing together unconsciously. His thumb slides into your waiting mouth, the taste of salt and skin invading your tongue. He pushes deeper the fatness of his digit, pressing heavy against your tongue until you gag, spit coating your lips, spiling down your chin.
While your mouth is full of him, his other hand drifts down your body, fingertips skating over the fragile line of your collarbone, down to your breasts. He pauses there, circling your hard nipple through the thin fabric, a lazy torment, before trailing lower.
“Can’t even ask properly and yet you expect me to climb over you and make a mess out of you?”
Your tongue curls desperately around him in answer, spit slicking his thumb, and you nod, eyes blown wide. It’s pathetic. It’s enough.
He pulls his thumb free with a wet pop, smears the mess across your chin, and then grabs your wrist in a firm, unyielding grip. His strength is terrifyingly effortless. He manhandles you into position, turning your body where he needs it and forcing your weight on his abdomen as he discharges his boxer in a swift motion.
His cock springs free, thick and flushed, the strawberry tip weeping in anticipation.
The sight makes your throat tighten. The weight of him settles against your lips when you lean down, your breath hitching as he leaks warm onto your tongue before you even have the courage to suck.
The position is dizzying, his cock nudging against your lips as his breath fans over your slick folds.
“Open,” he orders, pushing the fat head of his cock against your mouth. The taste of salt and musk coats your tongue as you wrap your lips around him. Xavier licks a slow up your slit, pressing flat and wet, dragging from your dripping entrance to your clit.
Your muffled moan vibrates around his cock. Xavier chuckles darkly, forcing your weight to drop full onto his eager mouth. His tongue is ruthless, plunging between your folds, lapping everything you give him. His nose buries into your clit, inhaling shamelessly your scent.
You choke around him when he shakes his head side to side, his tongue trashing, his mouth obscene. He groans against you, the sound vibrating through your cunt, and rocks his hips forward, driving his cock deeper into your throat. Tears prick your eyes when the round tip graze the back of your throat, drool pouring down your chin.
“Relax,” he rasps, “You can take it just fine.”
His teeth graze your inner thigh in a fleeting bite, a sharp sting soothed instantly by the broad lick of his tongue. Then he flattens it, dragging up and down the fatness of your lips, soaking you in spit, before flicking his pink, rosy tongue tip against your clit.
Your whimper escapes, muffled around his cock, and you pull off him for a desperate breath, spit stringing from your lips to his shaft.
“You think you can ask me properly to cum?” he taunts, his words a hot vibration against your sensitive folds. His thumb slides into play, pressing tight circles on your bundle of nerves while his tongue plunges lower again, fucking you with obscene wet sounds.
Your thighs quake around his head, your nails digging into his thighs for purchase. Your chest heaves as you pant, spit still dripping down your chin. The coil inside you twists tight, unbearable.
“I—uh,” your mind is too cloudy to even think about something else than his mouth. Said mouth pulling away from your warmth to spit directly onto it. The warm slick runs down your pussy, mixing with the mess he’s already made of you.
He slurps it back up, greedy, and groans low in his chest. “Already, allll dumb, mh?” he mocks, sucking harder.
Your vision blurs, the room starts spinning, your moans break ragged out of your sore throat, but he doesn’t stop one tiny second.
His hands shift lower, gripping your ass with bruising force, spreading you open until you feel obscenely bare, every nerve alight and vulnerable under his mouth.
He devours you like he’s carving you open with his tongue, like nothing else exists but the taste of you spilling over his lips and chin.
𓂃۶ৎ ZAYNE
The show flickers on the screen.
You’re sprawled on the couch, long and heavy plaid keeping you all warm with a gigantesque bowl perched on your stomach.
Zayne sits beside you, his weight dipping the cushions, your calves comfortably resting across his lap. Every so often his hands drift absentmindedly, fingers drumming along you shin.
Everything is… Domestic.
Until you catch the corner of his mouth quirking.
“What?” you mumble, squinting at him through a mouthful of popcorn.
“Nothing.” His tone is smooth.
“Zayne.”
He finally glances at you, those deep hazel eyes gleaming in the dim light, and shrugs with a grin. “You’ve got butter on your lip.”
You swipe at your mouth, frowning. “Where?”
He leans forward, and instead of answering, he presses the briefest, most teasing kiss to the corner of your lips. A peck, nothing more—yet, like every single time, your whole body sets on fire.
You blink.
He leans back, casual, as if he didn’t just make the air unbearably thick.
“That’s cheating.” you accuse softly.
“Cheating?” his brows lift in mock innocence, but his hand hasn’t moved from your leg. In fact, his thumb now traces small circles into your calf.
“Yeah,” you mutter, eyes darting to his lips before you can stop yourself. “You don’t get to do that and pretend it’s nothing.”
Zayne chuckles low, dipping in again—another quick peck, this time right on your lips. It’s longer and firmer.
And before you realize it, you’re chasing his mouth when he pulls away. Zayne meets you halfway, his mouth slanting over you again, this time slower, deliberate, a tease that steaks the air from your lungs.
It starts sweet; lips brushing, catching, but then his teeth graze your bottom lip, and you gasp. He takes the occasion to grab the back of your knee and tugs, dragging you across the couch until your straddling him—the plaid falling onto the floor.
And in only seconds, the kiss turns feral. Your mouths crash and part, tongue sliding, spit stringing when he pulls back just to watch you chase him. You’re breathless, whining softly when he doesn’t give you what you want right away.
“Eager?” his voice’s husky and his fingers are a brand where they drip your thighs, holding you down against the hard line of his lap. “Can’t even sit still.”
You grind once, as if your body wants to prove him right. His groan vibrates straight into your mouth before he smirks. “That’s cute.” He nips your bottom lip again, forcing a whimper out of you, then licks into your mouth.
Your hands find his soft, wild hair. You tug on them, desperate to pull him closer, tipping his head back. And he lets you do as you please—lets you ruin his mouth with sloppy kisses, lets your drool slick his chin.
“We’re only making out—” but you don’t let him finish. You lunge for his mouth, clumsily tripping his lips between yours, and he laughs into the kiss.
You lost all sense of time. His hands move to your ass and drags you down harder onto his lap.
Every kiss is a little more brutal than the last, your mouths moving in frantic rhythm… like both of you want to carve themselves into the other.
Your thighs squeeze around his hips, grounding yourself while his hands wander with no shame. One hand is heavily pressed under your top, keeping you plastered against his chest, as the other is gripping your jaw, tilting your face just so he can lick into your mouth.
You can taste him everywhere. His tongue strokes slow at first, then faster, sliding against yours until your throat tightens, spit spilling over your lips. And each time one of you break the kiss, a strong string of saliva connects you.
Zayne groans each time at the sight, bites it off your mouth, then licks it away like it’s his favorite thing.
“So fuckin’ messy, God—” his voice is raspy, lips bitten red and swollen from the endless kisses. His breath ghosts over your face, hungry, before he lets his tongue fall out between his teeth.
“Suck.” He orders.
And you don’t even hesitate.
You seal your lips around his tongue, sucking it into your mouth like that’s a damn lollipop. Your cheeks hollow as you drag it deeper, rolling your tongue around his, slobbering without shame.
Zayne moans like you’ve undone him, his hips jolting up against you, cock grinding hard under your soaked shorts. His hand cups the back of your head, yanking you off. His pupils are dilated, eyes glued to your glistening lips. “Goin’ dumb on my tongue like it’s my cock…”
Your eyes flutter back, a whimper vibrating and ricocheting onto his cock. All while your body keep rocking on his thick thighs, dragging your clit against him. Your wetness soaks through cotton, leaving a wet spot on his pajama pants.
The couch creaks under the weight of you both, bodies twisting and writhing, plaid and popcorn long forgotten on the floor. His lips trail down your jaw to your throat, sucking messy bruises that make you arch and whine.
Your shirt is wrinkled, collar pulled down so he can mark you up further, and his hair is a wild mess where your hands keep tugging.
And still—still—it’s only kissing. Only his mouth wrecking yours until your lips are numb, only his tongue ruining you until your thighs ache from holding on so tight.
“Fuck—” you gasp when his teeth nip the sensitive skin below your ear. Your nails rake over his shoulders, clawing through the fabric of his shirt. “Z-Zayne—”
“Say my name like that again,” he pants, one hand sliding up your shirt to grip your breast. His large and veiny palms cover the soft skin, two fingers pinching the hardened nipple. His hips snap up once, pressing harder his lengthy dick.
Your head falls back with a choked moan.
The sound makes him feral. He buries his face in the crock of your neck, sucking where his mouth reaches, marking you while rutting up into you with brutal rhythm. Each thrust drags your clit over the thick ridge of his cock.
He licks a stripe over the column of your throat, before biting down. His hand slips lower, sneaking under your shorts to cup the heat of your cunt through your soaked panties. He presses with his palm, smearing wetness. “You’re drippin’ through these, you—” he shakes his head, half in awe. His thumb pushes harder, testing how far he can make the mess spread. “Fuck, that’s a lot.”
And even if you wanted to answer, you couldn’t. You can only rut against him, thighs quaking, every nerve ending burning.
He takes your mouth again, biting, swallowing every broken sound you make. His tongue shoves past your lips like he’s trying to crawl inside you, and his fist knots in your hair, yanking you forward until your teeth clack against his. It’s filthy, all spit and desperation, both of you gasping into each other like air doesn’t exist anywhere else.
“You gonna cum like this, aren’t you?” he circles his hips with maddening precision, making you nearly cry out. His cock grinds into you through too many layers in your opinion. A wet, dark spot is streaking his pants proudly.
“You—” you try, but your voice breaks into a whimper, nails digging so hard onto his back you’re sure he’s going to have the mark later on.
The coil inside you shreds in an instant, your body snapping into release. Heat gushes into your panties, soaking through to stain his pants, dripping down your thighs as you convulse in his lap.
The sight of it—the feel of it—drags a curse out of him, rough and animal. His hips jerk in ragged thrusts, rutting into your mess. He never lets your mouth go, kissing you through your cries, teeth clashing as his cock pulses violently. He spills hot and thick into his boxers, the fabric darkening between you—long hot shoot of seed flooding the space.
You’re both a mess, clinging and trembling with wet clothes sticking to overheated skin. His lips bite yours one last time before pulling back and playfully smile at you. His hair a wild mess, dropping to his pretty eyes.
“See?” he whispers, voice shredded, lower face glistening with sweat and spit. “Just a make-out.”
𓂃۶ৎ SYLUS
“You be giggling a lot,” Sylus smirks.
Well, you think he smirks.
Because with the thick blindfold he slipped over your eyes, it was hard to tell. The world was gone—you were drowning in a delicious velvety darkness. The sound of his voice circling you.
“I can’t help Sy’,” you murmur, biting your lower lip as your back arches instinctively off the bed. The leather biting into your wrists as the restraints tug taunt only makes you shiver harder, every nerve alive with anticipation.
He chuckles, soft and dangerous, the kind of laugh that makes heat pool between your legs. “I can only imagine, my love,”
Your body squirms, but there’s nowhere to go, not with his knots holding you down firm, not with the slightbrush of his fingertips ghosting along your naked hip. The restrain, the blindfold, the not-knowing… none of it scares you.
If anything, it winds you tighter, excitement burning through every vein.
You hear a faint rustle. Something delicate, whisper-light, tracing the air.
Then—
“Oh god—” you whisper, the faintest tickle of the hollow of your throat.
A feather.
You jolt, breath catching, but Sylus’ hand comes down on your stomach to keep you pinned. “Easy,” he drawls, the grin in his voice unmistakable.
The feather drags slow—agonizingly slow. It traces over the curve of your throat, down to your collarbone. Your skin prickles, every nerve raw and screaming within seconds.
“Sensitive?” his voice is mock-sweet.
It skims over your breast, circling lazily around your nipple without quite giving it the contact you crave. You arch into it, but the bonds snap taut, denying you even that little victory.
Sylus laughs under his breath but say nothing else. He dips the feather, trail over your ribs, down your side, stopping just above your hipbone. The pause is unbearable, your entire body trembling, waiting.
Then he flicks the feather right across your clothed mound. A cruel, fleeting brush that makes your whole body jerk.
“Mm. there it is,” he murmurs to himself, so low your clouded mind almost misses it. And he does it again, this time slower, circling, teasing, pressing barely enough for you to feel. And far not enough to satisfy.
Your thighs clench, straining against nothing, a broken noise slipping past your lips.
“You sound pretty when you’re frustrated,” he teases, stroking the feather along the inside of your thigh, just shy of where you need it most. “Makes me want to keep this up all night.”
The feather returns to your core, skimming the center of your pubic bone.
Sylus hums low, pleased, leaning close so his words ghost across your ear. “You’re gonna lose your mind, sweetheart. And I’m gonna be right here, listening to every little sound you make for me.” His voice drips rough, reverent. “God, I love this. Love you like this.”
The feather moves upward, trailing over your belly, teasing circles around your navel before drifting higher—your chest rising in anticipation.
“Oh? You want it here, don’t you?” He lets the plume trace your breast, circling wide and slow until your nipple stiffens. He grins against your cheek when you pant is quick breaths. “That desperate already? You’re even cuter like this. Makes me want to ruin you.”
He flicks the feather over your nipple, sharp and light, over and over. Your back arches, wrists straining in the ropes, your mouth parting in a silent O.
But suddenly…
Everything stops.
The absence makes you whimper, mind reeling. Until you feel it. Something cold. Wet. Unexpected. Dabbed right onto your nipple, the chill biting through your heat.
“Sylus, what is—”
He cuts you off with a sinful laugh. “Couldn’t resist.” There’s a pause before he adds, “You’re too perfect not to taste.”
His tongue laps up in a slow circle before he sucks your nipple into his mouth with a deep groan. Your hips buck uselessly— his mouth worships one breast, the plume teases the other, drawing lazy lines over the untouched tit.
“Whipped cream is extra-delicious on you, my love.” His voice is sticky-sweet.
And when he shifts lower, feather following his movement across the slope of your stomach, you freeze.
More cream, squirted directly across your belly, a sinful line that makes you gasp. Sylus hums, pleased, smearing it with the tip of the feather. He drips his head and licks. His tongue is hot, contrasting with the chill cream.
He moans into your skin, the sound vibrating through you. His taste bulb follows the trail, messy, greedy, lapping until you’re sticky, wet, marked by him. Then he blows a teasing breath over the wet skin, making you squirm harder.
“Think I should paint you with this?” his little laugh is… hungry. “Every inch… so I get to lick you clean.”
૮꒰ྀི⸝⸝> . <⸝⸝꒱ྀིა 🏷️ @kissandtellus @Loloncookies @riaheatsdrywall
