#zayne li

[sayuni1234]

Zayne: Knead Therapy 🫱🫲

[calebsfavoriteusedthong]

When you accidentally send them a (p)🌽 link...

Cw: Smut. Oral. P in V. Thigh riding. Size kink. Panty sniffer Caleb Jealous Xavier. It includes links to 🌽 videos on X for visual examples on what was sent. 🔞 MDNI🔞

Sylus/Xavier/Rafayel/Zayne/Caleb

Yeah*sigh*I'm ovulating again. Enjoy 😝

Part 2 here When they accidentally send you a porn link...

The blue light of your phone screen is the only thing cutting through the darkness of your bedroom. You really should have been asleep an hour ago, instead, you’re spiraling down a rabbit hole you didn't even know existed.

Size kink.

You’d never really thought about it before, not until you started dating Sylus and tonight you were just scrolling, looking for something to satisfy the empty ache Sylus left all week.

This video is something you had never seen before or even thought was possible. You watch, mesmerized by the way the woman’s stomach subtly shifts a visible bulge as he stretches her out.

Heat pools instantly between your thighs, making your breath hitch and a dizzying sensation of fullness hit your gut. He's always so careful with you, so agonizingly gentle, as if you’re something precious he might break if he breathes too hard. But looking at this... a dark part of your brain wonders what it would feel like if he didn't hold back.

"Holy shit..." you whisper to the empty room.

Your hand moves instinctively, fingers sliding down to find slick heat. The video is playing on a loop. Bulge. Stretch. Deep. Repeat. You watch it while your imagination runs wild, replacing the stranger on the screen with the man who owns your heart. You’re picturing his heavy weight pinning you down, his eyes blown wide, filling you until you can’t even scream.

You’re chasing a peak that feels miles away until, suddenly, it isn't. You hit your first orgasm with a stifled gasp, back arching off the mattress, only to find yourself immediately chasing the second one, body trembling and spent in the wake of the first.

By the time the second wave of pleasure ebbs away, you’re a puddle of limbs and heavy eyelids. You’re half conscious, drifting in that beautiful limbo between wakefulness and dreams. In a daze of post orgasmic euphoria, you squint at the screen, your thumb hovering over the comment section.

"How do I send him this without actually sending it to him 😳"

You tap 'send' with a clumsy thumb. You meant to just post it as a thought, a digital scream into the void. But as your eyes flutter shut, your hand twitches a final, involuntary spasm of exhausted muscle. Your thumb slips. It slides across the 'Share' icon, hovers over the very first contact at the top of your recent list, and taps.

Sent.

You don't hear the subtle whoosh of the outgoing message.  Delivered directly to the man who at this very moment is probably staring at a security feed or sipping red wine.

Sylus.

You just fall into a deep, blissful sleep, completely unaware that you've just lit a fuse.

🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛

“Come on, sweetie, don’t give up on me now" Thrust. The impact is heavy, forcing a breathless gasp from your lungs. “You can take it, can’t you?”

He isn't being the gentle, careful man you know. Not today. His hand is hooked firmly behind your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, forcing you to watch the unmistakable, fat bulge stretching the skin of your lower abdomen, proof to just how deep he’s buried himself inside you.

“You wanted this, now you have to take it and you are going to watch.”

And there it is. The reality of it. It’s visceral. It’s exactly what you saw in that video, but it’s a thousand times more intense because it’s him. It’s real.

Your vision swima and just as the shock of it all starts to settle, he shifts. He changes the angle of his hips in a calculated move that hits your G spot dead on. An uninhibited scream tears from your throat, echoing through the room.

“I've been trying to behave,” he says, and the words come out rougher than he probably intended, an edge of frustration bleeding through his usual composure “But you make it so difficult... fuck... by sending me your filthy little thoughts.”

His hand settles against your belly, firm and heavy, and the second he presses down, your body reacts with a sharp inhale. You tense instinctively, muscles coiling around him, but you don't pull away. You can't.

“Can you feel me here?” he asks, breath coming in uneven bursts. He’s buried balls deep and for a split second, you see a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. You make a face, a strange, overwhelmed expression of fullness, and he looks like he might actually pull back to give you a moment to breathe. He thinks he’s pushing too hard.

He’s wrong.

Don't you dare.

Driven by a desperation you didn't know you possessed, you move your hips in a searching rhythm, pressing his hand down harder against your stomach. You want the pressure. You want to feel the exact point where he meets your skin from the inside.

He lets out a loud groan at the sensation. Your narrow walls clamp down on him, tighter than they've ever been. Every millimeter of space between you feels like it’s disappearing, leaving nothing but friction and heat.

You don't have the words to tell him that you never want him to stop, so your body does the talking. You cling to him, legs wrapping around his waist as he holds you there, keeping you exactly where you are until your breathing turns unsteady.

Until your body softens in momentary surrender and tightens again a second later, as if you're fighting a war with yourself, trying to decide whether to let go or to hold on tighter.

In the end, you don't choose. You do both.

The world dissolves into a hot haze of pleasure. It couldn't be called an orgasm because this feels like a total system failure. You’re sobbing his name or maybe you’re just gasping for air, you can’t tell anymore as waves of pleasure crash over you, violent and unrelenting. Your pussy seizes around him in long pulses, milking him, begging for the very thing that’s pushing you past your limit.

He follows you a few seconds later, burying himself soooo deep you feel the hot rush of him filling you.

Slowly, the fog begins to lift, leaving you in a state of blissful, heavy lethargy. The hand that was just pressing so ruthlessly into your belly softens, fingers tracing lazy circles over your skin.

"You really are a menace." he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.

The shame you expected to feel, the embarrassment of that accidental video is nowhere to be found. Instead, there is only a sense of immense satisfaction.

"Next time," he whispers into your hair "don't bother sending a link. Just tell me. I'll give you everything you desire. Every single time."

The problem with being in love with a man like Xavier is that your brain is constantly a minefield of "what ifs."

He’s incredible, truly, but you’ve noticed the way he pulls back sometimes. When he’s brooding or when that possessive jealousy starts to prickle at him, he becomes almost too careful. Like he’s afraid he might actually break you if he lets go of that restraint.

So, naturally, you’ve been doing a little "research" to keep the inspiration alive.

Now, you’re sitting on the edge of your bathtub, scrolling through your feed, a habit that’s becoming a bit of a vice, when a video catches your eye. A girl pinned to a mattress, her head pressed down by her partner as he fucks her from behind. Hard. The sound of her moans echoes in your ears through your headphones and suddenly the bathroom feels about ten degrees too hot.

God, yes.

You quickly save the link to your "later" folder, a digital stash of things you want him to eventually try, and then scribble a quick, thirsty comment on the video "This but with my boyfriend dressed as Lumiere 🤤 " and set your phone down.

Buzz. Buzz.

A notification lights up the screen. It’s him.

[Xavier]: Found a new hot pot place. Apparently, the broth is spicy enough to kill a Wanderer. Want to go tonight? Please say yes so I can stop thinking about food and start thinking about you.

A soft laugh escapes you. He’s so predictable, yet so devastatingly charming when he wants to be. Your answer is an immediate "sure" because you’d say yes to a lukewarm bowl of water if he was the one serving it.

But he always forgets to look at the menu and ends up ordering something way too spicy or something you're not in the mood for, so you look for the restaurant's menu.

You see the link. Tap it. Copy. Paste. Add "Look at the options! The spicy broth looks insane." Send.

Funny thing is, you don't actually copy the menu's URL, you just cut it. You don't even realize you just sent him the very un culinary link to the video you were just watching to fuel your own delusions.

Little typing bubbles appear. They dance for a long time. They disappear. They reappear.

He's so indecisive.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

"Lumiere?" the name sounds like a curse "You wanted Lumiere to pin you down?"

Your face is pressed so firmly into the mattress that the fabric feels like a part of your own skin, the scent of laundry detergent mixing with the heat of the moment. Every time he thrusts into you, the world tilts, your vision blurring into white light and dark shadows. The Xavier who kisses your forehead and cuddles with you is buried somewhere deep inside the man currently fucking you breathless.

"Xavie..." you try to speak, but his name dies in your throat as he shifts his weight.

"Tell me," he demands, losing the battle with his own restraint. He hits you hard, a deep, soul shaking thrust that forces a broken moan from your lips. "Tell me you don't need a costume to feel this."

You try to answer, to tell him he's being ridiculous...

Smack!

The sting of his palm against your ass makes you gasp, your fingers clawing at the mattress for purchase.

"You sent it to me on purpose," he mutters as he leans down, his chest pressing hard against your back. "You wanted to see me like this, didn't you? You wanted to see if I could be as rough as him."

He doesn't want an answer. He doesn't wait for one. He just wants to hear you whimper his name when he hits that perfect spot.

His hand presses your face down even harder into the mattress, muffling your cries. It's everything you were craving when you were scrolling through your phone earlier, but the reality is a thousand times better.

You start to move, trying to meet him halfway, trying to grind back against him to find the friction that will push you over the edge.

"Faster..." you beg, trying to turn your head to tell him that there is no Lumiere, there is only him, but he just presses you back down, his thumb grazing your hip bone with trembling pressure.

"Shhhhhh, just a little bit more," he lets out a long groan, his forehead dropping to rest against the back of your neck for a fleeting second before he surges upward again. "You should see the way your pussy is taking my cock right now, so greedy. Just for me."

His hand shifts. It leaves the back of your head to find the column of your throat. His thumb and middle finger curl around your neck not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he is in total control.

He stills for a heartbeat, his middle finger softly tapping the pulsing vein in your neck. "Every beat belongs to me tonight"

You just nod, a jerky movement, because you are standing on the very edge of a precipice, and the fall is coming. The tension in your lower belly is wound so tight it’s almost painful.

"Say it," he breathes, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his words a warm, humid ghost of a sensation, his control fraying at the edges.

"Yours," you finally whisper, like secret you’ve been holding in your lungs for far too long, finally allowed to breathe.

The moment the word leaves your lips, he loses the last of his mercy.

He pulls back almost entirely, leaving you aching and empty for a fraction of a second only to drive back in, bottomless and bruising. It’s a cycle of withdrawal and overwhelming fullness that leaves you reeling.

"Give me what's mine" the command vibrates through your entire body.

The world dissolves into white light as your head falls forward, muscles spasming in the violent quake of your climax, but he catches your hair, tugging just enough to force your head up, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and swirling with a hunger that could swallow the stars.

"Good girl," he whispers against your parted, trembling lips.

He thrusts one last time, deep and final, spilling molten heat as your name breaks from his lips, torn in half by bliss before he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. For now, the jealousy is gone. There is only the quiet, heavy reality of being his.

The video catches your eye instantly. The lighting is a soft purple, casting a surreal glow over the two people on screen. A girl is on top, her movements slow and agonizingly deliberate as she drags her pussy over her partners cock, the rhythm of it making your cunt clench.

Tonight you are in a "no filter" mood. You need to share this. You need to tell Tara.

With a smirk, you tap the share icon, copy the link, and switch over to your messages. You find Tara’s profile pic or so you think and start typing with the kind of unhinged energy only a best friend can appreciate.

You and Tara have long since abandoned the concept of "boundaries" when it comes to your filthy late night chats.

“Omg Tara, look at this. Raf’s cock is so pretty, I swear if he’d just let me do this to him, I’d never leave the bedroom again 🥵💦”

You hit send with a satisfied whoosh and let out a long, dramatic sigh. Silence follows. For a few minutes you go back to scrolling, blissfully unaware that you have just dropped a digital bomb into the inbox of a man who is already struggling to maintain his composure.

Your phone vibrates.

It’s not a "LOL" or a "Damn" from Tara.

It’s a notification from Rafayel.

Rafayel: Is that so?

Your heart skips a beat. You frown, squinting at the name at the top of the chat.

Wait.

Your face goes from pale to a shade of red that would put a sunset to shame. You stare at the screen, wanting to physically crawl inside the phone and disappear forever. You want to delete it. You want to throw the phone out the window. You want to move to a different planet.

But then, the little typing bubbles appear again.

Rafayel: Don't just sit there blushing, cutie. I'm coming to your place and you are going to show me exactly what you want"

🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧

You’ve lost track of time. Your thighs are starting to ache, every muscle in your legs feels tight, strained from holding yourself upright, yet you keep moving. You have to. The friction is the only thing keeping you grounded.

You’re straddling him, your knees digging into the soft linens, focused on the way your cunt drags over his cock. Slippery. Hot. Wet.

Every time you slide down, the underside of him, that thick ridge presses ruthlessly against your clit. You can feel the vein running along his length pulse in perfect synch with your clit. 

Thump thump. Thump thump. 

"Slow down..." he groans, gripping your hips "You're going to... fuuuuck... you're going to kill me"

The friction is creating a heat of its own, a sliding friction that makes your head spin. You watch slightly delirious, as the light from the moon filters through the window, catching the sheen of sweat on his pale skin and the way his hair is plastered to his forehead. He looks wrecked. He looks beautiful. He looks like he belongs entirely to you.

But his hands are far from weak. They are heavy weights anchored to your hips, and he uses them to sabotage you. Just when you think you’ve found a rhythm that might actually save you, he tightens his grip, forcing your hips to slow, dragging the slide of your pussy out into a long, shallow glide.

It’s cruel. A sadistic kind of torture, making the night feel endless, as if the clock has stopped just to watch you suffer.

He wants to stretch this out. He wants to milk every drop of anticipation from your veins until your entire body begins to tremble, not from pleasure, but from the weight of the climax that refuses to arrive. He wants to push you to that edge where even your silence sounds filthy, where the quiet between your breaths is thick with the unspoken things you want to do to him.

Once he’s satisfied with the slow pace, his hands begin to wander. They trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your breasts, learning your body the way a sinner learns to pray. Like hunger learning the art of restraint just long enough to make the eventual feast mean something.

You slide back just a fraction, settling the heat of your pussy directly over his balls and then you reach down.

Your fingers wrap around the base of his cock, just like you saw in that video. You begin to stroke him while simultaneously rotating your hips in a circular grind over the heavy fullness of his balls.

The sound that tears from his throat is something unhuman, a vibration that feels like it's coming from the depths of the ocean.

Your name is caught between his teeth in a soft, sinful exhale. He sounds undone, completely unraveled by the sight of you taking exactly what you claimed you wanted in that accidental text.

He’s right there, on the edge of an unravelling collapse.

And because you are just like him, a creature of beautiful, chaotic impulse, you don't let him have it. Not yet.

You release his cock, hand slipping away just as the tension reaches its peak, and drag your soaked cunt back up the entire length of him in one loooong slide.

It feels like a collision of two fires.

In your desperation to feel everything you let your entire weight drop. The clench of your pussy as you cum wraps around the underside of his cock, squeezing him with a force that leaves him absolutely helpless.

He has no choice but to follow you into the fire.

Spurts of his cum paint the pale skin of his stomach, the liquid warmth spreading in thick, white streaks, pooling in his belly button.

For a few seconds, neither of you moves. There is only the sound of your breathing and the humid scent of your shared exhaustion.

“Was that pretty enough for you, cutie?” he teases, though his hand trembles slightly as he reaches up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingers on your cheek, like he’s constantly checking to make sure you haven't vanished into the night. "Or do we need to do it again?"

It’s late, way past the time Zayne would usually be nudging you to sleep but he’s still tucked away in his office, probably buried under a mountain of medical charts or surgical reports.

Your eyes are glued to your phone screen, watching a VIDEO of a girl grinding against a man’s thigh, bodies pressed together, his hands steady even as she buries her face in the crook of his neck. The guy in the video is wearing pajamas that look disturbingly similar to the ones Zayne is wearing right now.

Suddenly, the empty space in your bed feels a little too vast, your mind drifting to the office down the hall, aching to be that girl, to climb onto his Zayne's lap while he’s buried in medical charts and just... fuck yourself stupid.

You want to reach down and touch yourself but you’re a loud sleeper and an even louder moaner. If you start now, there’s no way he won't hear you through the walls, and you aren't quite ready for that kind of intimacy yet. So, you settle for a bit of digital venting. With a flushed face, you type out a quick comment on the video: "God, I wish I could do this while he's working..."

You go to save the link to your "Filthy Things" folder for a proper session tomorrow morning, but just as your thumb hovers over the screen, your phone starts vibrating. It’s Simone. She’s calling, probably to gossip about something trivial. In your rush to swipe the call and answer her, your finger taps the wrong folder.

And because Zayne is a man who is always, always connected to his devices for work... he’s going to see the notification the exact second it pops up.

🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺 🩺

It didn't take long. After that little "digital accident," the silence between you two wasn't awkward so much as it was heavy. Charged. He didn't even tease you about the comment. He didn't even blush. He just looked at you with those piercing eyes, a tiny, knowing quirk at the corner of his mouth, and silently commanded you to come to him.

And now, here you are. Perched on his lap, doing the same thing you saw on that video. Your lower half is completely bare, your thighs hugging his muscular one as you press yourself flush against him.

The friction is driving you completely insane.

Zayne, however, is a man of terrifying discipline.

His left hand is braced on your lower back, while his right hand moves across his keyboard. He’s actually working. He’s reviewing files, typing out notes, behaving as if you aren't currently trying to melt into his lap. Every so often, he’ll pause, not to stop you, but to lean in. His breath, cool and smelling faintly of mint, brushes against the shell of your ear, sending a violent shiver down your spine.

"Ah... Zayne..." you whimper against his neck as you press yourself harder against him. The sound is loud, far too loud for his quiet office and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

"Hush now," he doesn't even look away from the monitor, though you notice the slight tightening of his jaw. "I need to focus. These reports won't write themselves."

He’s being difficult. He’s being a tease. And you love him for it.

You try to be "good." You force yourself to still when he has to write something long on his computer. You sit there, trembling slightly, waiting for him to acknowledge the havoc you're wreaking on his concentration.

A moment passes. The only sound is the soft click clack of the keyboard. Then, you feel his hand slide from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer, a subtle command for you to keep going.

"Good girl," he whispers, the words a warm caress against your ear.

His expression is completely professional, but the way his fingers linger on your skin tells a completely different story. He’s still working, yes but he’s also letting you feel exactly how much of a distraction you really are.

Every time your thighs tense up, every time you desperately bite your lower lip to stifle a moan that threatens to shatter the silence, the air thickens with indecency.

He’s struggling. You aren't blind. You can feel the insistent twitch of his cock beneath you, reacting to every open mouthed kiss you press against the pulse of his neck, the sharp line of his collarbone, and the smooth expanse of his Adam's apple. He’s trying to maintain that surgeon’s calm, but his body is betraying him with every shuddering breath you take.

You’re right on the edge. Your clit is catching perfectly against the fabric of his pajamas, the material already damp and clinging to you from the amount of arousal you're leaking.

"Look at me."

His voice cuts through the air, forcing your gaze up. He wants to see the exact moment your eyes glaze over, the moment your breath hitches and tells the truth that your lips are trying so hard to hide.

When his hand slides up to cup your jaw, it isn't the gentle, comforting touch you're used to during a quiet movie on the couch. It's different. It's possessive. It’s a disciplined kind of dominance, a reminder that while he is the composed Zayne in the daylight, there is a much darker man caged behind that professional composure and you are the only one who knows how to let him out.

"You are close, aren't you, love?" he whispers, his lips hovering so close to yours that you can feel the heat of his breath.

You can barely manage a nod, your lungs feeling too small for the air you're trying to pull in. You're breathing directly into his slightly parted mouth.

"Cum for me, then," he exhales, a rare flush creeping up his cheeks, betraying just how much this is affecting him too.

He shifts his thigh, bouncing it up and down in a rhythmic motion that catches your clit perfectly.

The world tilts. You feel your eyes lose focus and you can't tell if it's the shaking of your limbs or the pounding of your heart that's making you tremble so violently.

"Zaynie... Zayne..."

His name becomes your entire vocabulary, there are no words left, only the sound of his name on your lips and the crashing sensation of finally, finally letting go.

You are flicking through a never ending stream of mindless clips and memes. It’s supposed to be a quiet afternoon, just a bit of scrolling to kill the time until Caleb comes back, but then there...

A VIDEO pops up. It’s not your usual aesthetic travel vlog or a cooking hack.

You freeze, your heart doing a weird, little skip in your chest. You know you should probably swipe past it, but your eyes are glued to the screen. It’s a girl, her lace panties completely drenched. The guy in the video isn't even taking them off, he’s just sliding the tip of his cock against her through the wet lace.

A sudden warmth blooms deep in your belly, spreading down until it feels like you’re melting into the cushions. God, you’ve been craving that. The teasing, the slow, agonizing buildup. You’ve spent so much money on delicate, expensive little sets, thinking maybe Caleb would appreciate the way they look on you, but hes a fucking dog. He doesn't do "slow." He usually just rips them or tugs them off with impatience, going straight for the heat of you. You just want him to play with you like that. To linger.

Your inhibitions are a little frayed from the visual, and before your brain can catch up to your impulse, your thumbs are flying. You tap the comment section, the screen a mess of unhinged messages from strangers, and you add your own little confession: “I really need him to play with me like this, but he prefers to eat it raw from the start😢”

You hit send, a tiny, embarrassed flush creeping up your neck, and immediately swipe the video away, feeling a bit silly for being so vulnerable to a bunch of internet strangers.

You toss the phone onto the cushion next to you a second later, completely oblivious to one mortifying detail. He’d logged into his account on your phone earlier when his own battery died, and you hadn't bothered to switch back.

In his office, the most dangerous man in Skyhaven is about to watch, in explicit detail, how you want to be ruined.

🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷

It turns out your assessment of him was spot on. The man is a fucking dog.

He hasn't taken your underwear off. That’s the part that’s driving you absolutely insane. The delicate lace is currently soaked, clinging to your pussy like a second, translucent layer of skin. He’s been working his tongue against the fabric, licks so long and heavy they feel like they’re reaching deep inside you. You’ve already been hit by two earth shattering, toe curling orgasms, your vision blurring every time his mouth finds your clit through the damp cloth. He hasn't even slowed down. If anything, it's getting worse.

“This is the reason I usually take off those pretty panties you wear” he presses his face into you, his broad tongue sweeping up in one stroke against your entire slit. You let out a choked, broken sound, fingers tangling desperately in his dark hair, trying to push him away just to catch your breath.

“Your scent is so fucking addictive,” he groans against your skin, “Especially after wearing them all day... knowing you've been walking around, smelling like this, just waiting for me.”

Then, he says something that makes your heart skip a beat not out of fear, but out of pure shock.

“You have no idea, do you?” he pants, nose brushing against your clit. “Last two years of High School... I spent them stroking my cock raw just to the smell of your panties. Thinking about you. Wishing you were right there."

Your vision blurs. Your hips jerk upward involuntarily as a third wave of pleasure crashes over you. You cum hard, your entire body shaking as you spill yourself directly onto his tongue, voice breaking into a high, desperate sob of his name.

He doesn't pull away. He just drinks you in, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he tastes exactly what he's been craving.

The moment your legs stop trembling he hooks his fingers into the soaked gusset and drags it to the side, baring your swollen folds and your pulsing clit, sensitive from his relentless attention.

He doesn't thrust in. He doesn't go for the full stretch you’ve been silently praying for. Instead, he slides the drooling tip of his cock over your slit. He isn't even entering you yet, he's just... slapping it against your clit, teasing the very edge of your tolerance.

You wanted the lace, the play, the slow burn... but God, you also wanted him to fuck you until you couldn't remember your name. You wanted the stretch.

But Caleb is a man who listens. Or rather, he's a man who has spent a lifetime studying every detail of your desires and right now he is giving you exactly what you asked for.

He leans down, his eyes dark, watching the way your face contorts with pleasure and frustration. He doesn't give you the release of a full thrust, he just feeds you the tip. He slides just the head of his cock into your pussy, a teasing invasion that barely makes a dent.

The reaction is instantaneous. Your walls react to him like a living thing, clenching around him, desperately trying to suck him deeper, to pull the rest of him in. The sensation is so perfectly matched that a synchronized moan breaks from both of you.

He pulls out just a fraction and then he thrusts the tip back in. Over and over again.

“Please,” you whimper, the word sounding pathetic even to your own ears. “Baby, please...”

You’re trying to force him to go deeper. But he’s in total control. His left hand is working the length of his cock, pumping with a desperate rhythm, while his right hand finds your clit.

His eyes are pinned to yours, watching every flicker of emotion on your face as if he’s trying to memorize the way you fall apart.

And then, the teasing ends.

His mushroom tip, still nestled just inside your entrance, begins to pulse. Warm, thick spurts of cum hit your sensitive walls, flooding the tiny space he’s occupied.

Your pussy clenches around the tip of his cock, trying to suck every last drop out of him while his hand squeezes the rest of his length, forcing the remainder of his seed into you, filling you up until his cum starts to leak out.

He finally collapses against you, the weight of his body pressing you deep into the mattress.

"You're so loud when you're happy," he murmurs before pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple, then your cheek, before finally settling his lips against yours in a kiss that tastes of salt and everything you are to him.

He pulls back just a bit, his gaze dropping to where the soaked lace of your panties still clings to your thighs, then back up to your eyes. There’s a flicker of that obsessive intensity returning to his expression.

"There isn't a single thing in this world you could ask for that wouldn't make me crawl to you. So don't hold back, Pips."

[spacekittiesmeow]

"how many times do you think you can cum?"

zayne has to shut his laptop for this.

"women don't have a refractory period after orgasm. which would imply that there isn't an established maximum number of orgasms a woman can have in one session." you explain.

"makes one wonder what it's like for men, no?"

he exhales through his nose, taking his glasses off. “I must ask,” lips twitching to suppress a fond smile. “where you’re sourcing these facts.”

how you get to the bedroom afterward is just a blurry mess of tongue and teeth and spit.

What part of you hadn’t fucked his still-hard cock? He was well past coherent thought now, senses dulled, pliant. as if drunk.

his thighs twitch as you keep pumping him slow and tight. his forearm drapes over his eyes, mouth parting as pretty sounds spill free.

“we’re at four,” you remind him, generous enough to keep count for him. you doubt he still can.

“h-how long do you plan on—mmh—going?” he drags his arm down just to watch your hand work him.

“till you shoot blanks," you hum, just as affected as him.

The way his length jumps at every touch to his mess-slick tip, cum already frothing thick lewdly at the base, the way his whimpers keep slipping loose—has you pulsing around nothing. zayne’s fingers find your folds, gathering the slick mix of your translucent arousal and his creamy spend as it dribbles down, pooling on the sheets.

his knuckles brush your clit. it makes you jolt and you swat his hand away. his cock jerks hard in your grip. Oh. is he into that?

“don’t distract me,” you murmur, lifting his hand to your mouth instead. You kiss his fingertips, slow.

His gaze goes glassy. you take two of his fingers in, sucking gently. The sound he makes is wrecked. downright sinful—something you've never heard before. his jaw clenches to hold back sounds. still, you bite the tip of his fingers.

and that's all it takes. he lets out a shuddered whimper as thick jets of cum spurt into your hand.

you give him a moment to breathe, to ride out his orgasm, before you straddle him. He opens his mouth to protest but it dies in his throat as soon as your juicy pussy lips rub over his hardening length.

"just one more and then we stop." you promise. seeing his state, he likely wouldn't be able to see the endeavor through. his cock stiffens once you slip it in you.

"your dedication to your work," a lazy smirk plays on his face, hands finding your hips as you begin to move on him. "Is very attractive."

"god—you're way too big," you savour the fullness that comes with being impaled on his perfectly chubby cock. zayne pulls you into a sloppy, messy kiss, his sticky spend stretching in obscene strings against your ass each time you bounce on him, wet plaps filling the room.

"push me—hah!—as far as you want." he murmurs into the kiss, before he lets out a small moan when you keep tightening at his words, gripping his poor, oversensitive dick like a vice.

your pace grows insistent. desperate. his swollen head drags along every ridge of your tight walls so wonderfully that your vision blurs. zayne's lips go lower, placing open mouthed kisses on your collarbone, the curve of your tits, eating up his drying cum.

how can you last long when he's like this? One brush to your clit and you’re breaking, sobbing as you clamp down and milk him for another orgasm. he groans, spilling again.

still, zayne manages to spread your folds apart, watching your hole twitch around him, until his cum creams hot around the stretched rim of you.

his fingers trace it, where your hole pulses around him in the last throes of your release.

"wanna take a picture?" You tease.

part 3 of the FOR SCIENCE series

"no. this sight—" his eyes never leave the place you're joined. "Is for my eyes alone."

intellectual property of © spacekittiesmeow 2026

[feelthemadnessinside]

Grand Duke!Zayne and you are so loud during sex that there is an unofficial consensus among the staff to avoid your wing at night completely, and most of the times during day after finishing essential housekeeping💀;

The heavy oak door to your chambers had barely clicked shut before Zayne's lips found your neck, his large hands already working at the laces of your nightgown.

"You're impatient tonight, Your Grace," you breathed, though you made no move to stop him.

"Hush." His voice was a low rumble against your skin. "I've been in council meetings for six hours listening to the old baron droning about grain taxes. Let me have this."

It doesn't take long till both your moans shadow the ominous creaking of the bed and the rattling of various ornaments in the room.

...

Your two handmaidens, Elara and Mina, look up as they hear the noise, before facing each other and shaking their heads, scurrying out before they traumatise their poor ears.

"I swear by the gods," Mina whispered, her cheeks flushed crimson even as she pressed a hand to her chest, "last week I went up to fetch my embroidery scissors. I forgot he'd returned from the border. The things I heard..."

Elara winced. "How long did it take you to recover?"

"Three days. I walked past the door at the wrong moment." Mina's voice dropped to a horrified hush.

They rounded the corner into the servants' stairwell, where the stone walls offered blessed, deadened silence.

"The new stable boy asked me yesterday why no one goes to the east wing after supper," Elara said, adjusting her wimple. "I told him it was being renovated."

"Renovated." Mina let out a choked laugh. "That's one word for it."

...

Down in the kitchen, the cook had taken to serving late-night tea with a knowing look and a sympathetic pat on the shoulder for any servant who emerged from the upper floors looking particularly haunted. The head housekeeper had a rotation schedule that mysteriously exempted the entire eastern corridor from evening duties. Even the guards had been known to draw straws for who had to walk the night patrol past the Grand Duke's chambers.

"The chandelier," one guard had whispered to another just last week, his face pale. "I watched it swaying. And no windows were open."

...

Upstairs, oblivious to the quiet terror they had inspired among the staff, Zayne's hand braced against the headboard as the bed (solid oak, reinforced twice by a skeptical carpenter) protested loudly beneath you two.

"Ah...Zayne...the bed..." He drove deeper, hooked his hips just so, and your warning dissolved into a sound that would have made a nun blush to the tip of her toes.

"Don't worry about the bed, my duchess," Zayne growls against your throat. "It's not more valuable than your pleasure."

He hikes your leg up higher over his shoulder and thrusts deeper, dissolving whatever you were about to say into a loud moan. ...

There is a thud and a sprinkle of plaster and ash, and a porcelain vase wobbling dangerously close to the edge of its console table, and your handmaidens, chef and two of the night guards stare at each other awkwardly.

"Do you think," whispered Elara, "they realize we can hear them from the kitchen?"

Mina finishes her tea, and produces a pack of earplugs "Not if I can help it. Take some, and goodnight." she stuffs two into her own and walks back to her quarters.

[eyesoftragedy]

ARTIST: 95298825041 ON XIAOHONGSHU

[dkrafs]

zayne who makes out with you to lull you to sleep.

he knows it’s not easy for you to fall asleep. he’s woken up to you wide awake at 3am, scrolling on your phone that’s way too close to your face. he’s tried every remedy out there—warm milk before bed, tea before bed, no gadgets before bed, reading before bed—yet not a single one has been effective. it always ends with you staying up until it’s time for him to wake up.

only one thing ever worked, though. kissing you until you pass out.

as soon as you finish your nighttime routine, zayne is already ushering you to his lap. he sets his book down on the bedside table, slips his glasses off, and lets his hands run up and down your sides in slow, soothing motions. in the summer, he even uses his evol, a gentle coolness settling over your skin just enough to make you relax.

once you’re on top of him, it starts with a kiss to your cheek. then another along your jaw, before he drags his lips down your neck. after that, he comes back up to meet your mouth, slotting his lips with yours. he doesn’t rush it. doesn’t deepen it more than necessary. just steady, unhurried kisses meant to calm your breathing rather than steal it away.

without breaking contact, he eases you down onto the bed, movements careful and practiced. one hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin while the other keeps you close. his kisses grow slower, softer, lingering just a second longer each time.

he murmurs quietly inbetween—nothing dramatic, just low reassurances, reminders that he’s here, you’re safe, that you don’t have to think about anything else. eventually, he turns the two of you onto your sides, pulling you flush against his chest.

his hand slips under your sleep shirt, meticulous fingertips tracing circles along your back. his nails scratch lightly, rhythmically, exactly the way he knows you like. your breathing eventually evens out without you realizing it, body melting into his.

there’s a small smile on his lips when he feels you go slack against him.

and as your eyes finally flutter closed, zayne doesn’t stop right away. he presses one last kiss to your lips, thumb brushing beneath your eye as if to make sure you’re really asleep. only then does he still, arm tightening around you just slightly.

you fall asleep to the sound of his steady breathing and the cool comfort of his presence—while zayne stays awake a little longer, making sure you don’t wake again.

[adeptustemptations]

How do you think caleb or any of the others lads guys would react to their wife lactating? 👀 do you think that they'd be down to try it? I love your writing!! 💗💗

Honey, is that...? 🍼

(wc. 2.1k) How would the LADS boys react when they spot you, their wife, lactating?

featuring: rafayel x reader, sylus x reader, caleb x reader, zayne x reader, xavier x reader (all separate) warnings: mild smut, mdni.

a/n: first request down! i definitely think all of the boys would be down to try it LOL. i had so much fun writing this. hope you guys enjoy! c:

🧜 RAFAYEL:

At first, you think Rafayel’s being moody because of something work related. Probably just something about him not getting inspiration for his next piece.

He's quiet during dinner, pushing his food around with the fork, glancing at you between bites but saying nothing. Then he sighs. Dramatically. Like you’ve just told him the love of his life is marrying someone else.

“Do you need the tub prepared?” you ask, gently patting the baby's mouth with a cloth as your baby drifts off to sleep, full and milk-drunk in your arms.

He shrugs. “No.”

Another sigh. Even more dramatic this time.

You narrow your eyes. “Okay, what’s wrong with you?”

Silence.

You put the baby down in the bassinet, tiptoeing back to the couch where he’s brooding like a man personally victimized by your child. You sit beside him and poke his thigh.

“Rafayel. Talk.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just shifts in his seat dramatically, like you should already know why he’s in a mood.

You raise a brow. “Raf?”

“…Why does he get to taste it?” he finally mutters.

You blink. “What?”

Rafayel lifts his gaze, eyes narrowed. “Your milk. The baby gets all of it. Meanwhile, I, your husband, don’t even get to try?”

You stare at him, baffled, amused, a little turned on by how offended he looks.

He shifts closer suddenly, tone softening like he’s trying to guilt you.

 “You used to let me suck on them all the time,” he mumbles, voice pitiful. “Now I get nothing.”

“Rafayel Qi,” you say, laughing despite yourself. “You’re jealous of your own child?”

“He doesn’t even appreciate it,” Rafayel huffs dramatically. “He’s just... drinking. No compliments. No praise. No loving gaze. No eye contact.” He places a hand over his heart. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

“You want to flirt with my boobs while I’m nursing?”

He nods solemnly. “And after.”

You blink. “Raf.”

“No, no, go ahead. Ignore me. That’s fine.” He gestures grandly, flopping back on the couch like a neglected kid in a drama. 

“I mean, I get it,” Rafayel huffs, gesturing vaguely toward the baby now blissfully passed out at the bassinet. “He needs it. It’s nourishment. Bonding. Blah blah. But like, what about me? A stranger in my own marriage.”

You roll your eyes. “Then ask.”

He freezes. Turns to you slowly.

“…Seriously?”

You nod. “If you’re that curious, then fine. Go ahead.”

Wasting no moment, he immediately latches onto you, and his reaction is instant. His eyes roll back. A full-body shudder.

He suckles on your nipple with the eagerness of a thirsty man who had just found water after days of being dehydrated. When a bit of milk manages to escape from the side? He immediately laps it up, wasting no drop.

He pulls back, breathless. Dazed. “...Fuck."

Then he smirks.

“Alright. New plan. Let’s have six more kids.”

You shove him off the couch.

🐦‍⬛ SYLUS:

Everyone in the N109 Zone knows that Sylus doesn’t kneel.

He doesn’t plead.

He doesn’t repeat himself.

He doesn’t need to.

He gives orders, and people obey. His name alone strikes fear into civilians and corrupt officials alike. He's the kind of man who takes what he wants, and everyone bends at his will.

But you?

You’re the one thing he never commands.

Because with you, he never wants to.

And right now? He’s at your feet.

Literally.

It starts when you’re in the privacy of your home, in a soft robe, curled on the couch with your baby fast asleep in the bassinet. You’re drowsy and glowing, eyes heavy from the feeding, your robe slipping just slightly to reveal a glistening patch where you’ve started to leak again.

Sylus was reading some documents, possibly just about a new batch of weapons shipped to one of his armories. All that boring stuff. When he looks at you, his eyes immediately zero to your chest.

He freezes.

The documents clattered to the ground. 

You glance at him, confused. “Sylus?”

But he’s already closing the space between you. You see it, the desire in his eyes as he kneels before you, palms on your thighs, breath hot and uneven.

“Please.”

His voice is hoarse. Ragged. Barely a whisper.

You blink. “Huh?”

“I need to taste you, sweetie.” He says it like it physically hurts to admit, jaw clenched. 

“Can I try? Please?”

Your breath hitches. “Sylus—”

“I never beg,” he murmurs, leaning forward, brushing his lips against the skin of your breast. “But I’ll get on my knees for this. For you.”

He doesn’t ask again.

Just lowers his mouth to your breast and licks. The moment the white liquid hits his tongue, everything changes.

His lips part in stunned disbelief. Then, he groans, deep and guttural, like you just unlocked something feral in him.

“You taste sweet,” he rasps. He’s already latching on you again, open-mouthed, greedy. 

“Fuck. You taste better than anything.”

You gasp, clutching at his shoulders as he begins to devour you. There’s nothing classy about the way he sucks at you–it’s messy, hungry, possessive. Like he’s waited his whole life for this and didn’t even know it.

You try to say something, to make a joke; “You’re worse than the baby.”

But Sylus growls into your skin, low and dark: “I’ll give you another one. I’ll fill you up again, if that’s what it takes to keep you like this.”

Your breath stutters. “Sylus—”

“No one else gets this. No one else gets to taste you like this.” He presses his palm to your womb. “You hear me? Only me.”

And you believe him. Because when Sylus Qin finds something he likes?

He gets it.

🍎 CALEB:

It starts with the panties.

Caleb thinks he’s subtle about it. Volunteering to do your laundry in the pretense that he 'just wants to help', setting aside a pair that smells like you, worn, soft, intimate. The design doesn't matter too, the one with lace? Spectacular. The cotton ones he bought with the apple patterns? Give him 14 of them right now. He tells himself it’s harmless, just something to keep close when you're gone on long shifts or too tired to stay up with him after work from the Hunter's Association.

When you've caught him in the act, all he does is raise an eyebrow, as if you're the one being strange.

“What?” he says, with that deadpan tone of his, nose still pressed into the fabric. “You smell nice.”

You should be flustered, but you’ve been married to this man long enough to know how weirdly intense he can be. It's part of the Caleb experience. When you tried scolding him because some of your pairs have gone missing, all he does is shoot you his signature puppy-eyed look.

But then after giving birth to your baby, everything changes. Your underwear drawer's surprisingly complete, and none of the pairs have gone missing. You'd think that maybe Caleb had just become too busy tending to the baby to even focus on his needs.

But what you don't notice is how his touches linger longer during nighttime cuddles, especially around your chest, or the way he glances at your shirt when it dampens just a little.

It happens when you’re fresh out of the shower. You're drying your hair, not noticing at first that the front of your shirt is damp. A few minutes later, you glance down and–

Oh.

You’re leaking.

“Caleb?" you call out, not thinking much of it, “I think I’m lactating again. I forgot to pump.”

You don’t expect a reaction. You expect him to say something like, ‘Want me to grab the pump?’

What you don’t expect is for Caleb to freeze in the doorway, eyes locked on the wet patch spreading across the fabric.

“...Again?” he says quietly.

You blink at him. “Yeah? That’s usually how it works.”

His eyes narrow, his jaw clenches, and before you can respond, he’s across the room, pushing your shirt up to your chest with eagerness, hunger glinting in those beautiful purple eyes.

“Let me taste.”

Your brain short circuits. “Wha–Caleb–?”

But he’s already there, lips closing around your nipple, hand firmly planted at your waist like he owns you.

And when he moans? You swear it’s the dirtiest sound he’s ever made.

He drinks like he’s been deprived. Like this was what he needed all along, and nothing else compares. Not the panties. Not your bath soap. Not even the taste of your skin.

No–this. This is divine. This is yours.

Later, when you're sprawled on the bed, dazed and breathless, he kisses your stomach and murmurs softly:

"Maybe we should have another baby. Just so you don't run out."

You laugh. “You're a freak.”

“I’m serious.”

He looks up at you, utterly sincere, eyes dark with something that’s not quite lust–it’s obsession, devotion, need.

And you know then: he’s addicted.

Not just to you.

But to every part of you.

☃️ ZAYNE:

You already knew Zayne had a problem with sweets.

The bakery receipts stuffed in his lab coat. The way he always “accidentally” wanders into the dessert section at the grocery store. The time he got bribed by Dr. Greyson with macarons.

But this?

You hadn’t seen coming.

It starts innocently enough; he’s helping you undress after a long day, brushing his fingers along the curve of your side as he unclasps your bra. You’re a few weeks postpartum, still sore and soft in all the ways he loves. He’s kneeling in front of you, peppering lazy kisses along your stomach when he notices the damp spot on your breast.

"Hmm?" He hums, brows furrowing. He leans in closer.

"You're leaking."

You sigh. “Yeah. I forgot to pump again. I’ll go get–”

“No,” Zayne cuts in, already cupping your breast in his hand. “Let me.”

“Zayne–!”

But he’s already latched on before you can finish, mouth closing around you like it’s second nature.

The first taste hits him like a drug.

His eyes widen.

Then flutter shut.

He moans. Actually moans. Like he just took a bite out of the best dessert of his life.

“Dearest,” he breathes when he finally pulls back, his lips still wet. “Why didn’t you tell me it tastes like this?”

You blink, a little dazed. “Like… what?”

He licks his lips. “Sweet. Warm...”

Then his gaze flicks up, dark and hungry. “Better than any dessert I've ever tasted.”

Your face flushes. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, already nudging you backward onto the bed, crawling over you with sinful intent. “But you married me.”

And just like that, he’s latched on again, slow, thorough, absolutely obsessed. Like he’s savoring every drop. Like you’re his final meal, and he’s a man who’s starved.

When he finally pulls away, lips wet and pupils blown wide, he looks like he’s come undone.

Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he mutters:

“…I think I need to adjust my meal plan.”

You raise a brow. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, dead serious. “You’re my new dessert. Effective immediately.”

⭐ XAVIER:

It’s still dark out when Xavier stirs beside you.

He wakes like he always does. Quiet, warm, arms automatically reaching for your sleeping form. He pulls you close, breath brushing on your neck, his hand splaying across your waist under the covers.

That’s when he notices it.

A damp spot on your shirt. Right over your chest. You’re on your side, curled towards him, unaware.

He blinks once. Then twice. Brain still foggy from sleep.

But then he leans closer, nose brushing against the fabric, breathing in the scent that’s distinctly you. Warm and milky. Sweet.

Something stirs in him. Not lust, something gentler. Deeper.

An ache in his chest he can’t explain. Like he wants to be closer, somehow. Like he needs to feel it. Taste it.

He shifts beneath the blankets, carefully nudging the neckline of your shirt down. He presses a kiss just above your nipple, reverent, before wrapping his lips softly around it.

You stir, eyelids fluttering. “...Xavi?” you murmur, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Mm,” he hums against your skin, mouth still lazily suckling. “Just helping.”

You blink blearily at him. “That’s… not how the pump works.”

“Don’t care,” he whispers. “Tastes better this way.”

You huff a soft laugh, too tired to scold him, too warm to care. “You’re unbelievable.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark hair tousled, eyes still heavy lidded. 

“It’s comforting,” he says simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’re comforting.”

And with that, he tucks himself back into your arms, head resting on your chest, one hand lazily cupping your breast. You feel the occasional soft suckle as he drifts off again, slow and rhythmic, like a baby himself.

You close your eyes.

The room is quiet. The baby’s still asleep. And for now... just for now, there’s no need to move.

You both fall back into sleep, tangled together, Warm, safe, and full.

—

[MASTERLIST]

[lvl1l1]

Reckless Words

when they say something to hurt you

<based on this request!>

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of feeling like a burden, feeling weak, not being enough, overprotectiveness, arguments

[XAVIER, ZAYNE, RAFAYEL, SYLUS, CALEB]

XAVIER

The fight wasn't even supposed to happen.

You'd come back from a solo patrol, all scratched up but alive. Wanderers had appeared faster than the mission intel had let in on, and you'd pushed through alone because backup was twenty minutes out and you weren't about to let civilians get caught in the crossfire. Standard hunter protocol.

Xavier was waiting at your apartment door when you limped in. Still in his uniform, hair a mess like he'd run straight from the association the second he heard the report. His eyes, usually soft with a trace of amusement, were sharp.

"You're hurt again," he says, voice steady. His gaze drags over the blood on your sleeve, the bruise blooming across your cheek.

"I'm fine." You try to brush past him. "Just need a shower and some sleep."

He catches your wrist. Gentle but firm enough you can't pull away. "You could've waited."

"I didn't have time to wait. People were going to die, Xavier."

His jaw tightens. "And you almost did."

You yank your arm free. "But I didn't. That's the job. That's my job."

Something flickers in his expression, something raw, something he’s been carrying for a long time. He steps closer, voice dropping low. "You need to stop being so reckless. Charging in like that... it's stupid. You're going to get yourself killed one day, and I-" He cuts off, exhales hard through his nose. "I can't keep watching you throw yourself away."

The words land like a slap.

He knows. He knows how much weight those words carry to you. How many nights you've spent curled against him whispering about the fear that you're not good enough, not smart enough, not strong enough, not careful enough. That every time you come home bleeding it's proof you're still failing the people who count on you. That deep down you worry you're just a liability dressed up as a hero.

And he just called it stupid.

Your throat closes. Eyes burn. You stare at him, waiting for him to take it back, the soft apology he always gives when he realizes he's gone too far.

It doesn't come.

Instead he just stands there, breathing uneven, looking like he wants to reach for you again but doesn't trust his own hands.

You turn away. "Get out."

He doesn't move at first.

"Get. Out."

The door shuts behind him quieter than it should. Like even the hinges are trying not to make it worse.

You don't cry until you're in the shower. Hot water mixes with salt and you press your forehead to the tile, replaying it on loop.

Stupid.

He didn't mean it. You know he didn't. Xavier never means the sharp things that slip out when he's scared. But knowing doesn't stop it from carving deeper.

You avoid him for three days.

Missions. Paperwork. Extra patrols. Anything that keeps you out of the apartment, out of association’s common areas, out of range of those blue eyes that always find you too easily.

He texts once.

I'm sorry. Please talk to me.

You read it. Delete it. Turn your phone face down.

On day four he shows up at your door again. Leaning against the frame like he's been waiting hours. Eyes shadowed. Uniform rumpled. He looks like he hasn't slept.

You freeze in the hallway, grocery bag in hand.

He straightens slowly. "I know you don't want to see me."

You don't answer. Just stare at the floor between you.

He takes one step closer, stops when you flinch. "I was wrong," he says quietly. "What I said... it was cruel. I was angry and terrified and I took it out on you. I shouldn't have."

Still nothing from you.

His voice cracks the smallest amount. "You aren't stupid. You're the bravest person I know. You run into danger so other people don't have to, and I-“ He swallows. "I hate it. I hate that I can't protect you from everything. I hate that every time you leave I wonder if this is the time you don't come back. But that's my fear, it’s not your fault. And I never should have made you feel like your courage is anything less than... everything that it is."

He sounds wrecked. Like saying it hurts more than the silence ever could.

You finally look up. His eyes are red rimmed. Hair falling into his face. He looks smaller than you've ever seen him.

"I didn't mean it," he whispers. "Not even a little. I was lashing out because I can't lose you. Not again." He stops. Shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

You don't move.

He doesn't push. Hands loose at his sides, itching to touch you but he waits.

Minutes pass. Rain starts tapping the hallway window.

Finally you speak. Voice small. "It hurt."

"I know."

"More than you know."

His shoulders drop.

You step forward. Just one step. Close enough to smell the faint scent of cedar and fresh air that always clings to him.

He doesn't reach for you. Lets you decide.

You do.

Your forehead bumps his chest. His arms come around you instantly, careful, trembling. Like he's scared you'll vanish if he holds too tight.

"I'm sorry," he breathes into your hair. Over and over. "I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry."

You don't say it's okay yet. Not quite.

But you don't pull away either.

He stays like that for a long time. Rain outside. Heartbeats loud in the quiet. Him murmuring apologies against your temple until the words blur into soft nonsense.

When you finally let him inside, he doesn't try to kiss you. Doesn't push for more.

He just sits on your couch, pulls you into his lap, and holds you like you're the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

And maybe you are.

He spends the rest of the night proving, with quiet words, gentle touches, and the way he refuses to let go even when you pretend to sleep, that he will never let those words live between you again.

ZAYNE

It starts over something small. Or at least, it feels small until it isn't.

You've been pushing yourself lately, extra missions, ignoring the twinges in your chest, the way your evol resonance is getting weaker. Zayne's noticed. Of course he has. He's your doctor. Your primary physician. The one who knows every scar on your heart, literal and otherwise.

He's been gentle about it at first. Texts reminding you to rest. Quiet suggestions during check ups. But tonight, after you collapse into his apartment post mission, dizzy, short of breath, lying about how bad it was, he cracks.

"You're not invincible," he says, voice clipped as he checks your pulse. His fingers are cool against your wrist. "You keep ignoring the signs, and one day your heart won't forgive you."

You roll your eyes from the couch. "It's fine, Zayne. I handled it."

"You didn't." He sets his glasses down harder than necessary. "Your vitals are erratic. Again. Because you refuse to listen."

Irritation flares. You're tired. Sore. The last thing you need is another lecture. "I'm a hunter. This is what I do. You can't wrap me in bubble wrap forever."

His eyes narrow, that rare flash of real anger. "And I can't keep fixing you forever either. Do you even think about what this does to the people around you? To me?"

You sit up too fast. The room spins a little. "What, like I'm some burden you have to carry? I didn't ask for this heart. Or for you to play savior every time."

He freezes. Then, in a voice so low it's almost a whisper: "Maybe if you weren't so hell bent on destroying yourself, you wouldn't be a burden at all. You're not just risking your life, you're making everyone else's harder. Including mine. Sometimes I wonder if you even care about the guilt you leave behind."

The words hang in the air. Sharp and unforgiving.

You've confessed it to him in the dark, tears soaking his shirt,

“I feel like I'm always making you suffer because of me. Like I'm not enough to stand on my own.”

And he just... threw it back in your face.

Your chest tightens, not from your condition, but from the way everything inside you crumples.

Zayne's expression shifts the second it leaves his mouth. Regret floods his eyes. He reaches for you. "I didn't-"

"Don't." You stand, grabbing your coat. Voice steady even as it breaks inside. "Don't touch me."

He doesn't follow when you leave. Just stands there in the doorway, watching you go with that unreadable face he wears like armor.

You don't go home. You crash at a hotel. Turn off your phone. Cry until there's nothing left.

The next morning, you march into Akso Hospital. Request a transfer of primary physician. The admin looks confused

"Dr. Li is one of our best, are you sure?" but you nod. Firm on your decision.

Dr. Greyson gets your file.

You avoid the cardiology wing for a week. Take the long way to appointments. Duck into stairwells if you spot that familiar figure.

But hospitals are small. You cross paths eventually.

The first time is in the hallway near radiology. He rounds the corner, charts in hand. Freezes when he sees you.

You look through him. Keep walking. His footsteps falter behind you, but he doesn't call out.

Second time’s in the cafeteria. You're grabbing coffee. He's at a table, alone, staring at his untouched lunch. Your eyes meet across the room.

He stands. Mouths your name.

You turn away. Leave the line. Dump the cup in the trash on your way out.

Then, the elevator. Just the two of you. He steps in after you, presses his floor. The air thickens.

"I-" he starts.

The doors open. You bolt without a glance.

He doesn't try again that day.

He’s unraveling in his office.

Zayne doesn't break easy. He's built his life on control; schedules, scalpels, steady hands. But alone, door locked, he crumbles.

Paces the small space. Sits at his desk. Stands again. Checks his phone for the hundredth time, no messages. Your contact photo stares back: you laughing in his arms, snow in your hair from that trip to Chansia.

He slams the phone down. So hard the screen cracks.

Regret coils in his gut. He replays the argument on loop, your face when he said it, the way you recoiled like he'd struck you. Worse than any physical blow.

He skips meals. Works doubles to fill the void. Snaps at nurses over nothing. Greyson mentions your transfer in passing and Zayne just nods. Excuses himself. Locks the office door and presses his palms to his eyes until the burning stops.

Nights are worse. His apartment echoes without you. He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining every scenario where he loses you for good. Your heart failing because he wasn't there. You moving on with someone who doesn't carry this baggage. Or worse, you hating him enough to never look back.

He drowns in his self pity. Whispers apologies to empty rooms.

Two weeks in, he can't take it.

He gives you space, or tries. But seeing you in the hospital chips away at him.

Finally, he corners Greyson. "How is she?"

Greyson hesitates. "Doctor-patient confidentiality, Zayne."

"Just... tell me she's okay."

A sigh. "Physically? She’s fine. Emotionally? She asked not to discuss you."

Zayne nods. Walks away. Punches the wall in the stairwell hard enough to bruise his knuckles.

That night, he breaks. Shows up at your apartment, looking a mess.

You open the door. See him. Start to close it.

His hand catches the frame. Gentle. Pleading. "Please. Five minutes."

You let him in. Not because you want to. Because he looks like a ghost, pale, hollow eyed, like he hasn't slept since that night.

He doesn't sit. Stands in your entryway. "I was wrong," he says immediately. Voice raw. "What I said... it was unforgivable. I was angry. At myself, mostly. For not being able to protect you. For watching you suffer and feeling helpless. But I took it out on you. On the one thing I know hurts you most."

You cross your arms. Stare at the floor. "You knew. You knew how much I hate feeling like a burden. Like I'm just... broken."

He flinches. "I know. And I used it like a weapon. Because in that moment, I wanted you to hurt like I was hurting. It was selfish and cruel. I regret it every second since."

Silence stretches between you. The snowfall outside clings to the windows.

"Why should I believe you?" Your voice is small, unsteady.

He steps closer. Like he’s approaching something fragile. "Because without you, I'm the one who's broken. These weeks... they've been hell. Seeing you in the halls, knowing I've lost the right to even ask how you are. Knowing I drove you to someone else for care because I couldn't be trusted with your heart anymore."

His voice breaks on that last word. Heart. Yours, his.

"I don't deserve forgiveness," he continues. "Not yet. But I'll earn it. However long it takes. I’ll give you as much space as you need. But please... don't shut me out forever."

You look up then. See the tears he doesn't bother hiding. The way his hands tremble at his sides.

It's not okay.

But you nod. Once. "Start by leaving. I need time."

He does. No argument. Just a quiet "I love you" on his way out.

The next day, flowers arrive at your door. Jasmines. Note in his handwriting: I'm sorry. Take all the time you need.

Then chocolates. The ones from that shop you mentioned once.

Then a book, the one you'd been eyeing.

Small things. Consistent.

You ignore him at the hospital still. But the edge softens. A nod in the hall one day. A brief "Good morning" the next.

He clings to them like lifelines.

A month later, you request the transfer back. Greyson's good, but he's not Zayne. No one knows your history like he does.

The first appointment is professional. But when it's over, he lingers. "Thank you," he says softly. "For trusting me again."

You meet his eyes. "Don't make me regret it."

"I won't."

Outside the exam room, he exhales. Leans against the wall. Smiles for the first time in weeks.

It's slow after that. Dinners. Walks. Him opening up about his own fears, the nightmares where he loses you, the weight of his oath clashing with his love.

One night, curled on his couch, you whisper: "I forgive you."

He pulls you close. Buries his face in your hair. "Thank you," he breathes. Over and over.

He never lets those words, or any like them, cross his mind again. Not even in anger.

RAFAYEL

You’re both still damp when you stumble back to his studio.

You’d followed him on one of his saviour plots again, not because he asked, but because you couldn’t let him go alone. Not after the way his eyes had darkened when he talked about the latest lead on the people who’d hunted his kind. You’d fought beside him, bled beside him, watched him lose himself in spirits of his past while facing humans who keep his people as decor.

You thought it meant something. That standing in the cold current together, watching him free someone from captivity, meant you were finally crossing the invisible line he always drew between you.

Apparently not.

He’s quiet the whole walk back. The kind of quiet that makes the air feel thick.

You try to break it when you step inside, peel off your soaked jacket, kick off boots, reach for the towel he tosses you without looking.

“Rafayel? You okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands by the tall windows, staring out at the black ocean like it owes him something. Water drips from his hair onto the floorboards in slow plinks.

Then, finally: “You shouldn’t have come.”

You freeze mid reach for the towel. “What?”

“You heard me.” His voice is soft. The dangerous kind of soft he gets right before he says something that cuts. “You never should have followed me down there tonight.”

Anger flares fast. “I wasn’t going to let you go alone. You could’ve died.”

He laughs, short, bitter, nothing like his usual teasing lilt. “Died? Please. I’ve been dealing with this for longer than you’ve been breathing.”

You step closer. “That’s not the point-”

“The point,” he cuts in, finally turning to face you, “is that you keep throwing yourself into my wars like it makes you part of them. Like it makes you understand.”

Your stomach drops. “I’m trying to understand. I’ve been trying since-”

“Since when?” He tilts his head, eyes glittering under the low studio lights. Condescending. Almost pitying. “Since you conveniently forgot the first time we met?”

The room tilts.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You think charging into something you don’t understand fixes that?” he continues, voice silky and cruel. “You think bleeding a little makes up for years I carried alone? You’ll never truly understand, will you? Not really. You’re human. You get to forget. I don’t.”

The exact fears you’ve had ever since you’ve gotten closer, that no matter how much you love him, there will always be a chasm. That you’re inadequate because you can’t carry the same weight he does.

And he just… confirmed it. In the most condescending tone he’s ever used with you.

Your throat closes. Eyes burn. You stare at him, waiting for the flinch. The immediate regret. The way he usually backpedals when he sees your face crumple.

It doesn’t come.

Instead he just watches you with that same detached, almost academic curiosity. Like he’s studying how deep the wound goes.

You don’t scream. Don’t cry.

You just turn. Grab your wet jacket. Head for the door.

“Running away already?” he calls after you. Still soft and sharp, all the same.

You don’t answer.

The door closes behind you with a click that sounds final.

You don’t go back to Mo Art studio for days.

You stay at your apartment. Take extra commissions that keep you busy. Avoid every beach, every gallery showing his work, every place that reminds you of him.

He doesn’t text at first. Then one message days later:

Come back.

You delete it.

Days pass and a painting is delivered to your door. A small canvas. Just your silhouette against a stormy sea, the same view from the island where you first kissed after he saved you from drowning. There’s no note, just the painting.

You hang it facing the wall.

Then, he shows up outside your building. Doesn’t come inside. Just stands under the streetlamp in the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, coat dripping, looking like something the tide dragged in.

You watch from the window for ten minutes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave. Just waits.

You close the curtains.

Inside, he’s losing his mind.

Rafayel has always been trying to get your attention, theatrical sighs, exaggerated pouts, the whole artist temperament. But this is different.

He paints obsessively. Canvases everywhere. All of them you, angry, sad, laughing, sleeping. Some half finished, some torn. He can’t get the eyes right. Keeps scrubbing them out until the canvas rips.

He talks to the empty studio. “Stupid. So stupid. Why did I say that?”

He knows why. Fear. The same fear that’s lived in him since the day you walked back into his life as an adult. The terror that you’ll leave again, not because you want to, but because you’ll realize you were never meant to stay. That the gap is too wide.

He drinks too much wine. Smashes a bottle against the wall when the silence gets too loud. Cuts his hand. Doesn’t bother bandaging it. Just lets it drip onto the floor like paint.

Nights are the worst. He curls on the couch where you usually fall asleep against him, hugging the pillow that still smells faintly of your shampoo. Whispers apologies into it like it can carry them to you.

He doesn’t sleep.

On day ten, he can’t take it anymore.

He doesn’t knock this time. He uses the spare key you gave him months ago.

You’re on the couch when the door opens. You don’t move, silently staring at him.

He looks wrecked. Eyes bloodshot. Shirt untucked. Bandage on his hand soaked through.

He doesn’t step farther than the entryway. Like he’s afraid crossing the threshold will make you run again.

“I was wrong,” he says. Voice hoarse. “Everything I said… I didn’t mean any of it. I was terrified. You almost died down there. And I thought- if I pushed you away first, it wouldn’t hurt as much when you finally realized you can’t fix me. That you can’t carry what I carry.”

He swallows. “But you’ve never tried to fix me. You just… stay. Even when I make it impossible. Even when I throw every insecurity I know you have back in your face like it’s nothing.”

He takes one careful step closer. Stops when you tense.

“You do understand,” he whispers. “More than I deserve. You remembered how to find me. How to love me. That’s more than I ever thought I’d get.”

Silence.

Then, quieter: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll spend every day proving I didn’t mean it. That I want you here. That the gap doesn’t matter because you’re already on my side of it.”

He sinks to his knees. Right there in the entryway. Head bowed. Hands loose at his sides like he’s offering himself up for judgment.

“I’ll give you space if that’s what you need,” he murmurs. “But please… don’t forget me again. Not because of something I said when I was too scared to admit how much I need you.”

You don’t answer right away.

Minutes drag.

Then you stand, walk over and stop in front of him.

He doesn’t look up. You can see the faint tremble in him.

You reach down. Touch his hair, still damp. He leans into it like a man starved.

“I’m still angry,” you say softly.

He nods slightly.

“And it hurt. More than you know.”

The shame in his eyes is evident.

You sink to your knees too. Wrap your arms around him.

He breaks then. Arms crush around you. Face buried in your neck. Shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes against your skin.

You don’t promise it’s okay yet.

But you hold him tighter.

Later, when you’re tangled on the couch, he traces your face with careful fingers. “I’ll never say anything like that again. I swear to you.”

You believe him.

Because the way he looks at you now, like you’re the only shore he’ll ever run to, leaves no room for doubt.

SYLUS

You've been at his side for months now, navigating the N109 Zone, accompanying him on deals that skirt legality, quiet nights spent together where he lets the mask slip just enough for you to see the man beneath all of it. Sylus has always been careful with you. Even in anger, he reins it in, turns it to ice rather than fire.

But tonight, after a botched negotiation that nearly got you both killed, a setup from a rival faction, bullets flying, you acting reckless to protect him, the reins snap.

You're in his safe house, adrenaline still buzzing. He's pacing the length of the floor to ceiling windows, city lights casting harsh shadows across his face. Mephisto perches on the back of a chair, head tilted like he senses the storm.

"You shouldn't have jumped in like that," he says, voice low and edged. "I had it under control."

You scoff from the couch, pressing a cloth to the graze on your arm. "Under control? They had almost had you beat, Sylus. If I hadn't-"

"If you hadn't, nothing. I don't need you playing bodyguard." He stops pacing. Turns to you with eyes like shattered rubies. "You're in my world now. Act like it."

Irritation boils over. You're tired. Sore. And yeah, maybe a little scared at how close it was. "Your world? The one where you act like nothing touches you? Like you're above it all?"

He crosses his arms. "Careful, sweetie."

The nickname grates tonight. "No. You don’t want my help? Fine. But if you want people to think you're human, start acting like one. Stop treating everything like a game where you're the only player who matters."

The room goes deathly quiet.

His expression doesn't change at first. Just a subtle tightening around his eyes. A flicker of something raw, hurt, maybe, before it's gone.

You know that line cuts him. You've talked about it before, in more vulnerable moments: how he struggles with his own humanity after everything he's lost, everything he's built from the ruins. The way the world sees him as a monster, and sometimes he wonders if they're right. You've held him through those confessions, whispered that he's more than his this, more than the blood on his hands.

And now you’re using it against him.

He steps closer. Voice dangerously even. "Human? That's rich coming from you. You're barely cosplaying as one yourself, stumbling through my shadows like a lost child, pretending you belong. Pretending you're not exactly like me. Acting blind to who you are like I won’t have to bury one day because you can't keep up."

The words slice clean through.

Your breath catches. Eyes sting. You stare at him, waiting for the retraction.

It doesn't come.

Instead, he just holds your gaze. Unblinking. Like he's daring you to break first.

You don't. You stand. Grab your things and head straight for the door without a word.

He doesn't stop you. Doesn't even move.

The elevator dings. Doors close. And you're gone.

You avoid him for twelve days.

Back to Linkon. Association work. Anything that keeps you out of the N109 Zon. You block his number temporarily, not forever, just enough to breathe. Mephisto shows up on your balcony twice, cawing softly, but you shoo him away with a sad smile. "Not yet, buddy."

The twins text once.

Boss is in a mood. Everything okay?

You don't reply.

In the N109 Zone, Sylus fractures.

He doesn't rage at first. Just sits in his study, glass of whiskey untouched, staring at the city he rules like it's mocking him. Replays the argument on loop, your words first, that barb about his humanity that hit like a gut punch, then his retaliation. Sharper. Crueler.

He skips meetings. Snaps at Luke and Kieran over nothing,

"Get out. Now."

until they slink away exchanging worried glances. Mephisto brings him reports from your side of the city, but he waves them off. Doesn't want to know. Can't bear it.

Nights are endless. He lies in the bed you shared, sheets still faintly scented with you, and stares at the ceiling. Imagines every worst case: you deciding he's right, that you don't belong. You finding someone softer, safer. Or worse, you getting hurt in Linkon because he's not there to pull you back.

He drinks more. Eats less. Paces until the carpets wear thin. One night, he punches the heavy bag in his gym until his knuckles split, not healing them with evol, letting the pain ground him. Like his punishment.

Regret coils tighter. He knows he should give you space, you're not one to be crowded but every day without you feels like drowning in his own isolation. Everything he has means nothing without you there with him.

A week later, he cracks. Sends Mephisto with a small box: your favorite earrings, the ones you left behind.

You keep them. Don't wear them.

A few days later, a delivery. Rare protocore from the N109 Zone, the kind the association’s been looking for.

You set it on your desk. Stare at it for hours.

Eventually, he shows up himself.

Not at your door. Outside your building, leaning against his motorcycle in the storm. Eyes shadowed like he hasn't slept in weeks.

You spot him from the window and your heart clenches.

He doesn't look up. He waits. Hands in pockets. Shoulders hunched against the downpour.

You grab an umbrella and step out.

He straightens when he sees you. Doesn't move closer. Lets the rain soak him further.

"You look like hell," you say. Voice neutral.

He huffs a laugh, short and self deprecating. "Feel like it too."

Silence stretches. Rain patters on your umbrella.

"I was wrong," he says finally, his voice is low. "What I said... it was inexcusable. I was hurt, your words cut deeper than I let on and I lashed out. Hit where I knew it would wound you most. I shouldn’t have."

You say anything.

He runs a hand through wet hair. "You're not weak. Or lost. You're the strongest person I know, walking into my world without flinching, standing up to me when no one else would. And keeping up? Kitten, you set the pace. I wouldn't have survived that ambush without you. Wouldn't want to."

His voice cracks the smallest bit. "I gave you space because I know that's what you need. But these days... they've been empty. I built all that I have thinking it would be enough. It's not. Not without you."

You step closer. Umbrella covering you both now.

"Why should I come back?" Whispered.

"Because I need you." Simple. "You’re what keeps me tied to this world. I wouldn’t want to be human if it wasn’t for you."

He reaches out. Hesitates. Drops his hand.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "For every word. For letting you walk away. For not chasing sooner."

You remain silent.

But you tilt the umbrella more over him. Let your free hand find his, it’s cold and trembling.

He exhales. Pulls you close slowly. Forehead to yours. Rain mixing with the salt on his cheeks.

"Missed you," he murmurs. "More than I thought possible."

You stay like that for a while. Rain slowing. Him holding you like you're the only anchor he has.

Later, inside your apartment, he doesn't push for more. Just sits with you on the couch, hand in yours, talking quietly about the days apart. His fears and yours.

Because without you, he's just a facade. And he hates how close he came to shattering it for good.

CALEB

You’d just come back from a solo mission, nothing catastrophic. A few bruises, singed sleeve, but you handled it.

Caleb was waiting at your apartment. Not unusual. He’s been doing it more lately, showing up unannounced with takeout, or coffee, or just himself. Always with that same easy smile. Always checking you over like you might vanish if he looks away too long.

Tonight, though, the smile is tighter. He’s already spotted the burn mark on your arm before you even close the door.

“You didn’t call,” he says.

“I didn’t need to.” You drop your gear bag. Head for the kitchen to grab water. “It was routine. I’m fine.”

He follows. Leans in the doorway. Arms crossed. “Routine still means wanderers. You could’ve at least texted when you were clear.”

You exhale through your nose. “Caleb, I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need to check in every time I step outside.”

His jaw flexes. “I’m not asking you to check in like a child. I’m asking you to remember there are people who-” He stops. Starts again. “People who worry. People who’ve already lost too much.”

The undercurrent is there. Always is. The explosion. The time apart. The way he came back different, harder, carrying ghosts you can’t see but can feel. You’ve talked about it. You’ve held each other through the nightmares. You thought you were past the part where he treats you like fragile glass.

Apparently not.

“I know you worry,” you say, softer. Trying to deescalate. “But I’m not helpless. I’ve been doing this job for ages without-”

“Without me?” he finishes. Voice low. “Yeah. I know. And look how well that turned out.”

You freeze. Water bottle halfway to your mouth.

He keeps going. Like the dam broke and he can’t stop the flood. “You keep acting like you don’t need anyone. Like you can just charge ahead and handle everything alone. But you can’t. Not really. You never could. That’s why you always end up hurt. That’s why you always need someone to pull you out. And if you won’t let it be me-” His voice cracks, just once. “then fine. Keep pretending you’re invincible. Keep pretending you don’t need protecting. But don’t expect me to stand by and watch you break yourself again just to prove a point to me.”

He’s rejecting the one thing you’ve fought tooth and nail to build since Gran’s house burned down: your independence. Your ability to stand on your own. The quiet pride you carry that show you survived. You grew up. You don’t need saving anymore.

And in his eyes, in the heat of fear and frustration, that pride is delusional. Childish. Something you cling to because you can’t accept reality: that you’re still the little girl who needs him to keep her safe. That you’ll always be dependent. That without his protection, you’re just… waiting to fall apart again.

Your throat closes with something colder, something final.

You set the water bottle down.

“Don’t,” you say. Voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t talk to me like I’m still ten years old and hiding under the table during a storm.”

He flinches. Opens his mouth.

You shake your head. “I’m done being the person you have to save. If that’s all I am to you… then I don’t want to be here at all.”

You walk past him. Grab your keys. Coat. Phone.

He reaches for your wrist. Gentle and pleading. “Wait-”

You pull away.

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

You don’t go far. Just a friend’s place across the city. Crash on their couch. Turn your phone to Do Not Disturb.

You stay gone for days.

Caleb doesn’t bombard you. That’s not his way.

But he breaks in slow motion.

He sits in your empty apartment for hours. Doesn’t turn on the lights. Just stares at the spot on the couch where you usually curl against him.

He knows it’s not true. Knows you’ve pulled yourself out of worse than he has. Knows you’ve saved him more times than he’s saved you lately.

He doesn’t sleep.

The next day he flies back to base. Tries to bury himself in work. Fails. Snaps at subordinates over nothing. Gets sent home early.

He leaves a small paper bag in your apartment. Inside is a tiny plush airplane. The one he won for you at arcades when you were kids. Faded tag still reads “To my co pilot.”

You cry then. Quietly. Into the plush.

Nights get worse for him.

He stops going to the fleet. Stays in your room in his apartment instead. Sits on your bed. Holds your pillow like it’s you.

After a week he can’t wait anymore.

He waits outside your place. This time in the morning light. Clean uniform. Shaved. Eyes hollow but steady.

You step out for coffee and see him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Voice rough from disuse. “I was wrong. Every word. You’re not weak. You’ve never been weak. You’ve carried more than anyone should have to, and you did it without me for years. I had no right to make you feel small just because I’m terrified of losing you again.”

You don’t speak.

He keeps going. “I don’t want you to need me. I want you to choose me. Even when you don’t need saving. Even when you’re stronger than I am. I want to stand beside you, not in front of you. And I failed at that. Badly.”

Silence.

Then, quieter: “I’ll give you more time if that’s what you need. I won’t push. But I need you to know, I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to leave for good.”

You look at him.

See the shadows under his eyes. The way his hands tremble just slightly. The way he’s holding himself like he might shatter if you walk away again.

You step forward.

Close enough that he can smell your shampoo. Close enough that he stops breathing.

“I’m still angry,” you say softly.

“I know.”

You reach up. Touch his cheek. He grabs your wrist and leans into your touch more.

“But I missed you,” you whisper.

His eyes close. A shaky exhale.

You step into him then. Let him wrap his arms around you. Careful. Reverent. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

He buries his face in your hair. “I’m sorry,” his voice is soft.

You hold him tighter.

Later, back in your apartment, he doesn’t try to fix everything in one night. Just sits with you. Talks. Listens. Lets you set boundaries.

No more showing up unannounced without asking.

No more assuming you need rescuing.

Just partnership.

He still worries. He always will.

But now he channels it differently; quiet support. Pride in your strength. Standing at your six instead of blocking your path.

And every time you come home safe from a mission, he greets you with that same easy smile, only now it’s softer. Grateful.

Because you chose to come back.

And he’ll spend the rest of his life making sure you never regret it.