“P-please please V-Valko! Valko please t-tell him to let me cum!” Your choked whimpers send a knife through his heart, though it has little effect on Zayne, who rips the vibrator away from you with no mercy.
“C-come on doc, don’t you think she’s had enough?” The scent of you nearly overwhelms him, makes his mouth water really. Your poor pussy is soaked, and Valko wants nothing more than to clean you up.
"Hardly. Her punishment has barely even started." Still, Zayne squeezes your thigh, letting you catch your breath before he keeps going.
"I-I promise to be good! I'll behave I-I swear please...Valko..." Just the breathy gasp of his name makes him lurch forward, but Zayne stops him.
"Just-just let me clean her up. I won't make her cum." His nose is twitching, eyes locked onto the slick between your thighs. When Zayne nods, Valko moves as a blur, nearly launching himself between your legs and dragging his tongue across your inner thighs. He moans at the taste, but it's nearly tortorous for you to have him so close and so far all at once.
Of course, that had been Zayne's plan.
"V-Val please-ngh-please!" He pins your hips down to prevent the way you thrash, using just the tip of his tongue to trace your entrance.
"Isn't this what you wanted?" Zayne smirks, leaning over to press his lips to yours. You whimper into the kiss, tears streaming down your face. A cool hand wipes them away, soothing you just barely. Before you can get too lost in him, Valko's nose bumps your sensitive clit, making you cry out.
"God! Please Z-Zayne..." Your head is spinning, body burning with desire.
"Poor thing...she's so desperate." Valko murmurs, eyeing Zayne with a clear intention. Zayne sighs, knowing that Valko always has a way of sneaking you out of a punishment.
"Alright, you can make her cum. But if you do...you aren't allowed to cum tonight."
Summary: Valko makes Y/N keep a remote-controlled vibrator inside them while they go out to dinner together.
The restaurant hummed with soft jazz and the clink of crystal glasses—all warm amber lighting and white tablecloths, the kind of place where the waitstaff refilled water after every sip and the menus didn't list prices. Valko had chosen it, of course.
He sat across from me in a charcoal suit that pulled taut across his shoulders, one wolfish ear twitching beneath the glamour he'd woven for the humans around us. To them, he was just another absurdly handsome executive. To me—well, I could still see the faint shimmer of his tail curled possessively near my ankle under the table.
"You're staring, little hunter." His voice rolled low, rough at the edges like gravel wrapped in velvet.
"Maybe I'm just wondering how long you're planning to behave yourself."
That earned me a flash of canine teeth. "Who said anything about behaving?"
My retort died before it reached my lips.
Something stirred inside me—a low, buzzing hum that started deep and spread outward, vibrating through my pelvis like the plucked string of a cello. My fingers clamped around the stem of my wine glass. Valko's golden eyes didn't leave my face.
"Oh," I breathed.
"Mm." He lifted his own glass, the picture of nonchalance. "Good?"
Good wasn't the word. The vibrator nestled against my G-spot pulsed in slow, languid waves—nothing frantic, just a steady thrum that made my thighs press together under the tablecloth. He'd slipped the toy inside me an hour ago, right before we left the apartment, his fingers lingering as he'd murmured against my ear: You'll keep it in. You'll be patient. And when I decide you've earned it—
Now he was deciding.
"Have you looked at the menu?" Valko asked, as if my cunt wasn't clenching around silicone while a waiter approached our table.
I fumbled with the leather-bound booklet. "The—the seabass looks nice."
The waiter appeared at my elbow, a young woman with a bright smile and a notepad. "Good evening! Are we ready to order, or would you like a few more minutes?"
The vibration kicked up a notch.
My vision swam. I gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, as the toy began a rhythmic press-release-press against that spot inside me that made my jaw want to unhinge. Heat flushed up my neck, across my cheeks, blooming under my dress like I'd been standing too close to a furnace.
"I'll—we need—" The words came out shredded.
"She'll have the seabass," Valko cut in smoothly, not even glancing at his own menu. "Extra lemon. I'll take the ribeye, rare. And another bottle of the Sangiovese."
"Excellent choices." The waiter scribbled. "And for starters?"
The vibrator shifted patterns—a flutter now, quick and teasing, like fingertips drumming against slick flesh. My clit throbbed in sympathy, untouched and aching. Under the table, my hips gave an involuntary little roll.
"Nothing for starters," Valko said. His gaze finally dropped to me, heavy-lidded and dark with something that made my stomach flip. "She's watching her appetite."
The waiter departed.
I exhaled like a drowning woman breaking surface. "Valko—"
"Shh." He didn't move, didn't reach across the table, just sat there with his forearms resting on the white linen and his attention fixed on me like I was the only thing in the room worth tracking. "You're doing beautifully. Keep your voice down, though. The couple at the next table is already curious about why such a pretty thing is squirming in her seat."
Pretty thing.
The praise licked down my spine, settling somewhere deep and hungry alongside the relentless buzz between my legs. I'd learned early that Valko's dominance wasn't about cruelty—it was about attention. The kind that pinned you in place and pried you open, layer by layer, until you couldn't remember what it felt like to be unseen.
"I can't—" I started.
"You can." His voice dropped impossibly lower. "You've taken worse from me, Luna. Remember last week? My knot stretching you open while you begged—"
A whimper escaped before I could trap it behind my teeth. The woman at the next table glanced over. I ducked my head, pretending to study the candle flame flickering between us.
"That was different," I managed. "We weren't in public."
"Public is exactly what makes this interesting." Valko's mouth curved. "Knowing anyone could see what I do to you. Knowing you're sitting there with your pretty cunt drenched and pulsing around a toy I'm controlling from my phone, and no one has any idea. Not the waiter. Not the sommelier. Not Mr. Chen over there celebrating his anniversary." He tilted his head. "How wet are you right now, little hunter?"
The question punched through me. My inner walls spasmed, and I could feel it—the slickness soaking the toy, probably ruining my underwear, maybe even seeping through to the velvet seat beneath me. The thought should have been mortifying. Instead, it made my nipples tighten into hard peaks against the silk of my dress.
"Soaking," I admitted, barely audible.
"Good girl."
The vibration surged.
Not faster—deeper. A low, rumbling frequency that seemed to resonate through my entire pelvic floor, buzzing against my cervix while the curved tip of the toy hammered my G-spot with merciless precision. My thighs clamped together. My hips jerked. A moan built in my throat, and I barely smothered it by biting down on my knuckle.
"Don't hide from me." Valko's tone sharpened just enough to cut through the fog. "Hands on the table."
I obeyed before my brain caught up with the command. My palms flattened against the linen, trembling and empty, nothing to grip, nothing to ground me while the toy fucked me in slow, devastating pulses.
"Your clit," he murmured. "Is it aching?"
"God, yes—"
"Say it properly."
"Valko." His name came out raw, scraped clean of dignity. "My clit is—it's throbbing. I can feel it every time the toy shifts. I need—I need something against it, anything—"
"You need what I decide you need." But his voice gentled, warmed with that undercurrent of devotion he only ever showed me. "You're so close already, aren't you? I can see it in your face. That flushed, desperate look you get right before you fall apart."
The waiter returned with our wine.
My whole body locked up. The toy kept pulsing—kept grinding against that devastating internal spot—and I had to sit there while a stranger uncorked a bottle, offered Valko the cork, poured a splash for tasting. My chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid pants that I couldn't disguise.
"Excellent," Valko pronounced, and the waiter filled both glasses before departing again.
I didn't touch my wine. Couldn't. My hands were shaking too hard.
"Please," I whispered. "Please, I'm going to—"
"Going to what?" He leaned forward, elbows on the table, close enough that I could smell him—cedar and amber and something wilder underneath, like a forest at dusk. "Say it. Tell me exactly what's about to happen."
The vibrator changed rhythm again: three quick pulses, a pause, three more. My hips rolled shamelessly now, grinding down against the chair, seeking friction that wasn't there. My clit felt swollen enough to split, desperate for attention, and the constant pressure against my G-spot had built something inside me that was about to shatter wide open.
"I'm going to come," I gasped. "Right here. In front of everyone. I can't stop it, I—"
"You're not supposed to stop it." His hand found mine under the table, threading our fingers together. His palm was warm, grounding, the touch of an anchor in a storm. "I want you to soak that pretty seat. I want you to leave a mess only we know about. Then I'm going to take you home and lick every drop of it from your thighs."
The words broke something loose.
My climax didn't build—it detonated. A sudden, white-hot detonation that started at the base of my spine and ripped upward, stealing my breath, blanking my vision, arching my back hard enough that my breasts pressed against the table's edge. The toy kept thrusting through it, merciless and rhythmic, and I heard myself make a sound—something between a sob and a keen, trapped behind clenched teeth—
And then the gush came.
Hot. Wet. Spraying against the toy, soaking my underwear entirely, splashing against my inner thighs and seeping warm and copious onto the velvet beneath me. My cunt clamped down on the silicone in rhythmic, milking pulses—one, two, three—each one forcing another surge of liquid that I couldn't control, couldn't slow, couldn't hide.
The jazz played on. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed two tables over.
No one looked at us.
Valko's thumb stroked slow circles against my palm. His expression was reverent, almost awed—a worshipper witnessing something holy, if worshippers looked at their gods like they wanted to devour them whole.
"My Luna," he breathed. "Look at what you did for me."
I slumped forward, gasping, cheeks burning, thighs sticky and trembling. Under the table, something warm dripped onto the floor.
"I made a mess," I managed, voice wrecked.
"Yes." He lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles, gaze never leaving mine. "You made a beautiful mess. And we're not leaving until dessert."
Part 1 with the other 5 and the art that inspired this.
🔞CW: Dry humping. Dirty talk. Self love. Smut.🔞
Infold, give us our wolf back! Please!
A special thanks to @stardustsirens, I love your beautiful brain 😚
Twenty minutes. You'd been gone twenty minutes before you turned around, halfway to work, because your work folder was still sitting on the kitchen counter.
Valko had stayed the night, though not the way anyone would assume. You'd cooked too late, ended up on the couch watching movies until midnight and the idea of him driving home just to come back in a few hours was ridiculous. So he'd stayed. Folded that huge body of his onto your couch—which was built for exactly one normal sized human—insisting he was fine even though you both knew his neck would hate him for it in the morning. He hadn't so much as brought up sharing your bed. That line was still there between you, respected without either of you having to say so out loud.
Your living room was empty now. The throw blanket sat balled up at one end of the couch, still warm, still carrying that earthy scent that clung to him. You figured he'd finally given up trying to get comfortable and left for home.
Things had been tight between you two for weeks — not bad tight, just like the kind that builds when you're close to someone in every way but one. Curling up next to him on that couch last night, close enough to feel him breathing, had taken more out of you than you wanted to admit. You'd gone to your own bed after and tossed for hours, finally giving up and finishing yourself off against your pillow just to get some sleep.
You grabbed the folder off the counter, shoved it in your bag, turned toward the door already dreading the way back to work.
Your foot stopped.
Through the crack in your bedroom door came a sound — low, cut off at the edges like it hadn't meant to get out. A hitch of breath, rough with something needy.
You don't move. For a few long seconds you just stand there, blood rushing in your ears, telling yourself you imagined it. Then it comes again—louder, unmistakable. A deep, broken whine bleeding through the door, underneath it the slow, rhythmic creak of your mattress.
Something hot drops straight to your navel.
Your feet move before you decide to let them, carrying you to the gap where the door hinges open. You don't need to push it. You can see everything
Valko is on your bed, completely stripped of the restraint he usually carries around you.
On all fours, every muscle in his back straining with each roll of his hips. Both your pillows are underneath him. One is pinned between his thick, heavy thighs. The other is crushed against his chest like he's holding onto it for dear life.
The fat tip of his cock is already leaking clear precum, smearing wetly against the fabric with every thrust. The muscles of his ass bunch and flex rhythmically, his tail swishing low and frantic from side to side, brushing against his calves like he can't control it.
His nose is buried deep into one specific corner of the pillow, taking big lunges of air—sniffing the hell out of it. Strands of saliva string from his parted lips, his eyes are squeezed shut so tight his eyelashes tremble. He looks like he's desperately trying to engrave that scent into the deepest part of his memory.
The heat that floods your face is scorching and mortifying.
That's where you'd been last night. Grinding against that exact spot, face buried in your own sheets with his name stuck in your throat, thinking thoughts you'd never planned on anyone knowing about. He has his nose pressed right there. Breathing you in like it's the first clean air he's found in days.
The hallway feels like it's closing in. You can't move. The folder is shaking in your hand and you can't make yourself look away.
Valko moves his hips down again and the groan that tears out of him is nothing like his usual voice. It's scraped raw, stripped of every careful thing he usually puts between himself and the world.
"Fuck—" The word drags out of him slow and broken. His face presses deeper into the pillow, lips parting against the fabric, inhaling so hard it pulls into his mouth. "Smells so good. So fucking sweet"
Your stomach drops.
When he pulls back to thrust again you get an unobstructed view of him, and your mouth goes dry. He's huge, veins mapping his cock in thick ridges, the head flushed a deep red and slick with everything he's been leaking onto your pillow.
"There you go," he breathes, eyes still squeezed shut, hips rolling down in a slow, grinding push. He's talking to the pillow. He's talking to you—or the idea of you, the ghost of you he's got his hands on. "Take it just like that. Let me get all the way inside that pretty cunt, puppy."
He makes that sound again—a high, needy whine that has no business coming out of something so big—and his ears flatten tight against his skull. His rhythm stutters, slow grinds breaking into something harder and more desperate, the whole bed frame groaning with it.
"Such a good pup," he mutters, tail thrashing wild against the mattress, fingers curling into your pillow. His voice is getting rougher, darker, words spilling out like he can't stop them. "Gonna stretch you out so nice. Fill you up with everything I've been—" A sharp, punched out groan. "You'd take it, wouldn't you? Every single bit of it."
His thighs grip the pillow tightly, his whole body going rigid as he grinds down and holds it there. His knuckles are stark white, fingers curled past the point of grip, something closer to desperation made physical. You can see the effort it's taking him to hold back. Every thick vein along the back of his hands stands out in rigid relief, branching up his wrists, mapping the strain all the way to where his forearms flex with each movement.
With every snap of his hips the tension climbs higher. Up his biceps and across his broad shoulders, the whole architecture of him pulled tight. He is holding the pillow like letting go for even a second would mean losing the last thread of you he has access to.
Like if his grip slips, your scent goes with it.
His hands have never looked like this. You've seen them steady holding a weapon, calm giving an order, certain in every situation that called for certainty. Right now they're shaking slightly. Not from weakness.
But from the effort of not having the real thing.
The ache between your thighs is unbearable and the urge hits you like something physical, pressing into your sternum until your body stops listening to your brain entirely. You want to tell him yes. You want to walk into that room and pull those pillows out from under him and put yourself there instead.
Your foot moves forward one step.
That's all it takes. The tiny shift in air carries your scent right through the gap in the door—laced now with the edge of your arousal—and delivers it straight to him.
Valko goes completely still.
His ears snap upright, swiveling toward the door, and his head follows a half second later. Through the narrow crack his eyes find yours instantly, pupils blown so wide the gold of his irises is almost gone. The room sits heavy with the smell of sex and the sound of both of you breathing.
He doesn't cover himself and your eyes drop without your permission.
The sight of you watching him—your scent hitting him fresh and full—is what does it. You watch it happen. His cock swells further, skin pulled tight, a low growl tearing out of his chest and his hips give one last involuntary roll forward.
He cums with his eyes locked on yours the entire time.
He stares straight through the gap in the door, unblinking, holding your gaze with an intensity that makes your legs feel unreliable, as the first thick streak of white paints your pillow. Another spasm rolls through him, another rope of cum landing heavy over the exact spot your scent had soaked into the fabric last night. Over and over until the last bead clings to the tip and stretches thin before finally dropping.
His chest heaves and his tongue drags slowly across his lower lip and then his canines like he's tasting the air. His tail gives one long, heavy thump against the mattress.
He's still staring a hole right through you.
You are completely fucked.
And while we're here @ekay-i .... PLEASE🙏🏻. Valko deserves a spot in the pillow humpers art. i am begging on my knees 🧎🏻♀️🫣
caleb and nonMC!reader in an loveless arranged marriage, where he's secretly in hopeless love with her
warnings. angst fest, eventual fluff, failing marriages, misunderstandings, suggestive content, jealousy, stalking/following, caleb getting rejected, reader in denial, feelings are hard
preview. "Why wouldn't I be romantic? I'm your husband." He's been doing that lately--dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they're nothing. Somehow always when you're least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he's either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he's doing. You're willing to bet on the latter.
wc. 7.4k
Your husband does not love you. He doesn’t love anyone except for one, and it is not you.
You used to like romance. You’d fantasize about who your beloved forever would be in your room, kicking your feet childishly at the thought of someone loving you so purely. So innocently. You wondered what kind of person they’d be, what kinds of foods they’d like, what their family is like. You wondered which holiday would be their favorite, whether they’d want children, whether they’d have a time-consuming job. But really, none of it mattered, because you only wanted someone by your side.
So when you were told you’d be put into an arranged marriage, you tried to be hopeful. An embarrassing, pathetic hope that maybe this man could love you the way men love in books and movies if you tried hard enough.
Caleb Xia is not a loving person. You realized this the moment he stepped into the room with cold, lifeless eyes that seemed to stare straight through you as if the wall was worth more than your presence. He’d smiled, but it felt stiff. Awkward. But you’re sure yours was the same.
Still, his eyes were beautiful. Your hope flickered like a small stubborn flame in your chest that you wanted to guard against the blizzard. The marriage was simple. You showed up to the courthouse in a knee-length white dress, constantly adjusting at the pearls around your neck anxiously while he signed the papers. Once he was done, he’d simply slid it over to you, evidently avoiding your eyes.
“Are you sure?” you’d asked meekly, as if speaking any louder than a whisper would shatter your heart. You weren’t sure if you were asking him or yourself. Not that it mattered, much.
He spared you a soft smile. Pity, maybe, with how his eyes remained empty, but you took it anyway.
A starved man does not beg for more. The flame remained.
The only reason he married you was because MC had gotten married to another childhood friend of theirs. When he mentioned it, you thought nothing of it at first. But when the only photo he’d put up throughout your entire house was one of him and her as children, while your awkwardly situated courthouse picture sat beside it, you knew. He didn’t stop to stare at your photo, ever. Not any of the photos. Only hers.
The final blow to the puny flame remaining in your heart was when you’d finally initiated physical contact. To perform the marital duty, he’d hovered above you in just his pants while you stared up at him in your thin pajamas that did little to hide what was beneath it. There was no setting the mood. The air was cold, the room dull because only your half had any semblance of effort that had gone into decorating it. When he kissed you, it felt more like his lips were simply touching yours gently. Almost tapping it.
It felt like nothing.
This was not romantic at all.
“Are you okay? Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back with a furrow in his brows—probably because you were lying lifelessly while holding your breath. You wondered how he could ask something so softly when his eyes remained so muted. Maybe not softly. Maybe just quiet.
“It’s okay.” You wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he was the only semblance of warmth in the freezing room.
But when his hand slid up your shirt, resting atop of your stomach, you stopped breathing again. He stopped as well. Your gazes met silently, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. A dull, slow stop. And then suddenly, he was off you, clambering to pull his shirt back on as you sat up in confusion, eyes wide.
“I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”
The flame went out.
Were you really so distasteful? So disgusting that he didn’t want to lay his hands on his own wife? Or was it that you were just too different from her? Should you be offended? Are you even offended? Relieved? Hurt?
Does it even matter?
Once you were sure he’s gone, you cried yourself to sleep.
The next few years are a blur that you wish had somehow gone even faster. The days are a bore. He’s away for weeks—maybe even months—at a time. In those periods of time, the house feels like a maze not meant for only one person. At the same time, maybe it’s better he’s away.
Caleb Xia is not a mean person. On paper, he’s a decent husband. He cleans, cooks, and never complains if you ask him to do something. He smiles, nods, and goes on his way. Yet, it feels more like a vaguely close roommate than a husband. The two of you eat in silence, watch TV in silence, and even go to bed in different rooms. You suppose you can’t complain—it’s not like you put in much effort to get to know him well anyway.
The only thing he does that even comes close to romance is bringing you flowers. You’d told him once that you wished the house had space for a garden to plant them, and he’d brought you a bouquet later that week. Since then, he brings them every few weeks routinely. They appear in the vase beside the couch as if they’ve just magically appeared.
They’re pretty, you think.
Resentment builds, slowly but surely, probably on both ends as in most marriages. This kind of life is killing you inside. This lonely, aimless life in a house that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, in a bed that feels too large.
“I want to work,” you say one day, picking at your food blankly. “I have an interview tomorrow, so I won’t be here for most of the day from now on if I get it.”
A fork clatters from across the table. “What? Why?”
You don’t necessarily have to work given Caleb’s plentiful paycheck, but you want to anyway because you can’t stand being in that gigantic house all by yourself. But of course, how could you tell this to the man in front of you? The man you don’t even know the favorite color of?
“It’s a regular office job.”
“I didn’t ask what it was,” he blurts, eyes narrowing in concern. “I’m asking why? Do I not give you enough money? You know you have access to everything on the card, right?”
You shrug. “It’s not about the money…I just think I need something to do throughout the day.”
“What about picking up another hobby?”
“I’ve exhausted most of them.”
“Then traveling?”
“By myself?” you frown. “It’s not like you’re ever here.”
You’re not sure why the words slip through your teeth, but they do, and the disdain is apparent. He seems surprised at first, blinking, before his shoulder slump again and the corners of his lips twitch downward. For some reason, it makes you feel—good? Alive, more so. So you keep talking. “You’re always working. You even missed my friend’s wedding after I told her we’d be there.”
He shoots back immediately, brows tight. “That was a special case—it was an emergency.”
“That’s fine,” you chew slowly on your food. “But I don’t want to wait around all day for you to get back.”
“You shouldn’t work if you don’t have to. I make more than enough.”
“Again, not the point.”
His lips tighten, pursing. “What will your family think if they hear that I’m making you work after I told them that I’d take care of you?”
You snort. “Is this what you call ‘taking care of’?”
Immediately, you can tell that you’ve struck a nerve. And for some reason, it feels good again. Like you’re alive, again. Maybe you just like pissing him off. His expression shifts momentarily to something you can’t recognize before it settles disapprovingly and silence befalls the both of you. You like when he doesn’t have that stupid smile he always has. The fake, lifeless smile he’d given you when you first met. You’d rather he just be upset, just like this. He looks like he wants to say something, but then shuts his mouth, swallowing the lump in his throat.
His phone rings, slicing the tension in the air like a knife. Caleb glances at the caller ID for a split second before he’s already on his feet, pacing to the sink to put his plates away in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. Let me know how the interview goes..”
You stare at your plate, listening to his feet pad around in a hurry. “Is it MC?”
He whips his head around. “What?”
You stand from your seat to dump your food into the sink, ignoring the slight clench in your chest. He’s always been this way. Jumping at any opportunity to be useful to her, while he leaves everyone else in the dust. “Nevermind. Go.”
Once you hear the front door shut, you slump into the couch face first, hoping it swallows you whole before he comes back. This has to be some sort of humiliation ritual. Perhaps you committed a grave sin in your past life, because you’re not sure what you could’ve possibly done to warrant such a feeling. The sunset seeps through the window planes and hits half of your face, bathing you in a warmth that had been missing from the rest of the house. The heat makes you sleepy, and you soon find your eyelids drooping shut, gazing lazily at a photo of the two of you on the coffee table. You don’t remember when it was taken, but in it, you genuinely look like you’re almost enjoying yourself. You can’t tell with him, though. You can never really tell.
“Stupid Xia,” you mutter as you fall deep into slumber.
When you awake again, the sun has fully set. There’s a blanket draped over you and when you blink away the blots in your vision, you’re met face to face with a fresh vase of flowers on the coffee table. They smell nice.
Damn it.
Sometimes, you wish he was just an asshole.
You learn about him through the photo albums he has stashed away in the attic. It’s not like you were looking for them. You’d only been cleaning when they managed to topple right into your hands, and since he always says whatever’s his is yours, you figure you might as well satisfy your curiosity. There’s less than you expected, unfortunately. Most photos are taken by him, but there’s a few in between where he’s the subject. Him at his birthday party, his graduation ceremony, him packing for college, and the day he left for the DAA.
It’s odd. You forget he was a normal teenager at one point, and not a high ranking colonel.
The pictures are through his eyes. Before you can stop, you find yourself becoming engrossed in lacing the photos together into some semblance of a story in your head. You see his childhood home and the model planes he enjoys building. His outings with MC and his grandmother. His last minute halloween costumes. Him and his friends carrying out a prank on someone. His studies. His likes. His dislikes.
Caleb Xia is a charming person. If you hadn’t met the way you did, you think you might’ve liked him a little more.
When you ask him a question regarding one of the photos at dinner, he nearly chokes on his food. You quirk a brow in response. “Was I not supposed to see them?”
“No, it’s fine if you look…” he mumbles, taking a sip of water to gather himself. You squint—are his ears pink? You didn’t know he was capable of doing something kinda adorable. “It’s just a little embarrassing.”
“Like the picture of your airplane swim trunks from when you were a kid–”
He coughs again, and you snicker.
You think he’s tolerable—just a bit.
Weeks pass. Life gets a little easier with your job and more to do—it might even be a bit fun. With your new friends at your workplace and a new sense of accomplishment, the less you stress about your loveless marriage and the more you appreciate what you have. Your interactions with Caleb become less forced. Not because you’ve somehow managed to miraculously understand how his brain functions, but because you put less weight on what you say. It’s hard to see someone as intimidating when you’ve seen a photo of them in a stupid halloween costume. He seems to notice the change too.
[Caleb Xia]: I got us fried chicken for dinner. Don’t be too late so it doesn’t get cold :)
Your mouth waters. It’s nice, almost. Emphasis on the almost.
Outside, the evening chill hits your cheeks, sharp enough to wake you up and wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. The street is busy but not crowded, as the sun has just set. A couple laughs too loudly across the road. Somewhere, a bus exhales.
You start down your usual route.
At first, it’s nothing. Just footsteps. Not out of place. People exist. People walk. People go home.
But something’s off. Your gut insists on it, and it’s hard to ignore.
You slow slightly, just enough to be subtle. The footsteps slow too.
Your fingers tighten around your bag.
Coincidence, surely.
You don’t turn around, yet. Turning means you have to see something and acknowledge that it’s real. Instead, you adjust your pace again. Faster this time.
The footsteps quicken, dropping your heart to your stomach.
Your eyes dart around you anxiously. It’s dark. Streetlamps are guiding your path home, and though the neighborhood is nice, it’s empty. Well, except for you and the footsteps that seemingly sound like they’re getting ever so closer every few seconds. You throat feels dry.
Phone. You need to tell someone. Even if you’re wrong—even if it’s just a hunch.
[You]: Still there?
[Caleb Xia]: Yea. why?
[You]: I think there’s someone following me
Your message sends, and for a moment air doesn’t enter your lungs.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
[Caleb Xia]: I’m coming.
You don’t know how he’s going to find you, but you don’t bother questioning it at the moment. You swallow, and your throat is dry enough that it hurts. The streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement, and it’s hard to discern whether something is just a shadow or something else in the dark.
You don’t turn around.
Your legs carry you as fast as you can go without breaking into a sprint, and your grip tightens around your phone until your fingers ache. Hurry, you think. Hurry up, Caleb.
A car passes.
He’s closer now, whoever it is.
Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs feel like they’ve forgotten how.
Suddenly, a car turns the corner too fast, tires kissing the curb before readjusting and you nearly jump out of your own skin. The tint on the car makes it too difficult to see inside, not that you’d be able to see much regardless due to the dark. It slows to a stop as it sees you, and you think if this isn’t who you’re expecting, it might actually be the end for you.
The passenger door swings open.
“Get in.”
Relief floods your body when you hear his voice and you stumble to clamber in.
Relief?
This is Caleb Xia you’re talking about. Now that you think about it, you’re unsure why he was the first you contacted instead of the police. Your fingers had tapped on his profile faster than you could think. Was it just because he was at the top of your contacts? Was it because he was near? It must be, right? It had been instinctual. Your body had reacted—and it had somehow worked out.
Regardless, you can’t possibly deny how relieved you feel right now.
You wonder if this is how MC always feels. It must be nice to know that someone so reliable is always at her beck and call, right? To come running at just a few words—maybe she wouldn’t have had to walk home in the first place. Maybe he would’ve driven her. You feel sick. This isn’t what you should be thinking about right now. Right now, you need to report it to the police and take a much needed nap.
A part of you is envious of her.
“You should’ve called me earlier.”
The chicken doesn’t look as appetizing anymore even despite it sitting before you in all its crispy fried glory. The growling in your stomach from earlier is replaced by a slight pain, and it’s difficult to tell if you’ve only lost your appetite or if it’s a different kind of anxiousness. He watches you from across the table with a perplexed frown while you pick at the chicken aimlessly, nodding blankly.
“I’ll report it first thing in the morning,” Caleb sighs. “I should pick you up from work from now own. Or I’ll call you a taxi if I can’t.”
You nod again.
“Are you okay?”
Ah, he’s asking that again. You hate when he does.
You tilt your head. “I’m just sort of in shock, I think.”
“I know, but you should eat at least a bit. Here.” He holds a piece of chicken on a fork to your face and you scrunch your nose. He smirks. “Here comes the airplane?”
“I might vomit all over you.” A half lie.
He replies instantly. “Then I’ll clean it. Eat.”
For a reason that you just attribute to exhaustion, you don’t bother arguing. Instead, you pop it into your mouth, cheeks dusting pink at the intimacy of the act. He hums in approval and you try your best not to choke. Why was he feeding you—a grown woman? And why were you letting him?
How bizarre. This whole day is bizarre.
At least you’re home—thanks to him.
“Thank you,” you mumble softly. “For getting there so fast.”
He looks almost offended, shaking his head. “Don’t thank me, it was a given. I’m just happy you thought to call me. I was worried you wouldn’t.”
Why did you call him? Well, you suppose he is your husband at the end of the day. One who has eyes for another, but your husband nonetheless. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He stops for a moment, as if in thought, and then smiles sheepishly. Not the annoying fake smile he puts on for show, but one that’s riddled with guilt. Shame. You want to know why. “Just assumed you wouldn’t.”
Strangely, the words make your chest tight.
Your eyes meet his usual striking violets, shoulders slumping as you look away once the eye contact feels too intense. “I’m glad I did.”
You barely catch the tips of his ears turning pink.
Caleb keeps his word for the months following the event. You never have reason to pass by that street again on foot, and although you continue to insist it’s not necessary, having him as your private driver of sorts does feel kind of nice. You think eventually, you’ve come to call him more than a stranger. He’s easier to talk to. Funnier than you thought, actually, when he’s not being annoying to tease you.
You’d never tell him that though, of course.
You blink warily, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand when a ray of sunlight escapes through the shades of your bedroom and hit your face. However, it’s not what awakes you. Rather, it’s the insistent buzzing of your phone on your bedside table, which you barely manage to snatch without falling off the edge of the bed.
[Caleb (husband)]: morning sleepinghead, you awake?
[Caleb (husband)]: Come eat breakfast :> made apple juice too
[Caleb (husband)]: I better hear you shuffling around in your room in the next few minutes or i’ll have to come drag you out.. :)
Caleb Xia, you find, nags a lot.
“Sleep well?” he chuckles when you finally emerge, still half-awake despite being fully dressed. You scratch the back of your neck, yawning as you perch yourself on one of the chairs at the counter where he’s standing with an apron tied neatly behind him. If you were just a tad bit more awake, you’d have a field day making a snide comment about it.
“Mm.”
He laughs again, gently. Did he always sound so soft?
“You can always quit your job, y’know,” he shrugs, placing a plate of breakfast foods in front of you. It smells immaculate, as usual. “Offer’s always on the table.”
You shove a forkful of eggs into your mouth, squinting at him. “Why do you wanth me shoo be unemployed sho bad? My parentsh don’t care.”
“It’s not about your family…It just doesn’t seem necessary.”
“I like working. Just not waking up so early.”
“I only want you to avoid overextending yourself if you don’t have to,” he pops a tomato into his own mouth. “I make enough for you to get whatever you want, don’t I?”
“But I want my own money, too.”
“My money is your money. This is the least I can do.”
“Careful,” you snort. “You sound dangerously close to being romantic.”
He tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I be romantic? I’m your husband.”
This time, you really choke on your food, coughing as he quickly hands you the apple juice. He’s been doing that lately—dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they’re nothing. Somehow always when you’re least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he’s either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he’s doing.
You’re willing to bet on the latter.
Caleb Xia, as you figure out in the time you spend with him in his car on the way to work, has terrible taste in films.
“That movie is awful. There’s no way that’s your favorite.”
He gasps dramatically and you don’t bother suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. “Hey, don’t judge before you try it.”
“I’d like it if I never had to try it, actually.”
The smile adorning your lips falls in an instant the car slows to a stop. You find yourself growing disappointed when you arrive at your workplace, because it means you’ll have to leave him. You want to scold yourself for thinking such preposterous thoughts. What are you? A teenager who’s hanging out with a boy for the first time?
You’re married, for god’s sake.
Then again, so what if his company isn’t so bad? What if you think he’s a bit more to you than tolerable? Isn’t that allowed? He’s your husband, after all. If it doesn’t feel so bad, maybe you could let yourself reprise and enjoy it while it lasts.
“Ah, right, I should tell you—I’ll be leaving this weekend for work.”
Ah, nevermind. Reality has a way of slapping you across the face when you least expect it.
“How long?”
“A few weeks at best,” he pauses, voice quieter. “Months, if I’m unlucky.”
You really despise the subtle aching in your chest.
You hate how easily it slips in. How, for a second, it makes the flame that’s gone out years ago flicker, as if these moments could mean more than they do. They don’t. You know they don’t. They aren’t yours to keep. None of it is.
The warmth, the ease, the way he looks at you like this—like you’re something he actually cares about—it’s all fake. Stolen. You’re just standing in the space where someone else is supposed to be.
You press your lips together, forcing the feeling down before it can spread any further. Get a grip.
His palm pats the top of your head, making your cheeks heat against your will. With a grin, he nods. But it’s stiff. The slight crinkle between his brows. Upset. Upset? “I’ll see you tonight.”
It’s like he knows what you’re thinking before you know yourself.
“Who said I want to?”
“You wound me.”
As soon as you enter the building, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.
[Caleb (husband)]: I know you’re at work, but…
[Caleb (husband)]: Movie night tn ?? i can make us popcorn :D
[Caleb (husband)]: And yes we’re watching my fav so you can stop calling it bad :>
[Caleb (husband)]: Last hurrah before i leave
This is dangerous, you think. Really, really dangerous.
You seriously hope you don’t fall for him, if it isn’t too late already.
A few hours later, the living room is dimly lit with soft lights, the low hum of something playing in the background as Caleb sets everything up. The bowl of popcorn ends up a little too full, a few pieces spilling onto the counter as he carries it over, muttering something under his breath as he munches on the ones that are about to spill over. You sink into the couch, watching him move around the room—adjusting the volume and flipping through options he’s already decided on.
It’s strange, how easy it feels. How normal.
You don’t realize you’re staring until he glances over.
So you look away quickly, fixing your gaze on the screen. But a few seconds pass, and you can feel his attention still lingering.
You pretend not to notice.
What are you doing? What are either of you doing?
You don’t say anything, swallowing the question down into the pit in your stomach.
The movie stars a side character with a passionate devotion to his family, who reminds you of Caleb. Oddly enough, the resemblance is almost uncanny. You kind of want to root for him but also want him to lose terribly. You huff quietly. “He’s so intense.”
Caleb glances over, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “What? You wouldn’t want someone like that?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I mean… he’s a bit much.”
A pause.
“…but it comes from a good place. I like him.”
He stills.
You pick at a piece of popcorn, rolling it between your fingers. “He reminds me of you a little.”
“Yeah?”
You shrug, still not quite looking at him. “Yeah.” A small breath escapes you before you can stop it. “MC is really lucky to have you.”
He goes quiet. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you.
“…Lucky,” he repeats, almost to himself.
You hesitate, then ruin it by saying more. "I mean, you're always there for her, you know? If she calls, you come running. Everyone wants someone like that."
It was supposed to come off lightheartedly, but it only digs the hole deeper.
Something in his expression shifts. His smile fades, his face losing its usual ease as it drops to something you’ve never seen on him before. It contorts in phases. Surprise, and then confusion, and finally into one you prefer the least.
Panic. Something is wrong.
You wish you’d just shut up. The long pause makes you wish you were just a fly on the wall right now.
“Is this why?” he blinks, and his eyes glisten with something you haven’t seen from him. Void of the usual emptiness but replaced with something fuller. Heavier. “Is this why you hate me so much? Because of MC?”
Huh?
“Fuck,” one hand pulls at the roots of his hair, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he attempts to hide his face from you. “I’m a moron. I should’ve known.”
What? Despite your hands growing clammy, you feel cold. Like the blood is draining from your face.
“You must hate me so much.”
When did you ever hate him? You’ve loathed him, certainly, when he’d disappear for weeks on end leaving you all alone in this cold, lifeless house. You’ve wanted to punch your balled up fists into his chest, knowing that it wouldn’t phase him in the slightest simply to alleviate some of your own anger. You’ve wanted to run away a multitude of times. But hate? Have you ever hated Caleb? Can you hate Caleb?
“Caleb.”
“This is my fault. I should’ve been more aware. It’s so obvious now, I feel like an idiot.”
“Caleb.”
“I thought you just hated me because this isn’t a marriage you wanted,” his voice cracks, and he’s burying his face into his palms. “I thought staying away from you was what you wanted. Shit, I’m so stupid.”
“Caleb,” you say, more firmly this time, and he finally looks at you. There’s a watery film over his usually lifeless eyes, glistening against the light of the TV screen, and it makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. You don’t like seeing him like this. You thought you would, but you don’t.
His voice is a mere whisper now. He looks like he wants to vomit out a million words at once, but there’s three specific ones that linger on his tongue. Is this what they call a woman's intuition? You’re not sure how, but in the moment, it feels like you’re in his head. For the first time in the 4 years you’ve been wed to Caleb Xia, you feel like you can understand him.
A victory that doesn’t feel like one at all.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your hands in his, holding them in front of his chest. “I don’t love her—not as a woman. I haven’t in a long time. She and Zayne are like my family, and I’d be a terrible person not to be happy for them. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you. I’m so sorry.”
Your heart doesn’t seem to be beating anymore.
The air is too thick. Like liquid entering your lungs.
Caleb opens his mouth and then shuts it again, his words stuck in the back of his throat. You’re not sure if you want to hear what he wants to say. The words hold too much value, too many years of hurt, and you don’t know how you’ll react. You don’t want to acknowledge any of this as real, because if it is, what was all of this for? What were the years you spent holed up in your room meant to achieve? Were you just being a fool? And in that case, would you even want to know?
No. You don’t.
So instead, you kiss him.
A wordless, messy kiss. Though he’s taken aback at first, he’s quick to slot his mouth against yours eagerly, hands flying to your waist to pull you closer as if a man starved. It’s desperate. Different from the kiss you shared with him at the courthouse, or for transactional purposes. His mouth feels hot against yours, and when his tongue swipes against your lip, you let him in.
You climb onto his lap, straddling him as he presses you flush against him. The movie is long forgotten. His hair weeds through the crevices between your fingers and he deepens the kiss as if he’s trying to physically become one with you. His heart hammers against your own like a timer, warning you of what this could mean, but you don’t care.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he mumbles against you, and then you’re suddenly being lifted up to your room with his hands supporting your thighs around his waist. But even those few seconds aren’t worth staying apart for, because he’s kissing your neck, mouthing at spots that have you pursing your lips to avoid making any embarrassing sounds. He lets you down gently onto the middle of your bed and follows suit, pushing you onto your back.
You’re here again.
He’s looming over you, face flushed in a deep red this time. He’ll ask if you’re okay. If this is okay. And then he’ll take off his shirt and his hand will slide up yours. It’ll be better this time, because it’s not out of some twisted sense of duty. Desire pulses at your core, but you can’t help but shake off this curdling feeling in your chest, as if you want to hurl. You wait for what you expect, eyes never leaving his.
Instead, he breathes sharply. “I love you.”
The world stops.
“You don’t have to say anything back that I don’t deserve. I just want you to know,” he whispers.
Can anyone love someone like you—much less, your husband? You start breathing again because you have to, staring up at him as if he’s gone insane. In fact, you think you’ve gone insane. Kissing him, lying beneath him, enjoying his presence, looking forward to his breakfasts, letting him drop you off at work, feeling disappointed that he’s leaving—you’ve most definitely died and come back as another person, because this is not you.
This is Caleb Xia. He is an unloving person. He cannot love. But what happens if he does? With tears stinging at his eyes, watching you with a mix of pure adoration and sorrow, he’s telling you he loves you. Love is a strong word, isn’t it? But he means it. He loves you. Caleb loves you. You want to call him a liar, but he’s not.
You want to cry into his chest and run away at the same time.
The flame flickers, and you panic. Not because you despise him, or because his confession is one you don’t want to accept, but because this flame is not one you welcome with open arms anymore. It’s too easy to hurt. Too easy to shrink, yet somehow impossible to destroy.
“I can’t,” you croak. “Not right now.”
Even Caleb can’t mask the hurt that deepens his frown, as if you’ve torn his heart straight from his chest. For a man with so much power, he’s never looked more powerless than he does now.
It feels too vulnerable. Open. As if you’re naked and he’s fully clothed, when it’s infact the exact opposite. You don’t want to open up to him again. You don’t want him to snuff out that small flame you have that never seems to go out no matter how much you douse it in water. Or maybe you do?
He forces a crooked smile, strained against his very will and nods before leaving the room. As the door slips shut, he doesn’t turn to look at you. “Sleep tight.”
You don’t get much sleep that night at all.
Morning comes anyway.
And then another.
And another.
His absence returns, but this time because you’re the one avoiding him. You leave earlier than usual, linger longer at work, find excuses in the smallest things—emails, errands, anything that keeps you just a little out of sync with him. When you do cross paths, it’s brief. Polite. A short good morning or a quick goodnight. It’s easier that way.
You tell yourself this is what you wanted—to put distance back where it belongs. Whatever that night was, whatever flame flickered between you, it will fade. It must fade.
He isn’t yours. Even if he says he is, there’s too much pain--too many years of resentment built up that you don’t know what to do with.
You catch yourself thinking about it at mundane times—standing in line, walking home, staring at your coworkers chatting amongst themselves. The apartment feels different already, like it’s preparing to be emptier. As cold as it was a few months ago, when he was still Caleb Xia, and not just Caleb.
You take the time away from him to reset. To think, but not too much. You find yourself flipping through his photo albums again, smiling when you flip to a particularly embarrassing one. You hear him shuffling outside your room, probably packing for his business trip. You’re aware of what he risks everytime he disappears for weeks at a time—not only his life, but the lives of his men—and you don’t know how he bears to leave home everytime he does.
But he always comes back. He has to.
You suppose it’s for the best for now. And when he returns, things will return to normal. The house won’t be as awkward as it is. The two of you will slip into your usual routine of a loveless marriage, and you’ll find other avenues in life to derive joy from. So will he.
The front door shuts faster than you anticipated.
He’s gone.
This is fine.
This is what you wanted.
The house is empty again. You pace to the living room, and surprisingly, a fresh bouquet of flowers is propped inside their usual vase. You lift the vase into your hands, letting the scent of the flowers waft into your nose. They smell good. New. Sort of like the detergent he uses when doing the laundry.
You set the vase back down, nails pressing faint crescents into your skin.
His face when you last saw him keeps flickering in your mind. So much hurt. Raw with fear.
“I love you.”
You want to tell him he doesn’t. You want to remind yourself that this is your husband. Your heartless, cunning husband who kills people for a living—who doesn’t care about anyone but his family.
But you’re his family, aren’t you?
You can still smell his cologne in the air.
You must’ve missed it from the glint of the sunlight in the glass coffee table—there’s a small shimmer of something sitting beside the vase. With a quirked brow, you pick it up. He usually never leaves trash lying around.
You nearly drop it.
His wedding band.
Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. Your heart pounds as you realize that you're shaking, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at the object in your hands.
No.
He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave it.
The ring sits in your palm like a brick that weighs your entire body down. This isn’t something you can pretend will reset when he comes back.
This means no more quiet dinners. No more stupid arguments over movies he insists are good. No more messages waiting for you when you’re at work. No more him, standing at the counter every morning with a pan in his hand. No more him.
And worst of all, no more chance to fix it. To tell him your side of the story.
Your body moves before your mind catches up.
You wrench the front door open, not bothering to lock it behind you as your feet hit the pavement with just your socks. The air burns your throat as you run, lungs screaming, heart still pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage.
He can’t leave.
The stinging beneath your feet go unregistered as you clutch the ring so tightly that it feels like it might dig into your flesh.
Just forward, you hiss to yourself. Faster. You turn corner after corner, your body begging you to stop overexerting yourself, but you can’t bother to care. You don’t even register where you’re going, but you need to go somewhere. It feels like ages and seconds at the same time, as you beg nobody in particular for one more chance.
A chance for what, you're not sure.
Reconciliation? Love? Understanding?
Is any of that possible? And if not, why are you running like your very life depends on it?
The ring digs further into your skin, and you realize it doesn't matter as long as you find who it belongs to. Him. Caleb. The reason and bane of your existence, and apparently what has you running across the entire town in hopes of bringing him back.
Finally, you slam into something solid.
The impact knocks the breath out of you, your grip loosening as the ring nearly slips from your fingers. A hand catches your arms before you can stumble back too far, steadying you with a familiar scent that somehow lets you breathe again.
“Hey—watch it—oh.”
You freeze in place, breath hitching as you look up. Standing right in front of you, he appears slightly disheveled, one hand still gripping your arm while the other awkwardly balances a paper bag of groceries. Caleb blinks, his eyes immediately scanning over your frame before landing on your feet. “Why are you here? Are you okay? And where are your shoes, it’s dangerou—”
“Don’t go, Caleb,” you sniffle, tears already stinging at your eyes as your body finally has a chance to rest, though it doesn’t feel much better. “Please don’t go.”
He stares at you as if you've grown a third eye, nearly dropping his bag of groceries at your pleas. Even the tips of his ears turn red, flustered. "What are you--"
“Why did you leave the ring? Did you lie?” About loving me?
His expression falls, attention honing in on the ring gripped in your fist. Something seems to click in his head, and immediately, he shakes his head. “No, of course not, I was going to leave a note. I just went out to get groceries before I left—”
“So you were going to leave the ring?”
“Well, yes, but can we–”
“Do you not like me anymore?” you blurt, finger bunching at the fabric of his sleeve. “Is it because I ignored you for a week?”
He almost looks offended. “Of course I still like you.”
“Then why?”
His voice softens, as if speaking too loud will scare you away. Hesitantly, he sheepishly releases your arms. Instead, he slowly takes your hand in his, lips pursing as he sighs. His palm feels rough with calluses from the work he does, but light as feathers against your skin. His touch is gentle, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I figured there was no reason for me to tie you to me anymore. I won’t force you to be with someone you can’t even stand to be around. Someone you hate. It’d be selfish.”
Your words tumble out before you can process them. “I don’t hate you.”
Finally, with your hand in his, the world feels okay again. This feeling tells you you’re screwed, but you don’t care.
“I’ve been mad at you, and I don’t know what to do with your feelings because they make no sense, but I don’t hate you,” you mutter. “You’re just too confusing.”
“...Confusing?”
“I just—I don’t know what to do, Caleb,” you wipe vigorously at your eyes with your free hand, head falling to avoid looking him at him. “I don’t know what to think about you. How to feel about you.”
His eyes ease, and you feel him squeeze your fingers. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
“Do you love me?”
“I don’t know.”
Caleb has always been better at reading you than yourself. A flash of hurt ripples across his face, but his eyes maintain its soft glimmer—because he knows. Even if you say you don’t know, he knows. He also knows that you’re afraid of those words, and he doesn’t blame you for it.
So instead, he asks something else. “What am I to you?”
You want to call him a million things. The man who left you by yourself, the man who refused to touch you for so many years, the man who’d chosen to sleep in the guest bedroom just to avoid taking up space in yours. He’s felt awful, inconsiderate, and cold. But he’s also the man who’s gotten you flowers, the man who’d break four speeding laws to make you feel safe, the man who makes sure you’re never hungry, the man who folds your laundry neatly and organizes it color-coded in your closet. The man who you wish you could slap across the face and hold close to you at the same time. The man who’s made you feel alone yet so cared for all at once.
You like him, you think. In some strange way that’s never been covered in the romantic films you used to clutch onto like a life line, you like him. The ‘L’ word teeters on the tip of your tongue like a marble rolling around to decide what these emotions settling in your heart really are, but it doesn’t really matter. All you know is that you need him. You want him. You want him to hold your face and kiss you tenderly, like he did that night. You want him to do it again and again until you can’t breathe, and all you can feel is him. You want to eat dinner with him every night and wake up in the morning to his stupid apron. You want to go grocery shopping with him. You want to fall asleep watching a movie in his arms.
“What am I to you?”
Tears fall down your cheeks in fat globs and you try your hardest not to let your voice crack. “My husband.”
His eyes widen for a moment, and then his lips split into a wide grin that resembles the lovesick expression of a teenage boy who’s holding hands for the first time. Caleb drops his grocery bag to his feet and reaches either hands to the sides of your face, cradling you gingerly as he guides you closer. Before you’re even registering it, he brushes a strand of hair out of your forehead and presses a soft but firm kiss to your temple, where you can feel him smile against your skin.
“Who am I to say no my wife?”
Your marriage is a messy, complicated jumble of emotions. The confusion. The fear. The warmth. It’s not perfect. It never will be. And despite it all, you don’t want it any other way, because Caleb Xia is a loving person.
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It’s a slow Saturday morning, and Zayne has been blessed with a midday shift, which means there is no rush in his morning routine and you can watch him prepare for the day in the comfort of your bed.
He looks extra handsome today, you think. Sleep still hangs over his eyes, his glasses hastily perched on that ridged nose. Stubble dots along his jaw, the soft angle hidden under morning shadow. You still feel it prickle on your skin from he kissed your shoulders.
Even his pajamas were doing something for you. You kick your feet under the blankets because he just makes you that giddy.
While Zayne prepares his razor for his morning shave, he turns his face this way and that, observing himself in the mirror.
“I think I’ve gained some weight,” he says, tone neutral.
You blink in surprise, tugged out of your love-stricken stupor by the sudden statement. When he swipes through the shaving cream rubbed onto his jaw, you see that the prominent line has softened some.
When Zayne reaches over to grab a towel, you see pale skin peek out from the bottom of his white t-shirt. A bit of belly greets you, and his happy trail invites your gaze lower.
You haven’t really noticed it, because his routine never changes. A morning run every day, and an hour gym session three times per week. It compensates for how often he eats take out in a time crunch and the macaron stash hidden in the second drawer of his desk (where he thinks you don’t know).
But now that he brought it up, he has all of your attention.
His shirt is a little more filled out than usual, and maybe you can see the outline of his thighs under the pajama pants. His arms look bulky, strong, all thanks to him insisting on pull-ups as a workout staple.
“Is that bad?” you ask, though you already know your answer.
Definitely, one-hundred percent, not bad in the slightest.
“No,” Zayne chuckles, and you realize that his eyes are already on you. You shift around in the bed, warm and inviting. “It’s normal with age.”
Zayne finishes his shave with time to spare, wiping the excess water and cream from his face, and takes his time lumbering back to your bed. You lean up, reaching out toward him, waiting for him to meet you in the middle, which he always does.
Your arms wrap around his middle. Your wandering hands don’t hesitate to hike his shirt up to feel the soft skin underneath. “Then why bring it up?”
Your hands run over his stomach, down to his hips, around the front tie of his pants. In return, he tugs off his shirt, letting you drink in his body with new eyes.
His smile is smug when you pepper his bare skin with kisses. “I thought you’d like to know.”
The sterile quiet of Zayne's office is broken by the soft vibration of his phone in his pocket.
He glances at the screen, the tension in his shoulders fading just a fraction when he sees your name. His lunch break had just started, nearly an hour before his next surgery. He'd planned to spend it reviewing paperwork and preparing for the next operation, but you were always a welcome distraction. He taps the screen before bringing his phone to his ear.
"I didn't expect a call this early." He says, his voice dropping into something softer and deeper. Something he reserved only for you. "Is everything alright?"
"I just wanted to say I love you... and ask about your day." You murmur, though you can't help the way your voice cracks. You were at home, tangled with your sheets, absolutely soaked for no reason. It wasn't fair. You needed him and he just wasn't there.
Zayne freezes, his pen hovering over a patient's chart. He's spent years training his ears to catch the slightest irregularity in a heartbeat or a breath, and right now, yours is a chaotic rhythm. You sound fragile, your lungs working too hard for someone sitting at home.
"My day is manageable." He replies slowly, narrowing his eyes as he leans back in his chair. "But you sound breathy. Have you been busy?"
"No. I've just... been around the house." You whisper.
"You sound like you've run a marathon." He counters, his tone shifting from casual to clinical, though a sliver of concern cuts through. "Your heart rate sounds elevated just from the way you're speaking. Do you have a fever?"
"I'm fine, Zayne. Really." But you aren't. Your tone is desperate, needy, pitched higher than usual. Through the phone, he can hear the rustle of sheets as you squirm around restlessly, the ache between your thighs far too much for you to handle.
Zayne hums in response, completely unconvinced. He glances at the little calendar on his desk, noting the little red star he'd written in. He knows your cycle better than you do. He always tracks the data, the symptoms, the biological shifts. He's so in tune with your body that he can tell where you are in your cycle purely off of how you smell.
"Your period is ten days away. You're ovulating."
That's the breaking point. A frustrated, jagged sob escapes your throat, sounding so raw it makes his hand tighten around his phone. You're so stupidly horny that all you can focus on is him. You need him. You need his fingers, his mouth... his cock stretching you open.
"I tried everything. I took a cold shower, I tried to do chores. I used... I used my own damn fingers, Zayne. Nothing is working. It's not enough. It's not you." You cry out, squeezing your thighs together in a desperate attempt to try and alleviate that deep, needy ache.
Zayne's breath hitches, which only earns a quiet whimper from you. The thought of you at home, flushed and desperate, driven to tears by a biological ache only he is allowed to soothe, drives every professional thought from his mind. He imagines how wet you must be, how your cunt is likely clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.
His cock throbs in his trousers. He stands abruptly, crossing his office to the heavy wooden door. The click of the lock is loud in the silence, loud enough for you to hear on your end.
"Zayne?" You whisper, your voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and curiosity. You hear the rustle of his white doctor's coat, the way he lets out a slow, controlled breath.
"If it's me you want, then you're going to listen very closely to what I tell you to do next."
That immediately grabs your attention. You pull your phone away from your ear with a confused whimper, as if double checking that you did indeed call Zayne. It's unlike him to indulge in your needs while he's at work, but you are in no place to argue.
"Are you sure?" You ask him softly, your breath hitching quietly.
"I am entirely sure." Zayne mumurs, the sheer weight of his devotion heavy in his voice. There's no judgement. No annoyance. Only a deep, vibrating promise to give you exactly what you've been crying for. He sits back in his chair, his free hand coming up to remove his glasses. You hear the soft clatter as they hit the edge of his desk, then the soft rustle of fabric as he undoes the buttons of his jacket.
"Put me on speaker, sweetheart. I want your hands free."
You obey instantly, your hands trembling as you set your phone down on your pillow right next to your head. The distance between his Asko Hospital office and your bedroom feels like it's shrinking, and for a split second, you're so delirious with need that you can almost feel his gaze on you.
"Good girl." He praises, the words a warm caress that has you squirming against your sheets. "Now, lie back. Spread your legs for me, just as if I were there kneeling before you." Through the phone, he can hear you shifting around. The mental image of you spread and wanting has a low groan leaving him.
"Close your eyes. Visualize my hands." He continues, his own breath hitching quietly as his free hand moves to his trousers. You can hear the metal click of his belt as he undoes it, the quiet hiss of his zipper. "Two fingers. Touch yourself for me. Slowly. Your clit is aching so much, isn't it?"
You slide a hand down your body, dipping right between your thighs, a ragged gasp tearing from your throat as your fingers find your swollen clit. rubbing slow, light circles into that sensitive peak. Your hips buck against your hand, quiet, needy moans leaving you. It's so good, so much better than when you had been touching yourself without the sound of his voice.
Zayne's focus is fully directed towards you, long fingers of his free hand wrapping around his fat cock. Outside his office, he can hear the rustle of carts, nurses speaking to each other, but he doesn't care. You're his biggest distraction, one that he wouldn't change for the world. He strokes himself in time with your heavy breathing, his eyes momentarily closing as he imagines you obeying his commands.
"S'not enough, Zayne... More... Need more." You beg him, your voice a desperate, breathy whine that has his own breath leaving him in a rush.
"Push your fingers inside. Tell me how wet you are. Tell me how easily you stretch yourself open for me." He commands, his knuckles white as he grips his phone. His thumb brushes along the tip of his cock, smearing precum down the length of him as he strokes himself.
You're quick to do as he commands, sliding your fingers through your slick folds until they're soaked before slowly, you push into your cunt. It's not nearly the same as when he fingers you, not the same initial stretch, but it works just fine for you now that you can hear him on the other end of the phone.
"Fuck, Zayne... M'soaked." You tell him. Your velvety walls clench around your own fingers as you push deeper, grinding against the heel of your hand. It's almost too much for you to handle. Your free hand grasps the sheets, your head tilted towards your phone to ensure he can hear just how good you feel.
In his office, Zayne tilts his head back against his chair, his breath coming in short, heavy pants. He can hear the wet slide of your fingers as you pump them into your needy little cunt, the pathetic, desperate edge your moans have taken on. He knows the signs. You're close.
He wonders if you got yourself close before you decided to dial his number. A shudder runs through his body at the thought.
"When I get home, I'm going to stay so deep inside you that you won't even remember your own name." He says, his voice low, ruined, his own release sneaking up quickly. "I'll fuck you all night if that's what you need, sweetheart. Until you're so full of me that I drip out of you for days. Is that what you want?"
"Zayneee... M'gonnacumsohard, fuck-" His filthy tone has your body tensing, a loud, shattered cry leaving your mouth as you fall apart around your fingers. You squirm, your head thrashing against your pillows. Through your phone, you can hear Zayne let out a muffled groan, his breathing frantic before a ragged gasp leaves him.
You're both quiet for a long moment, breathing heavy, slowly trying to come down from the high your body had demanded. You slowly withdraw your fingers with a quiet, shaky sigh, your entire body limp against the sheets. You can picture him in your mind, the calm Doctor Zayne so undone and messy simply because you'd called.
The thought has a satisfied hum coming from you.
Zayne is the first to move. You hear the rustle of paper towels as he cleans himself up, the soft hitch of his breath as he tucks his cock back into his trousers, then the jingle of his belt being fixed.
"I expect you to be waiting for me just like that when I walk through the door. Don't move too much." He says, his voice impossibly soft and affectionate.
"I will." You whisper in response, rolling over onto your side as if being closer to the phone might help you to feel closer to him.
"I have a consult in ten minutes." He murmurs. "I love you. See you soon, sweetheart."
Then the line clicks dead, leaving you flushed and counting down the seconds until his shift ends.
Who knew the Li's were closet freaks??
tags: married!zayne x reader + caleb. voyeurism. exhibitionism. unprotected sex. submissive puppyleb. use of 'good boy/good girl'.
a/n: this was meant to be a drabble, and it turned into around 2.7k words of smut. whoops. i've been thinking about married!zaynemc asking the other love interests to be their third.
Caleb was the first to find out. Obviously. He had known you and Zayne for years- his entire life- there were no more secrets left to hide.
Not even this one.
Zayne was surprisingly very, publicly, physically affectionate with you. Small touches here and there on your little dates, or kisses goodbye when he had to leave for work. He minded less so when Caleb was around. And Caleb was always there, an inevitable constant, so it made sense if he was there for everything.
Which is why he is here, kneeling on the floor of your living room, watching Zayne fuck you like he has all the time left in the world.
Caleb grips at his jeans so tightly he thinks he’ll rip right through them. He isn’t allowed to touch, not yet. His eyes are trained on the way Zayne disappears into your dripping cunt over and over again, a slow, steady rhythm that keeps you wanting. He knows that Zayne is hitting you deep, by the way you moan his name every time he fills you.
Caleb doesn’t know how it got to this point.
(A lie. He remembers the exact time and day he first caught the two of you fucking. In the kitchen, over burning eggs and spilled milk. His mechanically altered brain catalogued the memory into his hard drive after three weeks of jerking off to it every night.)
He thought you, the Li’s, would be more… coy about sex in general. Zayne used to burst into bright red flames if you even held his hand in front of Caleb, before you got married. The quiet, stern doctor couldn’t handle a little bit of skin contact.
Now, Caleb thinks it might’ve been for a different reason altogether.
It just kept happening— “getting caught”.
Innocent gestures at first. Kisses to your palm, and bounding hugs after a long day. Then it was making out in the car, Zayne’s hand under the table during a fancy dinner, you under his desk in the office during a lunch date. Caleb was there for all of it, when time would allow.
It reached a point where Caleb didn’t mind it anymore (he doesn’t think he was ever bothered by it, actually, which says more about his person than he’d like to think about.)
It was, probably, the insane level of attraction he had to the both of you. The closest people to his heart, together romantically and physically. It made sense to him that he would be turned on by the sight of you, instead of scared away.
The fact that you allowed him to be a part of it, only meant that you were all the same type of crazy.
He liked watching, and you and Zayne loved to be watched.
Fuck, his dick fucking hurts.
“Zayne,” you cry again, a long, pitiful whine that sends a tingle down Caleb’s spine. You bounce lightly on the man’s lap, energy running low as you get closer to your peak.
Zayne grips under your thighs, encouraging you to keep going, his own hips pushing up as he brings you down.
Both of you are still clothed, with only the buttons undone and belts unbuckled. The only article of clothing fully removed was your shirt, which is tossed onto the floor. Your pretty skirt is hiked up and panties pushed to the side, enough for Caleb to see.
Zayne checks to make sure, too, glasses askew as he peers over his shoulder to meet Caleb’s watchful eye. The other man smirks, and it makes Caleb twitch in his jeans.
“What’s wrong, my love?” Zayne asks you. A rhetorical question. A mean question. He knows, always knows, when you’re close, and when to push you past your limits.
He holds you loft, until all that’s left inside of you is the head of his cock. You try to push down, but Zayne stays firm, and you can only cry. “Wanna come.”
“I know,” he whispers in your ear. He sounds apologetic, like he isn’t the one keeping you from the very thing you want. “But you’ll have to be patient.”
Your arms wrap tightly around Zayne’s shoulders, a nonverbal plea to appeal to his soft side. It doesn’t work. Zayne’s eyes never leave Caleb, and his smile grows. He knows that look, a mirror image of your own mischievous grin when you have a bad (or really, really good) idea.
“Caleb, you’ve been a good boy.”
Caleb nods, not trusting himself to speak without stumbling over his words.
One of Zayne’s hands glides up to your ass, pulling at one cheek to expose you even further. Caleb’s eyes widen, following the trail of juices that leak out of you and stain the seam of Zayne’s slacks. He slips out of you, heavy dick bobbing against his thigh, and you are left gaping. “I think you deserve a treat.”
Oh, all thoughts of anything else are dashed from his mind. It’s only you and Zayne and all the fucking cum dripping onto the floor and he would lick every last drop off of the hardwood, if Zayne asked him to. His body moves before he can register, and his mouth dives deep into your waiting cunt.
“Caleb!” you gasp, and Zayne pinches the meat of your ass.
“That’s not my name.”
Caleb groans, tongue gliding over your puffy folds, drinking up every sound that you make and he’s careful to remember not to touch himself. He drinks you up straight from the source, then follows the seam of your pussy down to your throbbing clit. He flattens his tongue over it, pulsing lightly, waiting for your moan of approval. You do your best to grind on his face, even though Zayne is still holding your hips up to keep you from coming too quickly for his liking.
Caleb couldn’t pinpoint it until now, that he likes to be used. Or, more so, be useful, even in the bedroom. A plaything, a means to an end, for you, for Zayne, because he loves you both. You mean more to him than his own pleasure, and he wants to help his favorite people reach the end, even when it’s Zayne’s name you are calling in lieu of his own.
And you keep saying it, Zayne Zayne Zayne, until he lets your hips drop and Caleb’s tongue sucks roughly at your clit, his nose buried so deep into you that he forgets to breathe, and your first orgasm of the night rushes through you like a tidal wave.
Your body shakes under the force of it while Zayne sings you praise and Caleb shoves two fingers into your fluttering hole, giving you something to clench around. When Caleb pulls his mouth away to watch all of your juices coat Zayne’s hardness, thumb replacing his hot tongue on the sensitive nub, he takes the opportunity to do what he’s meant to— clean up the mess.
Caleb grabs the shaft with his other hand, more roughly than he should have (curse this prosthetic sometimes), and takes half in one fell swoop. He can’t help it. Zayne is modestly big, curved up at the end, thick at the base. Picture perfect. He doesn’t know how he can take so much into his throat at once- maybe it’s the adrenaline, the overwhelming lust, he doesn’t fucking care, because Zayne moans so loud and you follow his lead, it’s like Caleb’s own personal choir.
His hand strokes what his mouth can’t reach yet, the head already pressing the soft spot in his throat. He times it so that he thrusts his fingers into you at the same time he pushes in with Zayne, and he’s a proxy for your two bodies to fuck through him.
His eyes fall shut as he loses himself to the motions, only feeling the two of you everywhere. The sounds you make, the pleasure you feel, is because of him, and it only encourages him to keep going.
You come again, not as intensely as the first, but it has you crying helplessly. You find the last of your strength to pull off of Caleb, lying heavily on top of your husband, body melting into his while you catch your breath. If Caleb looks up, he can see you kiss at Zayne’s face and neck, smearing spit into his exposed skin. Zayne strokes your thighs, then your hips, then finally wraps his arms around your waist, helping you come down with such a soft touch and that easy, proud smile.
“You’re a good girl,” he says to you, sweet and slow as syrup. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
You are completely entranced by him, only focused on him and his sugary words. You still blush at the sound of them, as if you didn’t just come all over another man’s face, who is still kneeling under you. You haven’t looked at Caleb once. Your back is to him while Zayne takes the credit, and it’s that thrill of faux jealousy that makes Caleb hump at the air.
Caleb wants to be acknowledged, too. He wants to be good, has been good all this time. Caleb wants to prove to Zayne just how good he is.
So he licks up the length of Zayne’s cock, following the vein on the under side to the bulbous tip. He sucks at the head with the same fervor he did with your clit— it ilicits the same long moan but not enough to make him come like you. Caleb swirls his tongue around, poking at the slit, lips pursing like he’s making out with Zayne’s cock.
Fuck, he really wants to kiss you. And maybe he’s being greedy now, because he imagines you kneeling down here with him, and how pouty you’d be if Caleb was hogging your husband’s heavy dick in his mouth while you run your spit down the shaft and meet his lips at the tip.
It only spurs him on. Caleb’s favorite pastime is teasing the hell out of you, after all. He tries to work down as far as he can, inch after inch disappearing into his hot mouth, until Caleb can almost reach the base. His head bobs there for a long moment, just feeling the weight of him, the taste of you still on his tongue.
Zayne bucks up forcefully, suddenly, jostling Caleb and causing him to gag. He pulls off just in time to gasp a lungful of air.
“Sorry, puppy,” Zayne says, a little shocked by himself. Caleb realizes that he made Zayne lose control, just for a second. The biggest compliment, according to you, is when Zayne can’t help himself. Long fingers pet at his hair in apology. There is no need for one, Caleb thinks, he takes this as a success.
Instead, Caleb allows himself to rest a hand at the crest of your back, smooth and sweat-slicked. Your face remains tucked in the crook of Zayne’s neck, though you’re much more relaxed than before. He pumps his fist up Zayne’s cock a couple more times, before positioning it in front of your waiting hole.
“Good boy,” Zayne coos, once he realizes what Caleb is doing.
“Thank you, puppy,” you chime in right after, and Caleb presses the head in, watching how you suck him in greedily. guiding you to sink down the entire length slowly. It’s a slow crawl, because this is Caleb’s reward for himself, your pussy stretches around Zayne like it was made for it. It is. You’re perfect for each other in every way. Caleb can never get enough. He’d do anything the two of you ask, as long as he can be with you, as long as he can witness the two of you sink into each other for the rest of his days.
Once you sit fully on Zayne’s weeping cock, a sigh of utter satisfaction leaves your lungs, and Zayne takes it into his with a whirlwind kiss.
Caleb stands on wobbly legs, the hand still on your back helping you rock your body back and forth over Zayne. From here, Caleb can see everything. Zayne’s iron grip around your waist, the hickies you left on his neck. Your tongues exploring each others’ mouths unabashedly, the breaths you exchange in between them. It’s you and Zayne written all over each others’ bodies. Caleb wants to leave his mark, too.
“Please,” he manages to eke out. He palms at the neglected bulge in his pants. Technically it’s not breaking the rules if there’s a layer of clothes in the way, right? “Zayne. Please, I want to-“
“Go ahead, puppy,” Zayne cuts him off, breathless from your kiss. “You can touch yourself.”
And you are back on his lips the moment he finishes that sentence, starved for his attention.
Caleb unbuttons his pants and tugs himself out of his boxers, too impatient for anything else. He spits in one hand, not wanting to be selfish and ask you for yours. He’s greedy, too, jerking himself in stuttering strokes, every pass of his hand like an electric shock of hot pleasure. He does his best to keep some semblance of a tempo, following the way your body lifts up, and smacks back down. Wet plaps echo through your living room, all three of your voices filling the space, and Caleb (almost, not really) feels bad for your neighbors.
Zayne’s cool hand lands on his, the one on your back, threading his fingers in a semi-awkward position, enough to loop the pinkies, but it grounds Caleb, an anchor in the rolling sea. At the same time, you reach a hand behind you, searching for a part of him to grab, landing on his wrist.
Zayne pulls you in tighter, whispering about how good you and Caleb are, how divine you feel, how kind Caleb is to let you come. His hips thrust up into you from below, faster and harder than the teasing pace from before. Your combined juices leave a nasty mix around Zayne’s cock, a frothy ring forming around your cunt.
Caleb can do nothing but whimper, guttural yelps forced from his gut with every pathetic word he cries. "Please, please, Pips. Please come."
He grips tightly around his base, so painfully hard that his skin is turning an angry red, to stop himself from busting too early, waiting for your permission. You turn your head, nodding in time with Zayne’s thrusts, and you must be getting close, too, by the way Caleb can see you squeeze around your husband. God, his resolve is breaking. He strokes his entire length, swiping over the head and gathering the pre-cum to jerk back down.
What breaks him is when your eyes finally meet, your pupils blown wide and empty, with a pleading furrow in your brow. He comes on your back, thick spurts painting your intertwined hands, with a loud drawn out groan.
It sets off a chain reaction, and Zayne releases inside you right after. It doesn't take you long to follow, not with Zayne's rough voice at your ear and Caleb massaging his cum over your skin.
He'll apologize for making such a mess later, but for now he is delighting in the sight. Zayne even has the audacity to untangle his cum-covered fingers and stick them into his mouth.
The three of you stay like this for a while, breathing heavy, relishing in the storm of sweet release.
Your hips twitch, riding the aftershocks, Zayne’s cum leaking from you steadily, still not ready to pull out.
“Thank you,” Caleb manages after a while. “For letting me watch.”
“Of course, puppy,” Zayne replies. “But don’t you want your reward?”
His ears perk up. Reward?
Caleb realizes that you never stopped looking at him. Not since you twisted your body around just to watch him bust a load all over your back.
You pop off of Zayne’s cock, cum spilling from your puffy cunt, and turn around so that you’re facing Caleb now. You position your knees outside of Zayne’s so that you’re properly on display for Caleb’s hungry eyes. Zayne’s hands roam over you, showing off his prize. One tweaks at a hard nipple, while the other spreads your pussy lips wide. Zayne, on the other hand, is already half-hard, cock bobbing back to life between your legs.
“You get to choose who fucks you first, puppy.”
Oh, fuck. The Li’s are going to be the death of him.
[ how they c-m + when they clean you with their mouths ]
featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel, caleb
[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]
you were settled on top of the proud onychinus leader, riding him sloppily as you chased your high. with your palms pressed against his broad chest, you kept bouncing up and down his cock-
practically melting when he let out low groans of your name with each push of your hips.
you felt your walls clench around him, surrounding his cock with your juices as you cried out to him-
your hips stilled as you basked in the sensation of his seed filling you to the brim as your cunt worked on milking him for all he was worth. you felt every twitch of his cock and the way he weakly thrusts upwards into you, ensuring he was completely emptied before you landed on him.
for several seconds, you remain in a comfortable silence. your cheek (damp with sweat), rests against his broad chest as you attempt to even out your breathing. just as your heart rate slows to a regular pace-
sylus begins to move.
the first sensation you felt was his soft cock slipping out of your heat, earning a soft moan of protest from you. feeling too weak to move, you didn’t even complain when sylus swaps positions with you. placing your naked form against the bed, he flashes you a mischievous grin before settling himself between your legs.
“w-what are you doing?” the heat of his breath felt against your sensitive cunt causes a wave of heat down your spine. when he doesn’t answer you, you were about to ask again-
only to feel your words dies against your throat when he engulfs your aching sex with his mouth, tongue already exploring your channel as he worked on cleaning the evidence of your respective releases away.
your eyes roll to the back of your head as sylus devours you, losing all of your senses as he kept sucking-
feeling as though he were ready to devour the entirety of your soul as you became weak to his growing hunger.
you gasp when zayne kept pumping himself into you-
keeping your body pressed against the bed as he worked on chasing his high while constantly building up your pleasure. the tightness in your abdomen was close to snapping, and when you arched your back in response to the way zayne slightly tilted his hips-
you allowed your release to crash down on you-
consuming you in the sweetest of ways as you clenched around zayne, feeling him shoot his essence within your heat before inevitably collapsing above you.
your heart does this weird flutter within your chest, seeing how zayne looked utterly wrecked due to what had just transpired. his usually calm and composed demeanor was nowhere to be seen-
from the way his hair became mussed due to how your hands kept constantly running through them,
to how his lips were slighted parted as a prominent blush dyes his usually refined cheekbones-
you were utterly enamored with him.
after a few minutes had passed, he groans, kissing at your lips while pulling out of you at the same time. zayne’s expression was apologetic for a few seconds before he spreads your legs, settling himself between them without another word.
you sit up in bed, picking yourself up with the help of your elbows. you were about to question him when zayne suddenly surges forward, covering the entirety of your entrance with his hot mouth. losing all train of thought, you lost momentum and fall back into the mattress-
mind going hazy when his tongue pushes deeper into your channel, licking away all of the evidence of your respective arousals with a groan. you felt each little sound he made vibrating through you, making you cry out as you bite down on your fist to get some semblance of control.
yet when you felt zayne’s tongue curling around on your swollen clit, you knew all of your inhibitions had left you as you came into his hot and eager mouth-
knowing that this was far from over when you felt him smiling against your core.
you were on your hands and knees when xavier mounted you-
feeling every breathtaking inch of him in this new angle as he manages to reach even deeper inside of you-
making you feel him in parts that you didn’t even know existed.
as your hands clawed at the sheets, you felt xavier’s heavy weight settled on top of your back. he braces himself over you, sliding his cock in and out of your core at a rapid pace while chasing his high.
with your climax quickly approaching, you cling to the comforter with your hands, letting out a loud moan of his name as your walls clenched around his cock, pulling him deeper into your heat as your juices were felt running down your inner thighs. xavier reaches his completion just mere seconds later, biting down on the back of your shoulder before removing his limp cock from your dripping sex.
believing he was satisfied, you were ready to lay down and rest-
only to have xavier’s hand stop you as he calls out your name.
“not yet, starlight. you need to be cleaned.”
his gentle words masks the sinfulness of his actions as you felt him behind you, pressing his lips against your cunt as he licks away all of your juices mixed in with his seed. you feel your skin heating up in response to his actions, making your knees tremble as you tried to stay in an upright position.
as if sensing your struggles, your philos prince grips you by the hips, keeping you steady with both hands just as his tongue slips into your tight channel. you were trembling now, knowing that his actions would cause you to climax again as you fought against such a hedonistic sensation-
only to realize that the battle had already been lost the moment xavier began flicking his tongue over your swollen clit as you felt the familiar tightness in your abdomen snap all over again.
rafayel lay behind you in bed, watching with an avid adoration at your backside. you were bouncing yourself above him, bracing yourself on top of his knees as both of your moans echoed throughout the room.
you hear the lemurian’s soft whisper of your name, tone filled with such worship that you had to slow down your movements just to look back and kiss him. with your lips locked with his, rafayel continues to move for you-
his upward thrusts meeting with your hips each time as he draws out your release with ease. as if responding to your silent desires, he grips at your hips one last time with a sharp angled thrust that causes you to see stars just moments later.
you felt your climax hitting you in waves, your legs tightened around him, making rafayel feel every inch of your cunt clenching him oh so sweetly in response. letting out a gasp of your name, rafayel hides his face within the curve of your neck, filling your silky walls with his seed.
by the end of your intimacy, you had been turned into mush. you fall against his slightly damp chest, ready to sleep when he suddenly spreads your legs, dipping his fingers into your heat as he draws out the evidence of your completion.
you moan at the sensation, eyes going hazy when he removes his slender fingertips. rafayel looks at how wet his fingers had become, cloudy with his seed yet still retaining the shininess of your honeyed arousal. without missing a beat, he leans in and licks away at the evidence of your respective climaxes-
causing your whole body to became engulfed in flames at the mere sight.
“mmmm… so good.” rafayel’s eyes had turned into deep onyx when he lays you back in bed, “why don’t you just sit back and let me get a real taste of you… since i have no intention of stopping, princess.”
caleb had your back pressed to his chest with your legs held open by his hands alone. he kept whispering filthy things within your ear all while slotting his cock in and out of your heat like he owned it-
(he did, but you wouldn’t willingly admit such a thing to him.)
he had taken you while just waking up in the morning, too stubborn to simply ignore his morning wood as he used you as a means to alleviate his symptoms. you had lost count of how many rounds he had given you (or the times you had came so quickly), yet you felt like he was nearing the end of his passions.
the telltale signs were there-
the way his cock grew a bit bigger,
how his thick girth kept brushing against your swollen bundle of nerves, (still so eager to tease even when he already has you)-
and how his breathing became more uneven and labored before stilling his hips completely inside of you.
you felt him before you could hear his deep grunts, feeling thick ropes of his cum painting your walls white as your overly sensitive cunt gave him one last clench. your juices mixed with the thickness of his seed, and you were grateful that your colonel was finally satisfied.
at least, that’s what you had hoped for.
caleb slides of your heat with a low groan before lying you back down. “tired already? that’s no good, babe…”
he trails off before spreading your legs wider for him, “look… i can’t leave this pretty flower in such a messy state. i gotta clean her up.”
without any further warnings, you gasp when you felt caleb surging forward, engulfing the entirety of your cunt as his tongue works on devouring the evidence of your respective release. you felt every push and twist of his tongue in your tight channel, making you cry out to him when your hands automatically delve themselves into his messy hair.
caleb’s groans of satisfactions vibrates through you as you clench your legs around his face-
perhaps you were becoming just as addicted as he was as you found yourself matching with caleb’s insatiable thirst.
end notes: woke up from a wet dream lowkey and had to immortalize it in an unedited daydream 🙂↕️
all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!
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