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dijayeah · 1 month ago

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Cold Hands, Hot Metal // Zayne

✦ part 2 of CHAIN REACTION series ✦ FILE:002 ✦ Zayne

zayne x fem!reader // [AO3] // wc: 3.7k // NSFW MDNI 🔞 // ♡ / ↻ — appreciated!

♡ Summary:

His hazel-green eyes followed the subtle dip of the metal where it crossed your collarbone, and his sharp jaw tensed. He placed the tool down with slow deliberation. “What’s that?” You blinked as if confused. “What’s what?” “That,” he repeated, voice quieter now. He didn’t wait for permission. One cool hand lifted and brushed your skin, fingers tracing the delicate gold strand where it looped across your shoulder and dipped low, following the slope of your chest. The tiny metal beads shifted with the movement, clinking together in soft protest.

♡ Content:

★NSFW. Jewelry kink (chest chain). Possessive behavior. Lab setting. Lap sex. Fingering. Breast worship. Marking. Creampie. Established relationship. Dirty talk. Semi-public risk. Obsession slipping through composure. Glasses off, shirt still on. Controlled man unraveling in real time. Chain tension = emotional tension.

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft hiss, swallowed by the hum of machinery and the low flicker of blue light spilling from the overheads. His workshop always felt colder than it should have, and you weren’t sure if it was the high-end coolant system running diagnostics on scattered medical prototypes, or simply the way his evol saturated the air long after he was done using it.

Zayne had converted one of the hospital’s unused lower-floor labs into his personal workspace, off the books, of course, because there were too many restrictions otherwise. Within these walls, hidden behind encryption layers and bio-locks, he kept half-built devices, precision tools, discarded data slates, and a variety of machines you couldn’t begin to name but instinctively knew could just as easily save a life as dismantle it. It was the only place you had ever seen him loosen his tie, figuratively and literally, excluding the rare occasion you found yourself in his home.

He stood at the center table now, sleeves rolled to the elbows of a black shirt, most buttons still perfectly fastened despite the hour. His long, elegant fingers moved with that same precise rhythm you had seen countless times in the operating room, working over some narrow circuit panel that shimmered faintly under the cold lighting. Surgical tools lay scattered across the bench, repurposed for technological procedure. The bluish glow of his datapad illuminated the sharp lines of his face and flickered against the lenses of his silver-framed glasses.

You hovered at the edge of the space, not quite ready to interrupt. When the silence stretched too long, you stepped forward.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” you said quietly, placing the takeout bag near the edge of the table. The scent of warm soy and spice drifted up into the sterile chill of the room.

“I was busy,” he answered without lifting his gaze.

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

You leaned slightly forward, letting your hip rest against the edge of the bench as you looked at him. “You say that every time, unless sweets are involved.”

That drew a glance, brief but unmistakable. His eyes flicked to yours, cool and sharp behind the lenses, before trailing downward. You recognized the shift, felt it like a static charge threading through the air. His gaze paused too long on your neckline, his composure slipping ever so slightly.

You wore a fitted tank top with a square neck, ribbed and plain, and beneath it rested the delicate gold chain you had clasped on in your apartment hours earlier. It had felt harmless then, like a silent indulgence meant for no one else. But now, under the weight of Zayne’s attention, it shimmered with something heavier.

His hazel-green eyes followed the subtle dip of the metal where it crossed your collarbone, and his sharp jaw tensed. He placed the tool down with slow deliberation.

“What’s that?”

You blinked as if confused. “What’s what?”

“That,” he repeated, voice quieter now.

He didn’t wait for permission. One cool hand lifted and brushed your skin, fingers tracing the delicate gold strand where it looped across your shoulder and dipped low, following the slope of your chest. The tiny metal beads shifted with the movement, clinking together in soft protest.

“You wore this knowing I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it, didn’t you? Tease.”

“Maybe,” you murmured.

He exhaled slowly, a measured breath more reminiscent of the ones he took before a complex surgery than anything else. “Then don’t expect me to stop when I start.”

He rolled his chair back, parting his knees with that same quiet control he applied to everything. The space between them was not large, but it was purposeful.

“Come here.”

Your pulse picked up even before you took the first step. The warmth from the takeout still lingered on your fingertips, but the chill of his touch had left a trail that prickled along your skin. You moved slowly, bridging the small distance between his knees until you were close enough to see the way his pupils had dilated behind the glass. He reached up without hesitation, fingers curling beneath the hem of your tank top, lifting it just enough to reveal the delicate crisscross of gold draped along your sternum.

The light from the overheads caught the chain as it shifted, casting faint reflections onto his knuckles. He studied it like a new variable in a surgery, something worth mapping out in slow, deliberate movements. One hand settled on your hip, guiding you to sit on his lap, and the other smoothed up your spine with the barest pressure, keeping you close as if afraid you'd second guess yourself.

“You wore this here,” he said, voice low and even, “where you knew I’d see it. Where you knew I’d touch it.”

The words weren’t accusatory, rather so they were certain.

Your legs straddled his without thinking, bare thighs grazing the inside of his slack trousers. The soft fabric of your tank lifted higher as his fingers traced the underside of the chain, letting it shift and tighten against your skin, the faintest pressure a tease of something more.

“I can’t think straight when you do things like this,” he murmured, brushing his mouth over your collarbone. “You know that, don’t you?”

You nodded, barely, words weren’t needed.

His lips parted against your skin, breath ghosting over the spot where chain met flesh, and then he kissed you. The press of his mouth was tender at first, reverent even, but the restraint unraveled fast. You felt the shift the moment his hand gripped your waist harder, the careful surgeon’s control slipping as he dragged you closer against the line of his hard body. The chain bit softly into your skin as his fingers toyed with it, tracing it along the top swell of your chest with a precision that bordered on obsessive, and when you shifted your hips to meet him, you felt the way his composure near shattered all at once.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, teeth grazing your collarbone, and then he was moving with intent, hands under your thighs, pulling you tighter into his lap, mouth dragging up your neck with a kind of desperation you rarely saw in him. One hand fully slipped beneath your top, palm cool against your ribs (perhaps the work of his evol), rising until he reached the anchor point of the chain. He didn’t tug, not yet, he just held it there, tension vibrating through his grip like he was trying to decide whether to worship you or ruin you.

“Do you have any idea what this does to me?” he said while frowning, voice hoarse, almost bitter with how much he meant it. “You sit here wearing this like it’s nothing. Like you don’t know what it means.”

He shifted again, and this time, the arm that had lingered at your ribs moved higher. His fingers brushed the curve of your breast, light enough to make you shiver, and when he felt the bare skin there, the realization dawned instantly. No bra. The sharp inhale he took made your stomach twist. His hand stilled for a second, then resumed its path with more purpose. The pad of his thumb ghosted over your nipple, which had already begun to harden beneath his touch. You saw the flicker in his expression, a fracture in that professional mask he always wore like armor.

His glasses slid slightly down his nose, and without breaking eye contact, he reached up and removed them with a smooth, practiced motion, setting them down beside him. The intensity in his gaze sharpened, no longer buffered by the polished lenses. His lips caught yours with none of the earlier patience, devouring instead of asking, tongue pushing past your teeth as his hands cupped your breasts fully now, thumbs grazing and rolling with slow, deliberate pressure that had you gasping each time.

You moaned into his mouth, thighs tightening around his hips as you rocked instinctively. The chain shifted again, caught between your bodies, and he groaned low and unrestrained at the sound.

“Fuck,” he breathed, dragging his mouth along your soft jaw. “You don’t get to wear something like this, sit on my lap like this, and expect me to hold back.”

His thumbs teased your nipples again, harder this time, coaxing another gasp out of you as he bent his head, lips replacing his fingers. His mouth was hot, almost fevered as he sucked gently, then not so gently, tongue swirling until you could feel the tension winding deep in your stomach. He kissed across your chest, lavishing attention on every exposed inch, chain clinking with each motion like a reminder of your intent.

He looked up at you through his dark lashes, green eyes darker than you had ever seen them.

“Take this off,” he said, tugging at the hem of your tank, voice rough and barely restrained. “I want to see all of it. Every link, every mark it leaves on you.”

You peeled the tank top over your head, slow and a little shaky under the weight of his gaze. As the fabric slipped away, the chain remained pressed delicately to your skin, a golden lattice that curved over your breasts and disappeared beneath the waistband of your shorts. Zayne didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His expression darkened with something that hovered between reverence and obsession, his hand lifting to trace the indentations the chain had left across your skin.

Then he leaned forward and kissed just beneath your collarbone, lips parting around the dip where metal met skin, and the sound he made as he nipped there, low and guttural, sounded almost like he hated how much he needed you. You felt the sting of teeth, just enough to spark more heat in your body, then the warm glide of his tongue as he soothed the mark. He left another kiss lower, and another after that, descending slowly until his mouth closed over your nipple again with renewed hunger.

You rocked into him, grinding against the thick line of his cock beneath his slacks, and he groaned into your chest, voice wrecked.

“Fuck, look at you.” His hand trailed down between your thighs, fingers brushing the edge of your shorts. “So needy already.”

You nodded, breath catching as his fingertips slipped under the waistband, no teasing this time. He found the heat there easily, groaning again when he felt how wet you were.

“I want you to ride me right here,” he said, voice rough with hunger and arousal, his hand cupping you through your soaked panties before sliding lower, fingers curling in a way that made your thighs tremble. “Under these lights so I can see every time this chain moves when you bounce on my cock.”

He slipped two fingers inside without warning, his other hand splayed across your lower back to keep you steady, and the stretch was immediate and perfect. You gasped, nails digging into his broad shoulders as he curled his fingers with surgical precision, each movement calculated to unravel you. His mouth was back on your chest, lips parting around your nipple as he sucked hard enough to leave a mark, then dragged his teeth across the swell of your breast in a way that made your hips stutter forward into his hand.

“I want to feel you lose it on top of me,” he growled, fucking you slow with his fingers while his mouth stayed latched to your skin. “I want you loud. Shaking. Wearing nothing but this fucking chain.”

You whimpered as he thrust his fingers deeper, a sharp curl of pleasure blooming low in your stomach. The chain across your chest jostled with every twitch of your hips, beads whispering against your skin while his tongue continued its hungry path. He only paused when you began tugging at your waistband, desperate now, the fabric clinging to your thighs with each roll of your hips.

“Take them off,” he murmured, the rasp in his voice deeper now, almost dangerous, a command.

You rose just enough to strip the shorts down your legs, and he helped where he could, scarred hands rough but careful, jade eyes locked to the soaked fabric clinging to your thighs. His gaze dragged back up your body once they hit the floor, lingering on the gold that gleamed across your skin and the flush blooming on your chest.

The doctor looked devastating like this—shirt still on, sleeves rolled back to reveal the lean strength of his forearms, tousled black hair falling into his face, glasses long forgotten, and that restrained fury in his expression like he was just barely holding himself together. There was a smudge of your nude lipstick on his jaw, faint and crooked. His hazel-green eyes drank you in with such intensity it felt like he was memorizing every inch.

You reached down between your bodies, palm gliding over the outline of his cock through the fabric of his slacks, and felt the shiver ripple through him like it was hardwired into his spine. His breath stuttered, a low curse tumbling past his lips as you unfastened his pants with a deliberate flick, slipping your hand inside with near desperation. The sticky heat of him was immediate and unforgiving, your fingers wrapping around his dick, teasing, stroking him just enough to feel the way he throbbed in your grip as you smeared a bead of precum down to his base.

"God, you're hard already," you whispered against the curve of his jaw, watching his head tip back, exposing the stretch of his thick throat. "You want me that bad? From just a chain and a little skin?"

He hissed through his teeth, jaw tightening as he fought to hold still. "You know what you’re doing. You wore that damn chain like a collar. Like you wanted to be owned. Did you expect a different result?"

You pumped him harder in response, and the strangled sound he made sent heat rushing straight to your core. "Mhm, maybe," you murmured. "Or maybe I want you to fuck me like you own me. Want you to fill me up right here in your precious little lab that gets more attention than me."

Oh, oh, that broke something in him. His hand snapped around your wrist, not rough but firm, stopping your strokes in a heartbeat. His voice was a snarl in your ear, low and guttural. "Enough. Let me in."

He leaned back just enough to reach between your thighs again, fingers dipping into your wet pussy once more, slick gathering easily along his knuckles. He pulled them free slowly, deliberately, watching the way your breath caught as he smeared it over the flushed head of his cock. The sound he made—rough, ruined—was one you’d likely never forget. He pumped himself once, then twice, coating every inch in the string of sheen wetness he’d just stolen from you.

"Look at that," he muttered darkly, thumb swiping over the tip as his other hand dragged you up closer by the hips. "You’re dripping for me. Fucking soaking. Do you know what that does to me?"

You whimpered, thighs tightening around his waist, your nails curling into his shoulders, his shirt.

"Then stop talking and let me ride you," you breathed, leaning in until your teeth grazed his earlobe. "I want to feel you split me open. Want to see how messy you get when I take you all the way in."

He growled your name like it hurt to hold back, hands guiding you as you rose just enough to line him up. The blunt head of his cock nudged against your entrance, and the stretch was immediate, slow and thick and devastating in the best way as you began to sink down onto him.

"That’s it," he gasped, head tipping back as your walls clenched around him. "Take all of me. Just like that. Don’t stop until I feel you lose it."

Your hands gripped his shoulders as you lowered yourself the rest of the way, breath stuttering as he filled you inch by inch, until your hips met and the chain draped across your chest trembled between you both, glinting across the black fabric of his shirt.

For once, you didn’t wait for him to adjust. Instead, you leaned in and kissed him like you were claiming him back, tongue greedy, lips messy, your fingers threading into his hair as he groaned into your mouth. It wasn’t soft, and it wasn’t pretty. It was teeth and breath and the clumsy clash of mouths that only happened when you both wanted too much, too fast because you had gone without for so long.

"This is insane," you muttered against his lips between kisses, laughing breathlessly. "We’re literally fucking in a lab."

Zayne chuckled, the sound ragged as he bit down gently on your lower lip. "Then stop talking and fuck me like you mean it, love."

You rocked your hips once, then again, dragging yourself slowly up his length before dropping back down, harder this time. He cursed under his breath, large hands flying to your hips to steady you, to control the rhythm, even as you fought it—rising and falling just to watch his composure unravel further. The chain between your tits bounced with every movement, clinking softly, catching in the sterile overhead light.

"You really picked my lab for this?" he muttered, voice rough, half-laughing through a sharp exhale as you sank down harder on him. "Of all places."

"Y-you're the one who kept ignoring my messages," you breathed, grinding down with a deliberate roll of your hips. "Maybe if you left work at a normal hour for once, I wouldn't have had to take drastic measures."

Zayne’s hands flexed at your waist, fingers digging into your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to drag you down harder or hold you still and ruin you slow. "Drastic," he repeated, sharp eyes flicking to the chain glinting across your chest. "You wore that just to test me."

You leaned in, panting softly, painted lips brushing his ear. "I wore it so you’d snap. Guess I got what I wanted, hmm?"

He growled low in his throat at the rasp in your voice, hands suddenly yanking you down flush against him, burying himself to the hilt. "You think you can provoke me and not take the consequences?”

Before you could throw back a smug reply, the man’s hands flexed beneath your thighs, grounding you there with brutal intent. Then he moved, hard. His hips snapped up into yours with an urgency that knocked the breath from your lungs, each thrust deep and punishing, perfectly angled to chase the liquid heat building low in your belly.

Your back arched instinctively, and suddenly your breasts were right in his face. He wasted no time—his mouth latched onto one, tongue hot and messy as he sucked greedily, teeth dragging across the curve just to hear the way your breath stuttered as he worshipped you with his cock and mouth.

The sounds between you were obscene. Slick, wet, endless. His cock dragged through your soaked walls with every stroke, loud and raw, your body giving and clenching around him like it was made for this.

His moans were muffled by your skin, breath coming fast now, and every few seconds he bit down on another patch of supple skin—tiny marks left behind, smudged by saliva, by your sweat, by the trembling edge of your shared need. You threaded your fingers into his hair and held him there, hips meeting his in rhythmless, frantic motion.

“Zayne—” You were close. He could feel it. He could hear it in your voice, in the way your walls fluttered around him.

“Come for me,” he groaned, lips slick against your chest, panting. “Want to feel it. Want to feel all of you.”

It hit fast—your climax tore through you with a sharp cry, hips grinding down as your body locked around his, shuddering. That was all it took, really. Zayne’s grip on your waist turned bruising as he thrust up one more time and buried himself deep, groaning your name like a prayer as he came with thick spurts of white inside of you, mixing both of your juices to the point it left a nice ring at the base of his cock.

The world narrowed to heat and breath and trembling limbs, the smell of sex thick in the air of the sterile lab, your bodies tangled in the low hum of machines and the fading buzz of overhead light.

It took a moment before either of you moved, your chest still heaving, the chain cold against sweat-slicked skin. The raven-haired man was the first to break the silence, pressing a kiss just above your sternum, where the metal met flesh.

“I should report this,” he muttered, voice still ruined, a hint of humor in it, lips brushing your collarbone. “Unauthorized use of lab equipment. Suspicious food smuggling in a takeaway bag.”

You gave a breathless laugh, curling your fingers into his hair in a softer manner, combing through the short strands. “Check the takeout. There’s a caramel almond tart in there.”

He blinked up at you, dazed. “Seriously?”

“You think I came here with just noodles and seduction?” you said, brushing a kiss along the edge of his jaw. “Please. I know your weaknesses.”

Zayne groaned, tipping his head back slightly with a sound that bordered on a growl. “You brought dessert. Fucked me in my lab. And somehow convinced me this wasn’t a hostile takeover.”

“It’s not hostile if you liked it.” You kissed him again, soft and smug.

Your boyfriend sighed through his nose, hands tightening lightly around your hips to make sure you stayed still. “Fine. Five minutes. Then we eat. But you're not leaving my lap.” He kissed your temple.

a/n: divider by @/cafekitsune // fic by: @dijayeah

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dijayeah · 1 month ago

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✧･ﾟ* The Contortionist — Chapter 3 ✧･ﾟ*

Sylus x Fem!Reader | Multichap | Stalker!Sylus AU | Neighbors AU

《 Previous chapter || Next chapter 》 // [AO3] // wc: 8.2k // 🔞 // ♡ / ↻ — appreciated!

a/n: inspired by Melanie Martinez’s The Contortionist because, let’s be real, Sylus is bending reality to make you fit into his life, whether you realize it or not.

♡ Summary:

You were supposed to forget about the man you helped that day. He didn’t. Now he’s apparently your neighbor, someone who is almost obsessively set on learning your routines (unbeknownst to you, by the way) like they were meant to be memorized. The walls are thin, and his patience—well, it stretches, bends, but never breaks. And when you start dreaming of him—of hands that have touched you before, of whispered words you shouldn’t remember—you have to wonder… is this fate, or something far more twisted?

♡ Content:

★ NSFW, dark romance, obsessive behavior, power dynamics, emotional manipulation, slow burn but make it simmer. Stalker!Sylus with a five-year plan, casual gaslighting (romantic???), sexual tension, eventual smut. Neighbors-to-lovers but he literally bought your building. Masturbation, choking, fingering, vaginal sex, sex toys, dom/sub elements, bickering, and prophetic dreams that might not be dreams at all. Crack treated seriously, red flags ignored, therapy? No. Moving in next door? Yes.

You set the package down on your kitchen counter like it might detonate if handled wrong. The matte black box looked expensive, its surface smooth and strangely soft to the touch, almost like velvet. It absorbed the weak afternoon light like it was made to hide things. The corners were perfectly crisp, the seal unbroken. There was no return address, no branding, no receipt, just your name written in small, deliberate lettering at the top of the lid. Not printed, just handwritten. That detail alone made your stomach twist. He had written it himself. You could feel it.

You circled the package once, then again, as if changing the angle might make it less ominous. But hell, it didn’t.

Finally, you reached for a kitchen knife—the one you used for stubborn plastic packaging and your occasional late-night attempts at adulting—and slid it gently beneath the seam. The cardboard opened with a muted hiss, giving way too easily, like it had been waiting for you specifically.

Inside, nestled in folds of soft black fabric, was a book.

Not just any book. It was old, beautiful, and bound in cracked leather the color of dried blood, with delicate gold filigree curling up the spine in patterns that felt almost arcane. It looked like something stolen from a library that didn’t exist anymore. Your breath caught as you reached for it. The leather cover was strangely warm beneath your fingertips, worn smooth with age.

You opened it carefully, the spine creaking faintly under the movement. The pages were yellowed and brittle at the edges, but the ink still remained vivid on most parts. You noticed then—tucked between two pages was a pressed flower—violet, faded with time, its fragile petals curled inwards. It marked a passage about three-quarters of the way through.

You leaned in to read.

"I dreamed of you before the world began,

Before bone, before breath,

You came to me in red light,

And gave me my name."

You blinked, chest tightening for some reason. The words wrapped around you like fingers, gentle and invasive all at once. It wasn’t familiar by name, but it was familiar in the way a song you’ve only heard in dreams is. There was something aching in it. Something that screamed ancient and intimate.

A memory surfaced: months ago, in the corner of that bookstore you liked, you’d picked up a mass-market paperback of an old poetry collection. It had been tucked between overpriced self-help books and detective thrillers with cracked spines. You remembered reading that exact poem—or well, almost. The copy you owned had the last line missing, misprinted, abruptly cut off like someone didn’t want the poem to end, leaving the reader in a state of confusion.

You hadn’t thought much of it at the time. But now, staring down at the original line, inked in perfect script on this impossibly old page, a strange sort of nausea crept into your gut. This wasn’t just a book. It was the same collection.

A first edition.

You could feel the weight of what that meant settle into your spine.

There were small annotations in the margins. Faint, neat, like someone had handled this book with reverence. A looping underline beneath the words "red light" had a single note beside it: "as in the Bloodmoon."

The following line: "Before bone, before breath" circled faintly, and in that same hand: "Time existed, but not form. She always came first." You wondered if he was the one who left the notes but then quickly shook your head as if that would help the thought dissipate into a puff of smoke.

Your thumb hovered over the edge of the flower, then you pulled it away. You closed the book carefully, unwilling to damage something so clearly valuable, even as dread coiled beneath your ribs, rattled there like the beginnings of a storm. It was the kind of gesture that should’ve felt sweet, thoughtful, even. But it didn’t. It felt too accurate, too precise. Like he had peeked inside your skull and chosen the one thing that would leave a lasting mark.

You told yourself you didn’t want to be touched by this, that this gift meant nothing, that you weren’t the kind of person who got soft over stolen poetry and rare editions.

However, the warmth in your chest said otherwise, curling around your heart like something secret and not entirely unwelcome.

You inhaled sharply and reached into the box again, slower this time. Beneath the cloth lay another object, smaller and nestled with more intention. You pushed the folds of fabric aside, fingertips grazing silk as it slipped away, revealing something black and sleek with a faint metallic sheen. At first glance, it resembled a high-end gadget, elegant in its minimalism, compact, and deliberately unassuming.

That illusion vanished the moment you picked it up. The shape was unmistakable. Smoothly curved, carefully weighted, its surface seamless beneath your touch. A button rested beneath your thumb, discreet, but placed exactly where instinct would land you. There was no label. No instruction manual. No clear branding to soften its implication. It had not been bought. It had been chosen. Intentionally, personally, and for you.

Your breath caught in your throat, and a flicker of something warm and unwelcome unfurled low in your belly. A toy. Not one pulled from a generic shop shelf or chosen by some impersonal algorithm. This one was, no, felt personal. Designed—or at least selected—by someone who had memorized the cadence of your breath at night, who could recognize the tremble in your voice when you were flustered, who had heard the silence that followed your most shameful dreams and fantasies.

You dropped it. It hit the counter with a solid sound and rolled once, then again, until it came to rest near the edge. Not quite falling, simply just waiting. Still, it was like it had been there before. Like it knew where to land.

Your pulse roared loud in your ears as you stared at it, heart lodged somewhere high in your chest. It was wrong, how familiar it already felt. As if your hand had known the shape long before you touched it. As if it had been waiting to be returned to its rightful owner.

Carefully, fingers trembling, you picked it up again. The material was warm against your skin, far warmer than it should have been. Either someone had held it only moments before you, or it had never cooled since the last time it was used. The thought of that alone made your stomach twist in knots.

You reached into the box once more and found a card tucked beneath the folds of silk. It was thick paper, and once again, there was no logo and no clear print. Just his handwriting, smooth and deliberate, each letter drawn with intent, not a single word too much, just what was needed to convey the message clearly.

The note read:

"The walls are thin, kitten. Let us not pretend otherwise. Consider this a form of help for sweet dreams. Only if you want to. But if you do, leave the light on."

You froze, eyes locked on the page. It wasn’t threatening, not exactly. But it wasn’t innocent either. It hung somewhere in between, a line walked so deliberately it made you dizzy. There was no signature, and there didn’t need to be. It was his voice, his cadence, woven into the black ink on white canvas.

You set the toy and the note side by side on the counter, hands shaking just enough to make the gesture feel a little clumsy. And then you shoved the entire box beneath your couch, like distance would help. Like pushing it away could make it less real.

But it didn’t. Because the thought stayed. Persistent, dark, and laced with raw heat. A whisper that would not quiet even during the darkest of nights.

And worse—it wasn’t just the discomfort that lingered. It was the way your breath had hitched when you first touched it. The way your skin had warmed. The part of you that still remembered the dream, the way his mouth had felt against your skin, the way his fingers had curled around your hips.

You told yourself it was over, that you'd seen all of it, and you had enough. That was until your fingers brushed the edge of the cloth again, as if by a pull you couldn’t simply explain, not with your logical mind at least.

Another slip of paper. Folded once again, smaller than the first but heavier. It was textured like old parchment as it smelled faintly of his cologne—sharp, dry, expensive—and something else that clung to your memory like static. Like ozone before a summer storm.

You unfolded it slowly. The ink was still the same: black, neat, and now familiar.

"Curiosity suits you.

No pressure. No expectations. But should you decide to indulge:

1. Leave it on your nightstand.

2. If you want to explore, leave the light on.

3. If not, keep it dark. I will not interrupt.

4. Should you want help, I will know."

There were no direct commands nor threats. No direct mention of how he would know. Only the certainty that he would.

You read it once and then again. Not because you didn’t understand it, but because something in the phrasing caught your breath every time. The way it anticipated you. Or perhaps it was your hesitation, your doubt, and worst of all, your eventual curiosity that gnawed at the back of your mind like a worm.

It didn’t read like control, no, it read like confidence. The kind of quiet power that didn’t need to press. The kind that waited, certain that you’d come around.

And somewhere, in the back of your mind, you weren’t entirely sure he was wrong for assuming so.

You reached for your phone on impulse, hands still unsteady, and opened your messages, thumb hovering briefly before you tapped on Tara’s name.

Y/N: wtf who sends this shit??

You paused, rereading the message, then snapped a photo of the book on your counter. Not the other thing. Definitely not that. Just the book, sitting there like it hadn’t rattled you to your core.

You hit send, and her reply came even quicker.

tara: girl what in the dark academia hell is that 😭 tara: wait. tarot’s calling. i might have to divine this one for you fr.

You didn’t respond. Just stared at the photo you sent, the spine of the book catching the light, looking far too harmless for what it stirred in you.

You hadn’t said who sent it, it would require far too much explanation to rely to your best friend. I mean, how would you even begin explaining that perhaps your handsome neighbor was also kinda your stalker? Yeah, not today.

The following week, you finally decided to tackle your bills, hoping that at least one corner of your life could maintain some illusion of order. The kitchen was quiet, save for the low hum of your refrigerator and the occasional rustle of wind against the windows. Your coffee had gone tepid, sitting forgotten beside your laptop. The cup left a faint ring of moisture on the table, a small imprint of how long you’d been stalling.

You pulled your hoodie sleeves down over your hands, curling your fingers as you logged into your banking app. The routine was mindless, something you did every month on autopilot. Your rent was already saved in your payee list, the amount memorized, the confirmation clicks mechanical. Normally, it would be done in minutes.

But this time, something wasn’t right, because the app flashed back at you with an unfamiliar red banner.

"Transaction failed."

Your brows pulled together, heart slowing just slightly. That wasn’t supposed to happen. You checked your internet connection, refreshed the app, and tried again, deliberately slower this time.

Again: "Transaction failed."

You squinted at the screen, now fully upright in your not-so-comfortable chair. There was more than enough money in your account to cover the payment. Hell, the numbers lined up perfectly. Nothing had changed, in fact, nothing should have changed.

You closed the app and reopened it, manually re-entering the building’s banking information just in case the auto-fill had glitched somehow. With a small knot building behind your ribs, you clicked to send it again.

A new notification appeared.

Transaction unsuccessful. Funds returned.

The money bounced back into your account like it had never left, and this time it stayed there. You watched it happen, watched the numbers revert as if the system itself was refusing to let you pay.

Your fingers moved automatically to your phone. The bank’s number was already stored, given the fact that you had contacted customer service a few times over the years. You barely registered the movement as you tapped to call, one hand cradling the phone to your ear while the other rubbed at your temple, trying to stifle the quiet pressure beginning to build.

The hold music was chirpy, too cheerful, a synthetic melody that fucking grated against your nerves. You stood up, pacing slowly across your small apartment, eyes flicking to the corner where your rent notice still sat, neatly printed and pinned to the bulletin board like a reminder that reality had structure. Until it didn’t.

A feminine voice finally answered, and you stopped mid-step.

“Thank you for calling. How can I assist you today?”

You explained the situation calmly, though your voice felt too even for how tightly your chest had constricted.

After a pause, the representative typed something on the other end. You could hear the soft clicking of keys.

“Well, according to our records,” they said, “your rent payment was already processed.”

You blinked, hand tightening around the phone subconciously. “That’s not possible?! I didn’t process anything.”

There was a longer pause this time, more typing, then a soft sigh.

“The system shows six months’ worth of rent was submitted in advance. All of it was cleared through the owner’s account.”

The words hit you like a slow, cold draft. You didn’t reply right away. Your mouth opened, then closed, and then fell open again, but your mind stalled.

“Erm, who... who paid it?” you asked finally, your voice quieter now.

“The account is listed under the property owner,” the rep replied. “A Mr. Sylus Qin Che.”

A breath escaped you, sharp and quiet. It did nothing to ease the tightness in your throat. Your hand dropped to your side, phone still clutched tightly. The sound of blood rushing in your ears dulled everything else around you.

What the fuck?

You screamed internally. Since when was he the property owner? Just how much didn’t you know? Why would your landlord live right next to you in the same building? That and more questions swirled in your head like autumn leaves in the harsh wind, caught in a chaotic loop.

Still, pushing the anxiety aside, you thanked the bank and ended the call, though you couldn’t remember doing either. The room felt smaller than before, the light colder. The space around you hadn’t changed, but your sense of it had shifted.

You sank back into the chair at the table, staring at your laptop. The screen had gone dim, saving power in your absence. Your coffee was now cold.

Without thinking too hard about it, you navigated to the building’s management directory. The contact number was still there, highlighted in pale blue. You hadn’t noticed it before, not really. Not until now.

You pressed the call button. It rang once, then again.

Before long, you heard his voice.

“Kitten,” Sylus said, velvet-smooth and entirely too pleased. “How nice of you to call.”

“You didn’t need to do that,” you said, trying your best to keep your tone steady. You hated how uneven it sounded in your own ears.

“Of course I didn’t,” he replied smoothly. “That’s why I did.”

You blinked, taken aback by the ease of his answer. “This isn’t funny, Sylus.”

“No,” he agreed, not sounding remorseful in the slightest. “It’s not. It’s practical. You hate remembering rent dates, don’t you?”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. It was true—you did, and you had even mumbled something about it to yourself in the elevator a week ago when scrolling through your calendar. But still…

“That doesn’t mean you can just do things like this.”

“Ah,” the silver-haired man murmured, thoughtful now, “but I already have. And what exactly will you do about it?”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It thrummed with the weight of something unspoken, a tension that had started quietly and now felt like it might split the air if either of you pushed too hard.

“Do you want me to undo it?” Her newly found landlord asked at last, a calm challenge hidden beneath what seemed like a simple question.

You faltered. “I want you to stop assuming you can just...” You trailed off.

“Take care of things?” he offered. “Look after you?”

You exhaled sharply. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The words hung in the air between you, sticky and strange, clinging to your ribs like humidity. You stood abruptly, needing to move, needing to reclaim your breath, if even a little. “This isn’t how things work.”

“No,” he said again, that same frustrating calm bleeding into every syllable. “It’s how they work when I’m involved.” You felt him shrug on the other side of the call.

You wanted to snap back. You wanted to tell him off, slam the call down, throw your phone across the room. But you didn’t. Because the truth was, the rent was paid. And somewhere, buried beneath your irritation, was a horrible curl of something warmer. Something that felt suspiciously like security.

Fuck, you didn’t like it.

“I’m serious, Sylus.”

“So am I, kitten.”

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, feeling the tension creep from your spine into your jaw as it almost ticked. “Just... don’t do it again.”

“Consider this a one-time favor,” he said, voice still low. “For now, that is.”

You didn’t respond and ended the call instead, thumb pressing harder than necessary as you huffed.

Across the wall, his phone screen went black as the leader of Onychinus leaned back in his chair, thoughtful.

She hadn’t said thank you. But she also hadn’t said no.

When you came back home from work the first thing you noticed was the silence in your bathroom. No familiar groan of the pipes, no comforting hiss of hot water coming to life. Just the sharp, disappointing realization that the knobs on your shower were doing absolutely nothing.

You frowned and tried again. It was cold, the water was icy cold. You turned the handle all the way, jiggled the base out of desperation, even gave the faucet a gentle whack with your palm like it was a misbehaving piece of tech. Still nothing but cold water spitting like a sneer.

Great. Just what you needed.

You padded out of the bathroom, still wrapped in a towel, leaving damp prints across the floor. Checked the sink and same story followed, no hot water. You stood there, clenching the edge of the counter, trying to talk yourself out of the obvious next step.

You knew who owned the building. You knew who had bought it quietly, weeks before ever introducing himself. You knew who had signed those transaction slips with sharp, elegant letters that now seemed permanently etched into your life.

Sylus Qin Che.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, muttering under your breath as you threw on a pair of shorts and a tank top, not bothering to do much else. What was the point? Your hair was half-wet with sweat from the heat, your skin sticky from the walk home, and now your shower had decided to betray you.

Maybe there was a leak, or a burst pipe. Or maybe, just maybe, your landlord who conveniently lived next door had something to do with it. At this point you didn't know, and perhaps didn't want to know what exactly it was.

You grabbed your keys and marched into the hallway, barefoot, running a hand through your hair roughly as you stomped to the familiar black door just a few steps away.

Three sharp knocks, each louder than the last, then silence.

It took a few seconds, but the lock clicked with a sound too smooth, too deliberate. The door swung open slowly, revealing the silver-haired man in a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, collar casually undone. His expression was unreadable, but his crimson eyes shimmered with the faintest glint of amusement.

You crossed your arms tightly, aware of your bare legs, your still-damp collarbone, the frizz clinging to your temple.

"Water’s out. In my unit," you said flatly. "You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?"

His smile was slow, deliberate like everything else about his fucking smug ass. "Did you try turning it off and on again?"

You only stared back, eyes sending daggers his way.

He exhaled softly, tilting his head, silver hair neatly combed. He looked so put together compared to your messy self it was almost ridiculous. "Joking. Mostly. Come in."

You hesitated, sighed, and then stepped past him.

The air inside his apartment was cooler, the scent of his cologne lingering somewhere in the background, subtle and clean, yet slightly spicy. You noticed how little it resembled a bachelor’s space. It was curated, shadowy, with edges softened by expensive fabrics, textures that absorbed sound. Like it had been built not just to live in, but to listen. You shook the last thought out of your head as soon as it made its way in.

Beyond the wide entryway, the layout shifted. Way larger than your own. The living room bled into a study space, and further still, a second hallway split off in two directions. You blinked, realizing he had done something you didn’t think was possible. He had merged two units, removed a wall, and maybe more. In other words—expanded. There was no way your building had this much room in a single unit, and you had no penthouses in the area, let alone this floor.

A sunken lounge sat in one corner, filled with soft lighting and shelves full of obscure titles. Dark wood, heavy rugs. An antique record player rested beside a bar cart that looked more like a piece of art than a functioning piece of furniture. Even the walls had been redone—subtle molding details you’d never noticed before, and glass doors leading to what you guessed was a private office or library.

"You live here? Like, actually live here?" You raised an eyebrow, scanning the subtle luxury.

"Why wouldn’t I?" he asked smoothly, fingers brushing along the edge of a glass console.

You gestured vaguely at the space. "Because this isn’t just a step above the rest of us. It’s a whole damn staircase."

He chuckled. "I like comfort. That’s not a crime. Besides, if I’m going to keep a close eye on the building, proximity helps."

"That’s one word for it..."

He turned back toward you, the same glint in his eye that made you want to both slap and scream into a pillow. "Would you prefer I kept a distant eye instead?"

You ignored the question, arms folded tighter as you sighed in irritation, trying to ignore everything surrounding this man. "Can you check it or not?"

"I already did, around ten minutes ago. Something odd with the building’s central heating valve. Only affected one unit, which is yours." His smirk barely faded.

"Of course it did." You blinked slowly, suspiciously almost.

He gestured toward the hallway leading outside of his apartment. "Come see for yourself if you like. But if you’re tired of troubleshooting, the water works just fine here."

You stared at him, unsure what irritated you more—his smug calm, or the implication. "So what, you want me to shower here?"

He didn’t answer, not right away. Instead, he stepped closer, fingers brushing a stray strand from your cheek before he turned away again, heading toward the guest bathroom.

"Do what you like. But the offer stands. I’ll even give you a fresh towel. One without your name embroidered into it, that is." He teased, knowing you'd catch on.

You gritted your teeth instead. He was enjoying this thoroughly. But you were tired, uncomfortable, and you weren’t about to beg for decency.

You followed him down the short hallway, watching the way his broad shoulders moved beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. Everything about him looked calculated, even in leisure, even in the mundane.

He pushed open a door and stepped aside. The guest bathroom was pristine, dark tile gleaming, towels folded with military precision. Steam already curling against the mirror.

"Hot water’s ready," he said simply, then leaned against the doorframe.

When you didn’t move he raised an eyebrow. "Unless you’d rather I come in and help. Would that suit you better?"

Your mouth parted in protest, but the words dried out before they reached your lips. He didn’t wait for your answer, he just smirked, sharp and satisfied, and turned back toward the living room, leaving you there.

Alone, wet from sweat and flushed in more ways than one.

The door closed behind him with the softest click as your spine hit the back of the dark wood.

Steam thickened and silence pressed in. You stepped inside slowly, letting the heat crawl up your arms, the fog licking at your skin like a slow seduction. The moment your hand reached for the hem of your shirt, your thoughts betrayed you. The toy. The gift.

The handwritten note that still sat tucked beneath your bedside book.

You inhaled sharply, trying to ground yourself in the tiled floor, the scent of vanilla soap, the subtle buzz beneath your skin that hadn’t quite left since you entered his space.

He was playing a game. A patient one, and whether you liked it or not, you were standing in the middle of it, slowly unraveling.

Your fingers slipped beneath your waistband, hesitating. But then you stopped. Fingers paused, breath held, heart thudding in your chest like it had caught up to everything else far too late. You weren’t just showering in a stranger’s apartment. You were standing in the home of the man who had infiltrated your life with silent footsteps and smiling eyes. And it wasn’t just any home, it was decadence disguised as domesticity, a space too curated to feel casual, too private to be innocent.

You glanced toward the sink. The mirror reflected your flushed face, strands of hair sticking to your cheek. Your clothes clung to your damp skin, heavy and uncomfortable. You didn’t want to put them back on after this. And using his things—his towels, his soaps—made your teeth grind a little. You weren’t ready to owe him anything more than you already accidentally had.

So you stepped back out, barefoot, the tile cool beneath your feet.

You found him lounging near the kitchen counter, sipping something dark from a crystal tumbler, pretending not to notice the fact that you’d emerged again.

"I’ll bring my own stuff," you announced, arms crossed, defiance clinging to your tone. "Don’t get too comfortable. This isn’t... whatever this is, it’s temporary."

His gaze flicked to yours, slow and unreadable. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

"And when is it going to be fixed? The water in my place."

"A few hours. Central valve replacement. The technician already confirmed it’s being handled."

You narrowed your eyes. "Just mine, huh?"

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to because that smile said enough.

You pivoted without another word, grabbing your bag from the door, gathering the bare minimum—clean underwear, shampoo, yoga pants, oversized tee—and awkwardly made your way back into the guest bath, doing your best to avoid seeing him even in your peripheral vision.

Everything here annoyingly whispered of money, restraint, but also control.

It didn’t make sense. A man like him had no business living here—not when he could afford anywhere else. And trying to figure him out was like piecing together a thousand-piece puzzle; adding a few more pieces didn’t make the picture any clearer.

Now that you were inside once again, the guest bathroom seemed like it belonged in a hotel far above your pay grade as a social worker. Heated tiles radiated comfort beneath your feet. The rainfall showerhead hung from the ceiling like a silver crown. Even the towels—soft and thick and stubbornly lint-free—smelled of eucalyptus and some soap so costly you’d never dare look up its price tag. You peeled the damp clothing from your skin and stepped into the steam. The moment the hot water hit your back, a groan escaped before you could stop it.

It felt too good, too easy, and you hated that. Perhaps that's why the note flashed behind your eyes like a trick of the light.

"The walls are thin, kitten. Let us not pretend otherwise. Consider this a form of help for sweet dreams. Only if you want to. But if you do, leave the light on."

You pressed your palms flat against the cool tile. The pressure grounded you but did nothing for the heat curling in your gut. You weren’t supposed to like this. You weren’t supposed to feel this aware of your skin, of the fact that your heartbeat was just a little too fast.

Somewhere behind you, the idea of him lingered. Not in the room, not watching, but present all the same. You could feel the edge of his influence like static in the air. Like this space belonged to him so completely that even when he wasn't standing in it, he still owned every inch.

Your eyes flicked toward the corner where you'd dropped your things. You half expected to find the toy staring back at you, despite leaving it buried under your living room's couch. The memory of its weight in your palm, the handwritten instructions, the implication—it all came flooding back too easily.

You shut the water off too abruptly, dragging a plush towel over your limbs with more force than necessary. It was only after you had slipped the oversized shirt on that you realized it smelled a little like him. Great, just fantastic, how the fuck did that happen?

You stepped out, towel-drying your hair before resting it over your shoulder, determined not to acknowledge the way your cheeks felt too warm. He wasn’t in the hallway, a small mercy, for once.

But when you entered the living area, he was already there, as if waiting. Two expensive-looking glasses on the low table. A dark bottle, uncorked. You eyed your tote-bag with sweat-layered clothes, and the used towels.

He glanced up as you entered, and the look in his carmine eyes was unreadable.

“It’s Friday,” he said simply. "Thought you might want something to take the edge off."

You immediately hesitated, hovering by the doorframe. "Are you seriously offering me wine after I just used your bathroom because my… ehem, landlord can’t keep the water running?"

His smile was unbothered. "Exactly. That sounds like someone who needs a drink."

You eyed the glasses, then the bottle, and lastly him.

"I’m not dressed for company," you muttered.

"You’re not company. You’re the neighbor." He reminded.

You didn’t want to smile, but something pulled at the corner of your lips anyway. Against your better judgment, you walked forward.

"One glass. That’s it."

He shook his head in amusement and poured without a word as you took a sip without saying anything either. The wine was dry, smooth, with a warmth that settled low in your abdomen. The kind of drink that crept up on you, slowly. That made the dark-hued room feel just a little softer.

He sat across from you, one leg crossed over the other, watching without staring. The silence was comfortable in a way that shouldn’t have been considering your history.

"You ever remember your dreams?" he asked eventually, tone casual as if he was discussing the weather.

You blinked, caught off guard by the topic of discussion. "Sometimes."

"Vivid ones?"

"Occasionally."

He tilted his glass slightly, swirling the wine before taking a sip. "I remember mine. Every single one."

"Must be exhausting." You frowned.

He hummed. "Sometimes. But some dreams are more than they seem. More memory than imagination."

You watched him carefully, tension threading beneath your skin. "That sounds... cryptic."

"It’s just true."

You didn’t know what to say to that. And he didn’t press. He just sat there, sipping wine, half in shadow. The quiet stretched. Not heavy, not quite... more so, just full of things unsaid.

Eventually, he leaned forward, resting his glass on the table. "I wasn’t always alone, you know."

You looked at him, surprised by the shift in tone.

"What happened?"

He frowned faintly. "I remembered things no one should. And I think it scared her."

The wine was too warm now, or maybe it was you, because your fingers curled tighter around the glass. You didn’t ask what he meant, and hell, perhaps you didn’t want to know, that man wasn't normal by any means.

Still, you found that the weight of his words settled between you like mist. Heavy with implication, and something else you couldn’t name. Your eyes dropped to your wine, trying to trace the rim of the glass with your thumb, anything to distract from the heat crawling up your neck. You weren’t sure if it was from the alcohol or his voice, low and quiet in this room that felt carved out of time.

He glanced toward you again, slower and measured this time. "You’ve had dreams lately too, haven’t you?"

Your eyes shot to his, startled. "I didn’t say that." Words left before you could stop them.

He chuckled, not smug, not even pleased, just knowing. "You didn’t have to."

Something twisted in your chest, an ache that wasn’t entirely yours. The air felt too thick once again.

"How do you know that?"

He didn’t answer. Not directly, anyway. Instead, he reached for the bottle and poured another inch into both glasses.

"Sometimes dreams overlap," he said simply. "When something... binds them."

You held your breath, gaze fixed on the glass in front of you. The image of the Bloodmoon, the field, his hands on your skin—those vivid scenes you’d tried so hard to rationalize as stress or fantasy—flashed across your mind like a cruel joke.

You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure you could and maybe that's why he let the moment sit. He wasn’t trying to prove anything, just observing. Letting you fill in the silence with your own thoughts. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter. "I had a dream once. A field beneath a red sky. I was searching for someone. I never saw her face clearly. But I knew her. I always knew her."

Your breath faltered. The chill along your spine wasn’t fear—it was recognition.

"For the most part she always stayed just out of reach," he continued, eyes steady on yours. "Every time I got close, something pulled her away. But still, I searched, and sometimes I'd find her."

You swallowed hard, throat dry as your wine sat untouched now.

He didn’t say it was you. He didn’t need to. And yet, something in you shifted, as though a blaringly red thread had been tugged.

When he leaned in, it was slow and careful, perhaps that's why you didn’t pull away. Not at first, at least.

But just before he could reach you, you turned your head, breath stalling in your lungs. "I... shouldn’t."

He paused. Not frustrated, not even surprised, just still.

"Of course," he said softly. "Not tonight."

You couldn’t meet his eyes, but you felt them, you always did. "Thank you for the shower," you said abruptly, your voice low, a little too tight. You stood, the wine still more than half-full in your glass. "And for making sure the water will be fixed. I should go, it's been a long day."

He didn’t stop you. Didn’t reach for your hand or offer any parting words to hold you back. But he did watch, crimson eyes unreadable as you crossed his living room, gathering the things you'd brought with you—the tote bag with your old clothes, and your phone.

As you walked away, you told yourself it was just fatigue, the reason you felt suddenly lightheaded. The wine, maybe, or the shower, even. Or hell, maybe the fact that this man who had burrowed so deeply into your thoughts now had a story that echoed too close to your own. A story you hadn’t even told out loud.

You reached for the doorknob, your hand pausing just briefly. "Goodnight," you said without turning.

"Goodnight, kitten."

You flinched—barely. But it was enough.

Outside, the hallway air felt cooler once again. Cleaner now that it wasn't permeated with him as you breathed it in like it could flush his scent from your lungs, but it didn’t. You were still too aware of the warmth on your skin, the tension in your muscles, and the slow crawl of realization that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t imagining any of this.

And if you were... it was already too late to pretend otherwise.

That night, the dreams returned.

It didn’t start the way it usually did. There was no slow buildup of touches, no sensual haze clouding your thoughts, no breathless warmth that crept up your spine. Instead, you found yourself standing alone in the middle of that field again. The same one that haunted you, always the same.

The land stretched infinitely in all directions, red daturas and muted green stalks trembling beneath a strange wind. Some petals scattered like flecks of blood in the air, weightless. The sky was thick with unnatural hues, bruised violet melting into black, and hanging low above it all was the Bloodmoon, pulsing like a heartbeat. Its glow dyed everything in its path.

And he was already there, not approaching, not calling for you. He was just standing, waiting patiently.

His figure didn’t waver, didn’t shift with the wind the way yours did. He belonged here in a way that you didn’t. Or maybe once had.

When your eyes met, something inside you tightened with a sharp snap, as though a wire pulled taut across centuries had just been yanked into focus.

"You’re waking up, aren’t you?" he said.

His voice didn’t echo. It simply landed, like it had always been inside your chest, coiled in the spaces you couldn’t name.

"That itch beneath your skin. That hollow you keep pretending isn’t there."

You opened your mouth to reply, but nothing came. Your throat locked. The words stuck behind your ribs, caged and burning.

"The life you live isn’t real. That’s why you feel like this," he continued, voice softer now, almost like a confession. "Everything you think you know is just a surface. The memory lies deeper."

The wind shifted, slicing through the still air, and in it, visions broke apart the dreamscape—sharp, quick, and brutal. Your hands, slick with blood that wasn’t yours. Or maybe it was.

Smoke curling across a war-ravaged plain. Screams lost in a sea of fire and metal. Your own voice, raw, shouting something guttural and ancient.

And then him.

Not Sylus as you knew him now. Not the neighbor with a knowing smile and terrifying restraint. No, this version loomed in monstrous silence, cloaked in shadow and fire. He was more than a man here. He was power made flesh.

Dark scales shimmered across his arms, faint patterns pulsing with light. Horns curling up just past his short silver hair, his mouth no longer shaped quite like a human’s. Something ancient stared out of him. Not just monstrous, but also divine.

His crimson gaze held yours with a weight that made your knees threaten to give. He stepped forward. The petals didn’t resist him, no, they parted under his feet like they remembered him.

"I’ve waited a long time for you to remember."

You tried to take a step back. Your heart thundered, but your limbs didn’t follow your panic. The dream clung to you like a second skin. It had no intention of letting you go.

The sky rippled again and the world blinked.

Scenes fractured around you. Your own voice screaming over the roar of battle. Your body thrown into the dirt. The flash of a blade, the weight of a crown not yet worn.

His voice rose again, softer than before, almost reverent. "Come back to me, please, my beloved."

You didn’t understand the words, not entirely, but your body did. Your skin reacted like it knew this place, this man, this feeling. Like it had been waiting.

You felt tears burn behind your eyes. The kind born from not knowing where you belonged.

The last thing you saw before the field dissolved was your reflection caught in his gaze. It wasn’t the version of you curled in bed under ratty sheets. It was someone else. Someone untouchable, wearing a celestial glint above her brow. A warrior, a sorceress, a ghost of past long gone.

You woke with a violent gasp, heart clawing at your chest, lungs unable to decide between scream or sob. The room was dark and still, the air too quiet. The sheets tangled and damp around your legs, twisted from your tossing.

But it wasn’t just a dream, it didn't feel like it this time.

You sat up slowly, palms stinging like you’d been gripping something far too tight. The world hadn’t changed, but you had. You felt it in your bones, that slow rearranging of memory and reality, no longer fully separate.

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t forget the way he looked at you. Not just in the dream. But like he had seen you before, like he always knew. Like he had been waiting for this exact moment—for you to remember who you truly were.

But something else lingered.

A prickling sting, sharp and sudden, bloomed along the side of your neck. Your fingers moved instinctively, brushing over the spot. It ached faintly, tender and warm beneath your touch. You scrambled out of bed to the bathroom, flicking on the light with more force than necessary. The mirror stared back, your reflection pale and flushed, hair stuck to your temples.

And there it was. A mark.

Not just redness, a whole bruise that was deep, half-mooned, shadowing the curve between your neck and shoulder.

You stared at it for a long time, and it looked like a bite.

Panic swelled for a brief, raw moment. You clutched the counter, mind spinning with worst-case scenarios—until something else returned to you, not a thought but a sensation: teeth, heat, lips pressed too firmly into your fragile skin. Not just pain, perhaps something far, far worse, something like a flash of recognition.

Your knees nearly gave out. You had dreamed that, hadn’t you? The moment just before waking—the way he leaned in. The low rasp of his voice echoing not from beside you but within.

"With this, you'll remember. You'll have three days, and then..."

The rest was gone, fragmented just like the rest of it. But the meaning was rooted deep. It hadn’t just been a dream, and he hadn’t just touched you.

He had claimed something.

You staggered back a step in your own bathroom, heartbeat thudding like it was trying to warn you. You gripped the edge of the sink, still damp from your shower taken only minutes earlier (thanks to Sylus, it was actually fixed quickly), fingers trembling as the cool porcelain pressed into your palms. The air was thick with humidity, and the scent of body wash still clinging to your skin, but none of it grounded you.

Then came the sound. Three knocks, sharp, deliberate, and on your fucking front door.

You froze, every instinct pulling taut like a wire about to snap. The humid air around you seemed to still, as though it too recognized the pattern. Steam curled upward in lazy ribbons, swirling past your shoulders, collecting at the ceiling like it had nowhere else to go. Your chest rose and fell faster now, the creeping dread winding its way up your spine.

Your reflection in the mirror offered no reassurance. Wide eyes and pale cheeks. Water still dripping in thin trails down your collarbone. You hadn't even dried your hair. A single drop clung to your jawline and slid down toward the hollow of your throat, drawing attention to the discolored mark blooming along the curve of your neck—one you were still trying to convince yourself wasn’t really there.

Tightening the robe around your body, you stepped out into the hall, feet silent against the wooden floor. The sudden change in temperature outside the bathroom hit you all at once. Your skin prickled, not from cold, but something deeper. You crept to the front door, fingers hesitating on the handle before pulling it open.

No one was there. Just the quiet of the hallway and the dull flicker of overhead lights. But there was something on the mat, a single piece of paper, folded twice, laid out like it had been waiting just for you.

You bent down, picked it up instinctively. The texture of the paper was already familiar. You didn’t need to open it to know who it was from, but you did anyway, hands trembling slightly.

"I'm sorry about the dreams. But you needed to see it. Let me help you remember more, will you?"

Your breath caught in your throat. You looked over your shoulder instinctively, as though he might be standing behind you, just out of sight. But the hallway was empty.

You closed the door carefully, locking it again, and backed away until your spine met the wall. The paper remained in your hands, edges trembling slightly from the force of your grip.

When you finally stepped back into your room, your eyes instinctively moved toward the dresser. But it wasn’t because you had left anything there, no, you hadn’t. The toy and the old notes had been shoved under the sofa days ago, buried beneath a pile of blankets in a moment of frantic shame. You remembered doing it clearly, like you were trying to erase the whole thing from existence, the expensive first edition poetry book aside.

But now, as you crossed the room with the new note still clutched in your hand, a low humming sound reached your ears. It was soft, mechanical, too precise to be anything natural. You stopped walking for a moment, recognizing the sound.

You approached slowly, heart thudding with every step. Your dresser drawer was slightly ajar, as if on purpose, yet not enough to notice at first glance, but now it felt like it was staring at you. Your breath caught as your fingers wrapped around the handle, hesitating for a second before pulling it open.

Inside, nestled in the center of your folded clothes, was the toy. Out of its packaging once more. It was on and vibrating at the lowest setting like it had been waiting.

And resting on top of it were the two notes you’d hidden away—the intimate message and the instructions. You hadn’t moved them. You hadn’t brought them here. You hadn’t even touched the damn drawer since that day.

Your grip tightened on the newest note, the one you’d just found on your doorstep, the ink still fresh enough to smell faintly like him. The timing, the placement. The fact that the toy had turned on by itself—or rather, because someone else had made it happen.

Your stomach twisted in on itself. It wasn’t just invasive, it was deliberate, everything with him was and it pissed you off to no end.

You reached in and turned it off, pressing the button with shaking fingers until the silence swallowed the room again. But that didn’t help because somehow the quiet only made the realization louder.

He’d moved it.

You stood there, holding the drawer open with one hand, the other gripping the note so tightly the corners began to crumple. You didn’t know what was worse—the act itself, or the unspoken message behind it. Like a nudge. Like a reminder.

You have this option. You’ve always had it.

Then came the sound, three knocks. Not at your door this time, no, at the fucking wall. The one that connected your bedroom to his.

You stilled, completely with eyes locked on the drywall like it might bleed secrets if you stared hard enough.

There was no follow-up. No voice, however, the vibrator turned on once again, as if having you reconsider, just this once.

The instructions he left echoed in your mind in a way that made your stomach churn, yet molten heat trickled down to the back of your belly regardless.

“Should you decide to indulge:

1. Leave it on your nightstand.

2. If you want to explore, leave the light on.

3. If not, keep it dark. I will not interrupt.

4. Should you want help, I will know."

a/n: divider by @/cafekitsune // fic by: @dijayeah

taglist: @brekkers-whore @mcdepressed290 @everythingistaken00

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dijayeah · 1 month ago

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dijayeah · 1 month ago

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Diamond Chains // Caleb

✦ part 1 of CHAIN REACTION series ✦ FILE:001 ✦ Caleb

caleb x fem!reader // [AO3] // wc: 2.2k // NSFW MDNI 🔞 // ♡ / ↻ — appreciated!

♡ Summary:

He says nothing all gala. Not when they flirt. Not when they touch. But the diamonds at your waist? He remembers putting those on.

♡ A/N notes:

✨ This is the first fic in my Chain Reaction series: a drabble-length (i am lying to myself… 2k words is a drabble since when?) collection focused on jewelry kink, obsession, and the dangerously possessive men who wrap you in pretty things and then lose their minds over it. This entry features Caleb in full Farspace Fleet Colonel uniform, a diamond waist chain, and way too much pent-up frustration. It’s filthy, messy, and written entirely to serve the uniform/jewelry/feral colonel enjoyers. I honestly regret nothing lmao. More entries (and more LIs) coming soon. 🍎

♡ Content:

★ NSFW, power play dressed in diamonds. Uniform kink, jewelry kink, possessive behavior. Caleb gifts you a waist chain he fully intends to use—his voice in your ear, jaw clenched all night, eyes burning with everything unsaid. Established relationship, first time after separation, overstimulation, marking, creampie. Big dick dom!Caleb, voice kink, glove kink, mild dubcon with full trust. The gala is a show. The real performance starts when the doors close.

The gown had been chosen for diplomacy, not seduction.

Midnight blue silk, high collar, open back. Strategic elegance designed to please the brass, not provoke. But the Colonel’s dark gaze didn’t need provocation. You stood beside him, posture composed, offering a pleasant smile to the General. Beneath the silk, the diamonds clung to your skin.

A waist chain, custom-cut to sit beneath your dress. His gift. Silver links traced the line of your hips, fine and delicate, glittering only in private. He had come to your quarters before the gala, uniform jacket undone, cap in hand, his brunet hair slightly mussed from removing it. Amethyst eyes fixed on you, steady, intense. He’d fastened the chain himself, fingers cold and precise, the clasp catching just below your ribs. His touch had lingered. No bra, no underwear—just the chain, pressed flush to skin, a secret you were never meant to share with the room.

You felt it now. Not just the weight of the chain, but the weight of his presence around you. He watched you without speaking. Every movement, every breath, every polite exchange with a guest didn’t go unnoticed.

The Colonel hadn’t spoken much since your arrival. Not when the compliments came, not when a visiting lieutenant raised his glass to you with a smile that lingered. His expression didn’t change, but his jaw had tightened. His gloved hand flexed once around the flute of champagne. The tension in him was palpable. Coiled. All precision and heat.

You hadn’t had him in weeks. Duty pulled him away. And tonight, standing this close in full uniform, every medal in place, you could feel it—the sheer effort it took him not to act on the way he looked at you.

So when the envoy from Skyhaven leaned in, closer than he should have, letting his fingers brush your arm and murmuring something beneath his breath, it wasn’t surprising what followed.

The touch came at the small of your back. Controlled. Final. You barely caught the scent of flight leather and steel before his voice landed just behind your ear.

"Now."

You didn’t argue. You set down your glass and followed.

He didn’t speak as he led you down the corridor. The quiet between you cracked at the edges. At the end of the hall, he opened the door, shut it, and locked it. Then he turned.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t pause.

His hands were on you in a blink, firm at your hips. But he didn’t just shove the dress down. His fingers traced your sides, slow and deliberate, pausing to ghost over the outline of the chain beneath the silk. He kissed your shoulder first, then lower, lips brushing the top of your spine like he was committing it to memory.

"You smell like sin," he muttered, breath hot against your skin.

The zipper caught under his glove, but he didn’t rush. Instead, he peeled the dress away with reverence, baring you inch by inch. His mouth followed the fabric’s descent, kissing the curve of your spine, your ribs, the soft underside of your breast when it spilled free. He cupped you, thumb circling your nipple until it hardened under his touch.

"You wore nothing underneath," he said, voice low. "And you expect me to have restraint?"

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. He groaned and kissed you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding past your lips as if trying to consume you. His hand dipped between your legs, fingers gliding through the slick heat waiting for him.

"Wet for me already," he said against your mouth. "You want this? Want me to ruin you before they even clear dessert?"

You nodded, barely, breath shallow, and god he smirked, then dropped to his knees.

The medals on his chest shifted with the movement, glinting with the same hunger that burned in his eyes. His gloved hands ran along your thighs, parting them gently. The leather creaked softly as his grip tightened, anchoring you in place.

He didn’t rush. He breathed you in first. Nose grazing the inside of your thigh, eyes half-lidded, like he was savoring the scent of you. The sharp edge of a smile curved his mouth.

"So wet and so fucking quiet about it," he murmured. "You’ve been dripping since we walked in, haven’t you?"

"I—" you whimpered as his breath hit your center, and he chuckled, low and dangerous.

He mouthed along your inner thigh then, tongue teasing. The angle had you gasping, one hand gripping the epaulet on his shoulder, the other sinking into his thick, tousled brunet hair. The way the uniform framed him made it worse—tight collar, gleaming medals, silver braid resting on his shoulder, black leather gloves flexing with every possessive squeeze.

Your heels clicked faintly against the floor as he moved, then lifted—large hands catching beneath your thigh to hitch your leg up, settling it onto his shoulder. The angle forced you open. Exposed. One arm braced behind your knee to hold you there. The other, steady on your waist.

The panties you wore weren’t really for modesty—just a scrap of silk to match the gown. You’d chosen them knowing he’d see. But the Colonel didn’t just pull them aside. He hooked two fingers into the waistband and tore them clean down the seam.

“You wore these for someone else?” he asked, voice low. “Tell me you wore them for me.

You nodded, breath hitching. “Y-You.”

“Good.” He tossed them aside without looking.

When his mouth finally met you, it was with reverence and hunger all at once. Long, slow licks that had your poor knees trembling. His grip stayed firm beneath your thigh, fingers pressing bruises into skin. He held you like a prize. Like prey. And the chain shifted with every twitch of your body—a delicate jingle above the filth of his mouth.

“You taste better than I remember,” he groaned against you. “Better than anything out there.”

You bucked into him. He growled.

“C-Caleb, don’t stop,” you mewled out.

“I said hold still.”

The command was sharp, clipped—exactly the tone that had subordinates standing at attention. You obeyed.

He rewarded you with his mouth again, faster now. Tongue pressing deeper. Lips sealing around your clit and sucking with unrelenting focus. His gloves skimmed up your waist, catching the chain between his fingers like reins.

“You’ll come like this first,” he said, licking into you again. “On my tongue, before you take my cock.”

You were already falling apart, and god your cries muffled by your own hand. You could feel the burn where his jaw pressed against your thigh and then a sharper sting.

He bit.

Not hard enough to draw blood. But enough to leave a mark.

A moan broke from you. The Colonel chuckled against your pussy.

“That’s one. I’ll leave more.”

And he did.

By the time you came, trembling and flushed, there were bruises blooming where his mouth had claimed you. One on your thigh. Another near your hipbone. He licked them after, slow and indulgent.

Only then did he rise, mouth wet, slick smeared across his chin. The medals on his chest gleamed as he towered over you, storm-violet eyes black with need.

“You ready now?” he asked, breath uneven. “Because I’m not holding back.”

You were bare for him. Entirely. Breasts exposed, nipples pebbled from the cold air and his attention. Skin flushed, thighs parted. The diamond waist chain glinted under the low light, still nestled tight against your skin, pressing into tender places he'd already kissed and marked. Teeth and fingerprints bloomed in scattered patches along your inner thighs, near your hip bones—evidence of the Colonel’s mouth and the path his gloves had taken. Your panties, once delicate black silk, were a torn scrap discarded near the heel of your stiletto.

His breath stuttered, a sharp exhale through his nose as his storm-violet gaze dragged across your body. There was hunger there, yes—but deeper still, a barely bridled fury. A possessive madness that had simmered under his polished exterior all night long.

The belt of his uniform came undone with a sharp snap, leather hissing through the loops like it couldn’t be stripped fast enough. The sound alone made your breath hitch. He didn’t fully undress. The trousers of his formal uniform were shoved down just enough to free him, the sleek lines of black and silver draping off his hips as if even his clothing refused to let him go without a fight. His gloved hand wrapped around the base of his cock, already flushed and thick, veins raised beneath the skin. He hissed through his teeth.

“You walk around like this,” he said, his voice gravel and heat, “wearing that fucking chain… no bra… panties like tissue paper. Like I haven’t been starving for you since I left?”

He stepped in close, pressing the hard length of himself against your thigh, just enough for you to feel the throb in it. Just enough to make you whimper.

His other hand slid up, gliding from your hip to your breast, the rough leather of his glove a harsh contrast against your soft skin. He pinched your nipple between two fingers, watched it pebble beneath his touch.

“You did it on purpose,” he muttered. “Made me watch all night while you acted so fucking innocent.”

The chain between you clicked faintly when he moved. He curled his fingers through one of the loops at your side, dragging it tight, and your body followed the pull like a marionette.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” he asked, mouth hovering beside your jaw. "Every sway of your hips, every time some asshole tried to flirt with what's mine."

He didn’t wait for an answer. His lips crashed into yours, bruising, biting, swallowing your gasp as he pinned you to the wall. Your heel slipped against the polished floor, but he caught you easily, dragging your leg up and throwing it over his hip. Not gently. The position opened you completely... vulnerable and offered.

The chain dug into your side where he gripped it like a leash.

“I know exactly what you’re doing,” he growled into the skin of your neck. “You wore this for me. You wanted me to break. You wanted this.”

He shifted his hips, letting the head of his cock drag along your folds, soaking himself in your slick. He paused at your entrance. Didn’t press in. Not yet.

“Beg.”

You gasped, your hips instinctively canting forward, trying to take him inside. He didn’t move.

Still holding the chain taut in one fist, he leaned in, his mouth brushing your ear.

“Say it.”

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, Colonel. I need you.”

That was all it took.

He buried himself in one deep, brutal thrust. The stretch stole your breath, your nails digging into the stiff collar of his jacket. The medals on his chest clinked softly as he slammed into you again, and again, rocking your body up against the wall.

“There she is,” he rasped. “So fucking tight. So good for me. You missed this cock, didn’t you?”

You choked on a moan, body bowing under the weight of his thrusts. There was no rhythm, no build-up—just raw need. He took you like he was making up for every hour he’d been gone. Like the months apart had boiled down to this one singular moment.

The chain cinched with every movement. It creaked between his glove and your skin. He used it for leverage, yanking your body to meet every brutal snap of his hips.

He leaned in closer. Pressed his full weight against you. His coat brushed your thighs, buttons cool against your flesh, the star insignia of his rank briefly imprinting into your skin. His breath spilled hot and ragged against your shoulder.

“I should’ve fucked you on the table,” he said, voice trembling. “Should’ve made you straddle me right in front of them. Let them watch you drip all over my cock.”

You whimpered. Your head lolled back. His name spilled from your lips, wrecked and gasping.

“You love this,” he snarled. “Being ruined by your Colonel. Getting filled so deep you can’t think. Being fucked stupid in your heels while I pull you by the chain like a fucking toy.”

One hand dropped between you, the glove dragging over your clit with cruel precision. He circled and pressed, paced perfectly to match the heavy thrusts still punching into you.

“Come for me. Now. Let them hear how you scream when you’re mine.”

Your orgasm hit like a detonation. You cried out, eyes clenching shut, long lashes wet with crystal tears, manicured fingers locked in his brown hair as you shattered. Your thighs trembled around his waist, muscles spasming. He didn’t slow.

“Good girl,” he growled. “Take it. You can take just a little more.”

He chased his own release, cock pulsing deep inside as he finally spilled into you. His body shuddered. His mouth found your shoulder and bit down, claiming you with a moan punched through his teeth.

You barely registered the after. Just the throb between your legs. The heat of his body against yours. His voice, hoarse.

“Mine,” he whispered again, quieter now. “Always.”

The chain still held tight around your waist, red marks blooming under the pressure, gleaming against your sweat-slicked skin. His uniform was rumpled, medals askew, hair mussed from your grip. But the look in his eyes said it wasn’t over. Not yet.

a/n: divider by @/cafekitsune // fic by: @dijayeah

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dijayeah · 2 months ago

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Love and Deepspace Fic Recs Masterlist

Here are some of my favorite stories, hcs & drabbles I've read from my lovely mutuals :) Please take the time to like, reblog and reply to their works. Some of these works will change with time, so I encourage you to explore each of these author's masterlists on their own pages! Appreciation feeds their souls~ Thanks @omi-resources & @inklore for the banners

Sylus

@comatosebunny09

current obsessions: serve and protect carpe noctem not quite human

@shaiyasstuff

current obsessions: romeo and cinderella delayed beginnings how to accidentally catch feelings while baby-sitting a man-child

@leighsartworks216

current obsessions: The Raven I Used to See the Future and Now Nothing

@abyssyby where the light touches

@ittybittyfanblog Error 404

@yukithestar sylus with non-mc reader

@borkunlimited Take Your Time, Miss Deer

@dijayeah

current obsessions: Ma Meilleure Ennemie the locked room protocol

@chubby-bun-bun

current obsessions: heavy is the crown untitled

@novthirty out of bounds

@thechaoticarchivist The Choices We Make

@subliminalwish A Blooming Predicament

@surly-sara In which Sylus...[ao3]

@terriblesoup

current obsessions: A hand to hold Where the light lingers

@skaiylus Throttle and Trust

@frissonmei to be known

@always-just-red Monster

@sylustful Hands

@syluxs

current obsessions: a moment of boldness shower for two

@ellealyssum put it all to rest

@salemrph Let the World Burn

@sleepy-little-stars child of hades

@humanjarvis my happy is your happy

@orphicmusings nothing's going to hurt you, baby

@strwberri-milk Last Friday Night

@tojicide About You

@poisonf0rest so beg for forgiveness

@ara-the-great pout (hope you don't mind me creating a title for this one)

@peachylynnie blackjack

@sylusismybby big (hope you don't mind me creating a title for this one)

@lunaekalenda sweetie, i might die (hope you don't mind me creating a title for this one)

@catbolt

current obsessions: late night swim "sweetheart" nightmare

Zayne

@syneilesis Impact Factor

@odoraful Snowfield Park

@rumeras Coming Home

@qiyuearning girldad! Zayne

@luvzayne 1:02am

@illou-sainte cuddly wife, happy life

@dearieshima blue

Xavier

@shaiyasstuff glass half full

@bunbunnies another universe

Rafayel

@shaiyasstuff fate

@deusfoundry rafayel waxing poetic about you in lemurian

Caleb

@plutotheplum dog tags

@reilemon Powdered Gold

@pinecavity

current obsessions: caleb sleeping facing the door birthday (hope you don't mind me creating titles for these)

@humanjarvis

current obsessions: punch i learned from you colonel!caleb loses his speech pattern

@yukinohiko consumption of love

@hellinistical 11:14

@mapofsouthdakota come back

@deusfoundry heading straight for caleb's apartment after a bad day at work

Luke & Kieran

@abyssyby off guard on duty

@into-deepspace shiny feathers

@yapperingtinaa Twins Vinyl Record

Poly LADS (and other rare pairings)

@astracora

current obsessions: Turning Point A Mandated Holiday Break

@iraot The Art of Submission

@aeyumicore shot, shot, shot, shot! (indv one-shots for each LI)

@hyperfixationhobo punch

@leighsartworks216

Current obsessions: Recliner Loving Life

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dijayeah · 2 months ago

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Fractured

❤︎ tags and content: threesome, mmf, oral, fingering, rough sex, spitroasting, starcrow ❤︎ author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/cafekitsune Fic: @moongirlcleo

You never meant to be stuck with a difficult choice.

But when Sylus corners you with that velvet voice and arrogant smirk, and Xavier watches with that impossible restraint burning in his silence, the tension fractures into something sharp. Something intimate. Something neither of them are willing to walk away from.

You didn’t want to choose.

So they make you feel what it’s like to be taken apart by both.

The air in the training room clung to your skin—warm, heavy, pulsing with something unspoken. You were still catching your breath, fingers flexing around the edge of your gloves when Sylus stepped into your space like he owned it. His crimson gaze flicked toward your lips before settling on your eyes, and the smirk that curved his mouth was nothing short of predatory. He reached out—slow, deliberate—and peeled the glove from your hand, knuckles grazing your jaw as if by accident. But nothing Sylus did was accidental.

“You’re getting faster,” he murmured, voice a quiet, indulgent drawl. “Still not fast enough to keep me off you.”

The words slid under your skin, hot and shameless. You should’ve laughed. Pushed him away. But something in his tone—and the way his fingers lingered—made your breath hitch.

And across the room, leaning against the wall like a shadow carved from quiet fury, Xavier was watching. Still. Silent. Eyes sharp enough to cut through glass.

Sylus didn’t move away. If anything, he stepped closer, his body heat brushing up against yours like a whispered promise. You could smell the faint hint of ozone that always clung to him—sharp, electric, a reminder of the raw energy curled beneath his skin. He tilted his head, silver strands falling into his crimson eyes as he regarded you with mock curiosity.

“You always this flushed after sparring?” he asked, voice dipping lower, rougher. “Or am I just special?”

Your heart kicked against your ribs, and maybe it was the adrenaline still thrumming through your veins—or maybe it was the way he said I like a challenge. His fingers were still curled around the wrist of your glove, thumb brushing the inside of your palm now, slow and almost thoughtful. He was studying you—not for weakness, but for response.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but then his free hand lifted, the back of his knuckles grazing the curve of your cheek.

“Relax,” he said softly, eyes dropping to your mouth again. “I don’t bite... unless you want me to.”

And that’s when you felt it—that familiar pressure, that weight. Xavier hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t moved an inch.

But you felt him. Like a pulse in the air, steady and restrained—just barely.

Sylus didn’t look away from you. But the ghost of a smile curled at the edge of his lips, as if he could feel it too.

“Your knight up there’s been awful quiet,” he murmured. “Think he’ll break if I touch you again?”

You pulled your hand back, the glove falling to the floor in a soft, hollow drop that echoed louder than it should have in the stillness between you. “Xavier is my coworker,” you said, the words steadier than the rush of heat rising in your throat, but you weren’t sure if you were saying it for Sylus or for yourself.

He didn’t move. Not a step backward, not even a breath of retreat—if anything, the ghost of a smile tugged at the edge of his lips, not cocky this time, but slow and knowing, like he’d been expecting your deflection and had already planned six steps ahead. His crimson gaze lingered on your face, not with the sharp glint of mockery he was so well-known for, but with something quieter, deeper—like he was seeing something he didn’t want to admit had meaning.

“You think I’m doing this to get under his skin?” he asked at last, his voice low and curiously soft, a rough-edged silk that brushed against your spine in ways that had nothing to do with heat or proximity. “Is that really what you see when I look at you?”

He tilted his head slightly, and for a moment his eyes dropped—not to your mouth in that theatrical, overly obvious way that flirts often favored—but lower, to your neck, to the faint stutter of your pulse beneath your skin, as though he could feel the flutter of it without laying a single finger on you.

“I’ve wanted you since the beginning,” he murmured, and though the words were quiet, they landed like thunder. “Since that first mission when you smiled at me like you weren’t afraid—like you actually saw through the bravado and didn’t flinch.”

Your breath caught, your fingers curling at your sides before you could stop them. Sylus didn’t press closer, but the space between you felt thinner than air, stretched taut with something dangerous and charged, and still, he never touched you—not yet. His restraint was not a lack of desire, but a decision, a performance, a provocation.

“I’ve watched you laugh at his dry little nothings,” he continued, his tone dipping darker, the affection in it smoothed over with something just a little bitter. “Watched you lean into him like it meant something, while he stood there and let it all pass him by.”

He leaned in then, slow enough to give you time to stop him, close enough that his breath grazed the edge of your jaw, but not so close that his lips touched you—never quite crossing that line, as if daring you to be the one to do it first.

“If I kissed you right now, it wouldn’t be for him. It wouldn’t be to start a fight or prove a point,” he whispered, the words barely more than breath. “It would be because I’ve imagined the way you’d taste every fucking time you look at me like that.”

A shiver rippled beneath your skin, and he felt it—because of course he did—and still he didn’t touch you, still he waited, giving you just enough space to choose, to step forward or step away.

But before either of you could move, Sylus exhaled slowly and stepped back—not in defeat, but in deliberate, measured retreat, like someone who knew he’d already planted the seed and only needed time to let it grow. His gaze lingered a moment longer, dragged over your lips like a promise left hanging in the air, and then he turned, calm and unhurried, strolling toward the exit without a single glance in Xavier’s direction.

But as he reached the threshold, hand resting against the frame, he paused—just long enough to speak again, his voice pitched low, the words slung back over his shoulder like a dagger thrown with perfect aim.

“You should really ask yourself,” he said, “why he hasn’t stopped me.”

And with that, he vanished down the corridor, leaving behind a silence that felt almost holy in its weight—thick with everything unsaid, and the unbearable heat of a gaze still burning across the room, unmoving, unrelenting, waiting.

***

Xavier hadn’t spoken a word. Hadn’t so much as shifted his weight from where he stood, spine straight against the far wall of the training room, arms folded, the fabric of his sleeves pulled taut over forearms he’d kept unnervingly still—but his gaze had never left you, not for a single heartbeat.

From the moment Sylus crossed the space between you, Xavier had been watching.

Not with suspicion, but with something far more dangerous.

He’d felt it coming long before it happened—the subtle way Sylus’s voice dropped in your presence, the way his fingers lingered too long when he passed you a datapad or brushed past you in crowded corridors, the curve of his smile always just a touch too knowing when you tilted your head, unaware of what you were doing to men who should have known better than to want someone like you with anything less than reverence.

And yet it was happening—right in front of him.

Sylus, all heat and arrogance, circling you like a wolf with a grin, laying out the quiet truths Xavier had buried for months beneath layers of rationale and professionalism. He heard every word—I've wanted you since the beginning—and not a single muscle in his face moved, not a flicker in his expression betrayed the way each syllable landed with the precision of a knife driven point-first into his sternum.

But inside, the fracture lines were forming.

Xavier had always known control—had studied it, lived it, let it shape every part of his existence. He didn’t react unless he needed to. He didn’t feel unless it served a purpose. Emotions were calculated things—quiet and contained, cordoned off behind reinforced walls that even he rarely allowed himself to look over.

But then Sylus looked at you like you were already his, and you didn’t push him away. Not right away. And that? That was what did it.

The first crack. Xavier felt the shift in his chest—not rage, not quite, but something colder, quieter, more possessive in its shape. Not jealousy for jealousy’s sake. But something deeper. Something primal. He didn’t want to fight Sylus for you.

He wanted you to choose. But the idea that you might not—that Sylus could touch you first, kiss you first, claim you in some dark corner where Xavier’s silence had failed to speak what he couldn’t bring himself to say—made the breath catch behind his ribs in a way that felt entirely foreign. Dangerous. He could still feel the weight of your pulse through the air. You were unsettled. Flushed. And though Xavier hadn’t moved, hadn’t interfered, hadn’t spoken, he knew that part of you had wanted him to.

Sylus knew it too. That was the worst of it.

So when the Onychinus leader threw that final line over his shoulder—You should really ask yourself why he hasn’t stopped me—Xavier didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. But his jaw did tighten, just barely, the faintest flicker of movement as his teeth met behind closed lips, slow and deliberate. He waited until the room was quiet again.

Until the door had shut. Until only the sound of your breathing remained—uneven, shallow, the kind of breath that lived on the edge of something neither of you could name out loud.

Then, and only then, did Xavier speak.

“You didn’t stop him either.”

The words were low. Measured. Not an accusation—just a truth. And yet it hung between you like the calm before a storm that had been gathering on the horizon for far too long. You turned to face him slowly, pulse still unsteady, the ghost of Sylus’s nearness clinging to your skin like static, but it was Xavier’s voice—low, quiet, maddeningly composed—that pinned you in place. It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t meant to be cruel. But it cleaved the air in two like a blade drawn in a whisper.

You blinked, the words landing harder than they had any right to. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, your voice too tight, too thin to sound unaffected.

Xavier didn’t move, didn’t step toward you, but his eyes—those ice-blue eyes that rarely gave away anything—were sharp and unreadable, shining with a heat that didn’t belong in someone so calm.

“It means I’ve seen you push him away before. That wasn’t what you did this time.”

You felt something ripple in your stomach—guilt, maybe, or defiance, or something too tangled to name.

“He cornered me during sparring,” you said, defensive without meaning to be, arms wrapping around yourself not for modesty, but for armor. “You were standing right there.”

“Exactly,” he murmured, and for the first time, something flickered in his expression—a shadow of disappointment, quiet and sharp. “I was.”

Your chest tightened. There was a long, aching silence after that, one that stretched like a fault line between you, threatening to rupture under the weight of everything unspoken. And still, Xavier said nothing else—didn’t berate, didn’t demand, didn’t press you to explain the way you looked at Sylus like you weren’t sure if you wanted him gone or closer. He simply looked at you, gaze steady, a question hanging in the air that he didn’t need to say out loud: If he touches you again, will you let him?

And when you didn’t answer—when you couldn’t—Xavier exhaled softly, not defeated, not even angry. Just… resigned. Like someone who knew exactly how dangerous waiting could be.

He turned then, walking past you with that same quiet grace he always carried, but as he reached the door, his hand paused on the frame. His voice, when it came again, was softer now, something that curled beneath your skin and stayed there.

“I’ll see you at home.”

And then he was gone, leaving the air behind him heavy with everything you hadn’t said, and everything you still wanted to.

The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that echoed too loud in the hollow quiet he left behind. You didn’t move.

Not at first. Not even when your muscles began to ache from the tension still coiled tight beneath your skin, or when the hum of the training room lights suddenly felt deafening, mechanical and cold against the afterimage of his voice still replaying in your ears.

You didn’t stop him either.

It wasn’t the accusation that stung—it was the truth buried inside it. The way he’d seen through everything, the way he’d watched and waited, hoping maybe—just maybe—you would prove him wrong. But you hadn’t. Not entirely. And now that silence between you had a shape, a name, a consequence.

You swallowed hard, arms still crossed, still gripping at the fabric of your shirt like you were trying to hold something in place that had already started to come undone. Sylus’s voice was still there too, lingering like heat—I’ve wanted you since the beginning—but it didn’t feel flattering now. It felt like a match struck beside something flammable you hadn’t realized you’d soaked yourself in.

You pressed a hand to your face, dragging your fingers down slowly, as if that might wipe away the flush still burning at your cheeks—or the guilt tightening low in your stomach. Xavier hadn’t asked you to choose. He hadn’t given you an ultimatum. But somehow, that made it worse. Because you weren’t sure what you would’ve said if he had.

The quiet stretched on, heavy and unrelenting, and it felt like no matter how long you stood there, the echo of his final words would keep ringing in the space he’d left behind.

I’ll see you at home. Not goodbye. Not ‘don’t follow me’. Not even anger.

Just a reminder. Of where he’d be. And the unspoken promise that if you didn’t figure out what you wanted by then… well, you didn’t want to think about it.

***

The walk home felt longer than usual, each step weighed down by the echo of Xavier’s voice and the press of Sylus’s breath still clinging to the side of your neck like phantom heat. The city lights blurred past in soft streaks of gold and violet, but you barely registered them, too wrapped up in thoughts you didn’t want to name. Guilt. Want. Confusion. And beneath it all, the low thrum of anticipation that curled deep in your spine—hot and reckless.

You made it to the apartment complex with your keycard in hand, buzzing through the front door with the distant hope that Xavier wasn’t already waiting. You didn’t think you were ready to see him. Not yet.

But as the elevator doors slid open, you stopped short.

Sylus was already inside.

Not slouched in the corner. Not pretending it was some accident. No—he stood like he owned the space, one hand tucked into the pocket of a tailored black coat that looked far too expensive for Linkon City and a glass of wine in hand.

He smiled when he saw you, slow and sharp, like he’d been expecting this. But of course he was.

“Evening, kitten,” he said, voice silk-smooth, eyes gleaming beneath the low light. “Funny, I didn’t take you for the type to let your guards down.”

Your blood ran cold for half a second before the heat rushed in—equal parts irritation and something darker, something that made your thighs press together without meaning to. He’d been watching.

You stepped inside despite yourself, the doors closing behind you with a soft hiss.

“What the hell are you doing here, Sylus?”

He tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes raking over you without shame. “What, no ‘thank you for walking me home?’ I made sure you got back in one piece. That’s what good men do, isn’t it?”

You scoffed, but it was weak. Too breathless. Too aware of the way his body heat pulled toward yours despite the distance.

“You followed me.”

“I wanted to make sure you weren’t lonely.”

And as the elevator began to rise, slow and mechanical, he stepped forward—not enough to trap you, but enough to let you feel the pressure of his presence, the wine still in his hand, untouched.

“You keep pretending it’s just him,” he murmured, voice low and intimate now, like a secret meant for only you. “But you react to me, too. You know it.”

The elevator chimed softly, and when the doors slid open, Xavier stood just beyond them—leaning against the hallway wall like he’d been there for longer than he should have, posture relaxed but eyes sharp, his gaze moving from Sylus to you with that same unreadable stillness he’d worn at the training room.

His expression didn’t shift. Not when he took in the wine glass in Sylus’s hand. Not when he noticed how close he was standing to you.

But something in the air changed.

“Didn’t plan on seeing you so soon,” Xavier said, voice calm and even, “I see you’ve found where we live.”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. And yet, the tension they carried struck like a low current beneath the surface—steady, quiet, unmistakably deliberate. Sylus didn’t look away from Xavier. Not this time. Instead, he smiled—slow, satisfied, like he’d been waiting for that shift in tone, for that quiet give in Xavier’s iron composure.

“Wasn’t sure where we stood,” Sylus said smoothly, his eyes glittering as he took a single, unhurried step out of the elevator. “But if you’re done pretending you don’t care…”

He turned to you then, head tilting just slightly as his voice dropped to something far softer—warmer, even.

“Why don’t we stop dancing around it, sweetheart, and take this inside?”

Your breath caught somewhere in your throat, caught between Xavier’s silence and Sylus’s certainty, the space between them too charged, too deliberate, and somehow not nearly enough.

“You coming?” Sylus asked, already walking toward your apartment door like it was his key in your pocket, like he had every intention of walking through first.

And behind you, Xavier finally moved—quiet, deliberate footsteps as he fell into step beside you, not touching, not pushing, but undeniably there.

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft finality, the quiet lock sliding into place like a thread being pulled tight. The lights were low—just the soft wash of gold from the kitchen and the faint glow of the city outside your window, throwing long shadows across the room.

You stepped in first, breath tight, turning to face them both as Sylus set his glass of wine on your counter like he owned it, his coat already half undone, movements smooth and effortless. Xavier, still behind you, hadn’t said a word, but you could feel him at your back—solid, steady, watching.

“What the hell is this?” you asked, voice a little sharper than you meant it to be, your heart pounding too loud for the silence that followed. “What are you two doing?”

Sylus smiled at that—languid and slow, like the question had been crafted just for him.

“That depends,” he said, his eyes flicking over to Xavier, whose arms were still folded, his expression unreadable. “You going to tell her, or should I?”

You turned slightly toward Xavier, but he didn’t meet your gaze. He was watching Sylus. Still holding the line. Still composed. But barely.

Sylus stepped closer. Not to you—to Xavier.

“You came to her door because of me,” he said, voice low, dangerously quiet. “You saw me put my hands on her, and you finally felt something strong enough to do more than just watch.”

He took another step, now standing between you both, gaze fixed on Xavier with open challenge.

“So go on,” he said, tipping his chin up slightly, taunting now. “If you want her, take her. Show her how you look at her when you think no one’s watching. Or maybe you’d rather just keep standing there, pretending your hands aren’t shaking.”

Your breath caught.

Xavier didn’t move—but something changed. A flicker of light caught in his eyes, a slow exhale from his nose, and his fingers—still folded over his arms—tightened ever so slightly.

Sylus turned to you then, his voice gentler than before, seductive but not mocking.

“He wants you,” he murmured. “We both do. So tell me—”

He took one final step closer, crowding your space now, his voice curling like smoke against the edge of your jaw.

“Who do you want, sweetheart? Show us.”

You opened your mouth to answer—something, anything—but nothing came. The words caught in your throat, tangled in the rush of heat and confusion and want that refused to take a single, clear shape.

Sylus was too close, his presence like velvet wrapped around steel, the kind of danger that made your breath quicken for all the wrong reasons. And Xavier—Xavier was behind you, silent and still, but the weight of his gaze felt heavier than the air between you, thick with everything he hadn’t said.

And that was what finally did it.

The second your silence stretched too long—when your hand hovered between stepping back or reaching forward—Xavier moved.

The shift in the room was instant.

One moment he was behind you, calm, unreadable. The next, he was in front of you, stepping between you and Sylus with a precision that made the air snap. His hand came up, flat against Sylus’s chest, not shoving—but firm. Final.

“That’s enough.”

His voice was low, steady—but it shook something in your core. It was the kind of tone that came from someone who had finally made a decision, someone who had spent too long holding back and had just realized he wasn’t going to anymore.

Sylus raised a brow, but he didn’t step back. “You going to make a move, or just keep playing bodyguard?”

Xavier’s jaw flexed.

He turned his head, slowly, his gaze cutting to you like a knife sheathed in velvet, cool but burning from the inside out. You could see it in the tension in his shoulders, in the way his breath came just a fraction sharper than before. He wasn’t angry—not at you. But he was done pretending he didn’t feel it.

“You want someone to show you what’s going on?” he said, voice lower now, meant only for you. “Fine.”

And then he was kissing you.

No hesitation. No caution. Just the clean, sharp press of his mouth against yours—like he’d been waiting for an excuse, and now that he had one, he wasn’t holding back.

His hand slid up to your jaw, tilting your face toward him as his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him, grounding you in something that felt real and immediate and overwhelming. You gasped against his mouth and he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss until your legs nearly gave out beneath you.

When he finally pulled back, breath ragged against your cheek, he didn’t speak right away. His forehead rested lightly against yours, his fingers still curled into your hip, holding you there like he couldn’t risk letting go.

And then, without looking away from you, he spoke.

“So, now?” he said, quieter now. “Here it is.”

He reached for your hand—and pressed it firmly to the line of his belt, eyes dark, voice steady.

“Choose.”

And behind you, Sylus exhaled a soft, amused breath. “Well. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

You didn’t move.

Not when Xavier’s breath still clung to your lips, not when his grip remained firm at your waist, grounding you to him with a steadiness that should’ve made the decision easier. But it didn’t. Your hand stayed frozen against the front of his belt, trembling ever so slightly, suspended in the tension between want and fear, confusion and heat, unable to fall forward or pull away. You felt his eyes on you—steady, unreadable—and for a moment, you thought he might close the space again, kiss you until the question dissolved between your mouths.

But he didn’t. And you couldn’t. And that’s when Sylus laughed.

It was a quiet sound, deep and rich, edged not with cruelty but certainty—a slow, indulgent realization that the moment he’d been carefully laying out had finally unfolded exactly as he meant it to. He took a step closer, slow and unhurried, like he’d been waiting just outside the gravity of the room, and now that the air had changed, he’d let himself fall into it.

“She’s not choosing,” he said simply, as if he were pointing out a truth neither of you wanted to see—one that had been written in the way your breath caught, the way your eyes darted between them, the way your body leaned into Xavier’s hold even as your mouth still burned with the memory of Sylus’s voice. “You see that, don’t you?”

Xavier didn’t answer, but you felt it—the slight shift in his posture, the way his grip stilled on your waist, no longer urging you closer, as if he too had realized that no matter how tightly he held you, something in you was still hesitating.

Sylus watched him for a beat longer, red eyes gleaming beneath the soft glow of your kitchen lights, and when he stepped forward again, his movements were quiet, precise, the kind of control that didn’t ask permission—it dared you to stop him.

“You think I came here just to provoke you?” he asked, not mockingly, but with the slow pull of someone peeling back a truth long buried. “You think I followed her home just to make you angry?”

His gaze dropped to yours again, and something shifted in his face—not softened, not quite, but sharpened into something intimate, hungry, real.

“I’m not here to light a fire under you, Xavier. I’m here for her.”

He closed the space until he stood shoulder to shoulder with the man still holding you, and when he lifted his hand to your face, it was gentle but possessive—his fingers trailing the curve of your jaw, guiding your head just slightly until your eyes met his. His thumb brushed your cheek in a slow, deliberate stroke, as if laying claim to the part of you that hadn’t yet been touched.

“I don’t plan to stand back and watch you win,” he murmured, his voice a low thread between your lips, his breath barely a whisper against your skin. “I don’t intend to be a shadow in your story.”

Then, still watching you, his words turned toward Xavier, a slow blade wrapped in silk.

“I’m here to compete,” he said. “I’m going to take what you hesitate to touch.”

The air in the room thickened like steam, like tension settling into the bones of the walls around you. But Xavier didn’t flinch, didn’t back down, didn’t so much as twitch. His fingers remained steady on your hip, his chest pressed lightly against your back, and when he finally spoke, it was with the kind of low, dark resolve that felt quieter than breath and far heavier than words.

“Then prove it.”

And just like that, the attention—the hunger—shifted back to you.

The way Sylus’s gaze lingered a moment longer on Xavier’s, something unspoken passing between them—an acknowledgment, a dare, a promise—and then, as if synced by the same thread pulled tight around you, they moved.

Xavier’s hand was the first to slide lower, fingers dragging with deliberate slowness down your side until they rested at the curve of your hip, holding you there as he stepped behind you again, his body flush to your back now, warmth seeping through every layer of your clothing like a warning of what was coming.

Sylus didn’t wait for permission. He leaned in from the front, eyes locked on yours as his thumb traced the corner of your mouth, then dipped lower, brushing your bottom lip with the same care one might handle something delicate—fragile—but it wasn’t reverence. It was precision. He was memorizing you.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-dark. “Is that for me… or for him?”

Your lips parted, breath caught somewhere between their bodies, but no answer came—not when Xavier leaned forward behind you, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a low murmur against your skin.

“She doesn’t know,” he said, and the way his breath hit your neck sent a full-body shiver spiraling through you. “That’s the problem.”

Sylus’s smile curved into something sharper, something predatory. “Then we’ll show her.”

Xavier’s hands moved first—down, under your shirt, palms flat against your stomach, dragging slowly upward. The touch was patient, methodical, and devastating. When his fingers reached the underside of your bra, they didn’t push—just held there, the heat of his skin seeping through the lace as he waited for the sound of your breath catching, and when it did, he exhaled, low and dark, and slid his palms higher, cupping you fully.

You gasped, but it was lost in Sylus’s mouth.

Because while Xavier touched, Sylus claimed—his lips brushing yours in a ghost of a kiss before he took it fully, his hand sliding up your neck to anchor you there as he devoured you in one long, slow pull of lips and tongue that made your knees weaken. His kiss was fire, Xavier’s hands were heat, and the war between them was being fought on the lines of your body.

Sylus bit your lower lip, gently, teasing, and when he pulled back, his eyes were half-lidded, breath warm against your cheek. “You taste like hesitation.”

Behind you, Xavier’s voice was lower, rougher. “Not for long.”

And then you were moving—walked backward, guided by Xavier’s hands, turned and pressed against the edge of your couch. His grip was firm but not forceful, and when he sank to his knees in front of you, his eyes lifted to yours with a hunger so quiet it felt sacred.

Sylus moved behind now, a mirror to what Xavier had been, and when his hands settled on your waist, when his lips ghosted along the back of your neck, you finally understood.

This wasn’t a fight. It was a ritual, and you were the altar.

Xavier’s fingers brushed the waistband of your pants with the kind of care that wasn’t hesitation, but reverence laced in control, his eyes still locked on yours as if daring you to look away. He didn’t pull them down yet—just traced the edge, knuckles dragging slow along your lower belly, letting you feel the weight of anticipation before his thumbs finally hooked beneath the fabric and began to slide it down.

Behind you, Sylus leaned in, his breath brushing your shoulder as his hands took over from Xavier’s, tugging your clothing down the rest of the way with far less patience, knuckles grazing the backs of your thighs in a way that made your stomach clench. You could hear the hum of approval in his throat when the fabric hit the floor, his fingers curling around your hips to steady you as Xavier knelt fully, his mouth following the trail he’d made.

You exhaled, shaky, as cool air kissed your exposed skin—but it was the heat of Xavier’s breath between your thighs that made your knees buckle. His hands slid around to the backs of your legs, firm and grounding, and then he tasted you.

There was no warning—just the slow, devastating drag of his tongue from your center to your clit, measured and controlled, like he wanted to memorize every reaction you gave. And when he felt you shudder, when he heard the soft, broken sound that slipped from your lips, his grip tightened just slightly, mouth pressing in deeper, tongue flicking, circling, teasing in patterns too precise to be anything but intentional.

Sylus’s mouth was at your ear again, his hand sliding up your stomach, beneath your shirt, fingers spreading wide over your ribs as he whispered, “You’re soaking. You feel that?” His hips pressed lightly against your ass, just enough to let you feel the hard line of him through tailored slacks that hadn’t been undone yet—because Sylus liked restraint until it hurt.

Xavier groaned low against you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of sensation through your core, and when you whimpered, Sylus smiled against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. “Seems like he’s good with his mouth,” he murmured, hand sliding up to cup your breast beneath your bra. “But I want to know how you sound when I’m inside you.”

You gasped as his thumb brushed over your nipple, and Xavier responded with a slow, filthy pull of your clit between his lips, the kind of focused worship that made your thighs quake and your fingers claw at the fabric beneath you.

They weren’t fighting anymore. They were orchestrating.

Xavier pulled back just slightly, lips slick, eyes glazed with hunger but still watching, and he murmured, “Turn her around.”

Sylus didn’t need to be told twice.

His hands slid from your waist to your shoulders, and with deliberate slowness, he guided you to turn in place—Xavier still on his knees, now behind you, Sylus in front, already working the buttons of his shirt open with one hand while the other tilted your chin up to meet him.

“Ready, sweetheart?” he whispered, eyes dark. “Because once we start, we’re not stopping until you forget who you thought you wanted more.”

And behind you, Xavier’s hands gripped your hips again—this time, harder.

The side of the couch pressed against the front of your legs. Sylus leaned down to kiss you. And between the heat of their mouths, the drag of their hands, the overwhelming stretch of your body being claimed on both ends—

You forgot everything but this.

Sylus didn’t rush the kiss. He took it in pieces—soft, open-mouthed, his lips dragging over yours like he had all night to taste you and still wouldn’t get enough. His hands framed your face at first, thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth before sliding down to your throat, his touch never harsh, but possessive in the way a storm claims the air before it breaks.

Behind you, Xavier stayed on his knees, but his mouth returned to you with a kind of precision that was almost cruel—licking, flicking, dragging in devastating patterns over your clit that didn’t allow you a second of stillness. His fingers gripped your hips firmly, kneading into your skin like he was marking his place, while every pass of his tongue pushed you closer to the edge without letting you fall.

When your legs trembled beneath you, Sylus deepened the kiss, swallowing the whimper that escaped your throat as Xavier’s tongue pressed flat and slow, the heat of him making your body arch instinctively. Sylus pulled back just enough to speak, breath warm against your lips.

“That close already?” he murmured, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Poor kitten. We’ve barely started.”

He dragged your shirt over your head without waiting for a reply, your bra following in a blur of movement and heat. The cool air barely had time to kiss your skin before Sylus’s mouth was on your chest, his lips and tongue tracing over one breast while his hand squeezed the other, teasing you between tongue and fingers until your hips rocked forward on instinct—seeking friction, seeking something.

But you didn’t get relief. Not yet. Because Xavier chose that moment to stop.

You made a soft, desperate sound, one that turned to a gasp when his hands slid up the backs of your thighs, guiding you down, bending you gently over the couch until your chest pressed to the cushions and your ass was angled perfectly toward him. His palms ran over your curves like he was sculpting something holy, and then he leaned in, breath hot against the crease of your thigh.

“You think you can take both of us?” Xavier asked, the question low and so calm it made your skin prickle. “You can’t even handle my tongue.”

You whined, hips shifting, but Sylus was already crouching in front of you now, having stripped down to his slacks and unfastened them with an unhurried, deliberate ease that made your mouth water. His cock rested against his thigh, hard and flushed, and when he saw your gaze drop to it, his smirk curved into something dark.

“You want it?” he asked, thumbing a drop of precum from the tip and dragging it over your lower lip, slow enough to watch your reaction. “Then beg for it.”

You tried—but then Xavier’s mouth returned behind you, this time with his fingers joining, sliding inside slowly, stretching you with maddening precision while his tongue never stopped working your clit. The combination tore a cry from your throat, one you barely managed to muffle against Sylus’s chest as he chuckled and stroked your jaw.

“Did you hear that, Xavier?” Sylus said, voice low and pleased. “She sounds perfect when she doesn’t know which way to fall.”

And Xavier’s voice came from behind you—closer now, deeper.

“She’s going to break. We’re going to make sure of it.”

Sylus grabbed a fistful of your hair—not rough, but grounding—and guided your mouth to the head of his cock, offering.

“Let’s see how much she can take,” he murmured. “Because I don’t think we’re stopping until she’s begging us to let her come.”

The taste of him bloomed across your tongue, salty and clean, and the sound he made when your lips wrapped fully around him was little more than a growl, low and possessive.

“That’s it,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “Just like that, sweetie. God, you’re so fucking pretty when you’re obedient.”

Xavier, still behind you, was anything but gentle now—his fingers thrusting inside you with measured force, finding that perfect spot again and again as his tongue flicked over your clit with the kind of practiced attention that made your entire body quiver against the couch. He wasn’t letting up. Neither of them were. And it was too much.

Your hips rocked forward instinctively, and Sylus held you there with one hand tangled in your hair, the other caressing the curve of your jaw as you moaned around him. The sound made him shudder, his cock twitching on your tongue.

“She’s close,” he said looking over you, voice rough now, as if even he was starting to feel the pleasure. “She’s dripping all over your hand.”

“She’s not coming yet,” Xavier replied, his tone flat, controlled—his fingers suddenly slowing to a torturously slow rhythm that made your thighs shake. “Not until she asks for it.”

You whimpered, pulling back from Sylus with a gasping breath, your lips slick and swollen, your voice a wrecked whisper.

“Please…”

But that wasn’t enough. Sylus leaned down, fingers gripping your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“Say it,” he said, eyes burning crimson now, pupils blown wide. “Say exactly what you want.”

Xavier’s tongue circled your clit again, slow and firm, and your body bucked between them, your hands clawing at the couch cushions as you tried to ride the edge that kept slipping out of reach.

“Say his name,” Sylus coaxed. “Say mine. Tell us what you need.”

You gasped, breath shuddering as another wave of heat crested behind your ribs, just beyond reach, and you broke.

“I want both of you,” you cried, voice cracking, desperate now. “Please—fuck, please—I want you inside me. I want both of you—please.”

Everything stopped.

The stillness was deafening for a moment—no fingers, no tongue, no teasing—just the ragged echo of your voice, the raw need of it laid bare in the air.

Sylus stepped back, grabbing your arm and hauling you upright, his mouth crashing into yours with a bruising kiss that tasted like praise and promise. His hands were on your hips, angling you toward him as Xavier moved closer behind you, one hand sliding up your spine, the other already pulling his belt open with sharp, mechanical precision.

They didn’t speak.

There was no need—not now that your words had broken through the tension, raw and desperate, a plea that lived in your throat even as their hands found you again.

Xavier moved behind you, his breath hot against your shoulder as his hands slid over your hips, steady and grounding, fingers curling into your skin as he lined himself up against your entrance. His cock brushed your folds, thick and hot and already slick from how desperately you’d been soaking for him, and you could feel the restraint in him—how hard he was trying to keep control as the head of him pushed against your entrance.

But he didn’t wait long. Not when you moaned, not when your hips arched back instinctively, begging without words for him to take. And he did.

Xavier sank into you with a slow, devastating thrust, filling you inch by inch until your knees nearly gave out. He grunted softly, breath catching as your walls clamped down around him, already fluttering, already struggling to take all of him. One arm wrapped around your waist as he buried himself deep, the other sliding up to press a hand between your breasts, holding you in place, holding you still.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he growled, voice low and dark in your ear. “Like your body was made for this.”

Before you could even catch your breath, Sylus was back in front of you, his hand in your hair again—not to pull, but to guide, to keep you upright as Xavier began to move behind you with slow, punishing strokes. His cock bobbed just in front of your mouth, flushed and glistening, and when you looked up at him, eyes wide and lips parted, he smiled like a man watching someone fall to their knees for worship.

“Open up, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick. “You asked for both of us—so take me.”

You did—lips parting as he guided himself back into your mouth, and the second you closed your lips around him, Sylus hissed through his teeth, head falling back with a groan.

Now they moved together.

Xavier’s hips rolled in slow, deliberate thrusts behind you, hitting deep with every grind of his pelvis, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the room, and every time he pushed forward, Sylus eased into your mouth, letting you take him in time with the rhythm.

They didn’t rush. They devoured—Xavier grinding deep inside you, dragging moans from your throat that were muffled by the length of Sylus on your tongue, his fingers fisted in your hair, jaw tight with restraint.

“Fuck—look at her,” Sylus groaned, his eyes locked on yours, watching the tears prick the corners of them as you took him deeper, struggling to keep breathing between thrusts. “Look at how fucking good she looks between us.”

Xavier growled behind you, one hand sliding down to rub tight, focused circles over your clit as he fucked into you harder, the slap of his hips faster now, more forceful, more intentional.

“She’s going to come just like this,” he muttered, his lips at your ear. “Stuffed full. Wrecked. Can you see how she’s gripping me?”

The orgasm creeping closer with every stroke, every grind of Sylus’s cock against your tongue, every flick of Xavier’s fingers over your clit. You were shaking, sobbing around Sylus’s length now, unable to do anything but feel, your body no longer your own.

“Come for us,” Xavier said, voice hoarse. “Fucking fall apart.”

And you did.

With a cry strangled around Sylus’s cock, your body convulsed—legs trembling, walls clenching so tightly around Xavier he cursed and nearly lost it with you. Sylus groaned brokenly as your moan vibrated through him, and he pulled out just long enough to let you cry out fully, your mouth slick and open as your body seized in climax, your scream echoing between their bodies.

“That’s it,” Sylus murmured, voice barely holding steady. “That’s our girl.”

You barely had time to breathe. Your body was still trembling, muscles clenching around the last waves of your orgasm when Xavier pulled out with a soft hiss, his hands still steady on your waist as he guided you gently down to your knees on the couch cushions. Your legs gave out beneath you, boneless and soaked, mouth parted in dazed relief—but the moment you collapsed, Sylus was there.

He didn’t wait.

His hands were on your hips in an instant, lifting, adjusting, dragging your body back toward him with a strength that felt like it lived in his bones. You cried out, overstimulated and still gasping, but when you turned to look over your shoulder, the expression on his face was pure, dark hunger—his hair mussed, his chest flushed, his cock slick at the tip as he lined himself up behind you.

“You begged for both of us,” he rasped, his voice rougher now, fraying at the edges. “Now fucking take it.”

And with that, he pushed inside.

The stretch was brutal—sharper than Xavier, not because he was bigger, but because he didn’t give you time to adjust. You were still tight, soaked, throbbing from the orgasm Xavier had just pulled from you, and Sylus was feral, groaning low in his throat as he bottomed out with one long, forceful thrust that made your breath catch and your arms collapse beneath you.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, hands gripping your ass as he pulled back and slammed into you again, the sound echoing in the room like a slap. “Tight little thing. So desperate to be filled you didn’t even care who did it first.”

You whimpered, but it broke into a moan when he snapped his hips forward again, harder now, faster—every thrust sending shockwaves through your core, through your thighs, through your lungs. You felt wrecked, used, stretched to your limit and already close to unraveling again, the pressure mounting so fast you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

And behind you, Sylus was panting, cursing softly, hips slamming into yours as his fingers dug into your skin.

“You feel that?” he groaned, voice low and wrecked. “You’re taking all of me, sweetheart. So fucking good.”

Your body was already shuddering—wrung out, raw, still fluttering around Sylus’s cock as he drove into you with the kind of desperate, punishing thrusts that left no room for doubt. He was close. You could feel it in the way his grip tightened on your hips, in the way his breath turned to ragged curses against your skin, in the way he pulled you back onto him like he couldn’t get deep enough, even though he was already buried to the hilt.

But then—Xavier was in front of you again.

He knelt on the couch, one knee beside your hand, the other planted steady in the cushions, his cock already flushed and heavy, gleaming at the tip as he wrapped his fingers around the base and guided it toward your mouth.

“Open,” he said, his voice soft but commanding, his eyes hooded, jaw tight. “Now.”

You obeyed without hesitation—lips parting around a gasp as Sylus fucked you harder from behind, and the moment Xavier slid into your mouth, you moaned low and wrecked, the sound vibrating against him as his hand cradled the back of your head, keeping your pace slow and steady.

“That’s it,” Xavier murmured, breath catching as you took more of him, your tongue curling around his length. “Good girl. Just like that.”

Your throat was tight, your mouth full, your body a wrecked, trembling thing between them. Sylus was slamming into you now, his pace erratic, desperate, every thrust forcing you forward on Xavier’s cock until you were choking softly around the rhythm, tears prickling the corners of your eyes as Xavier groaned and held you there, just long enough to feel you struggle, then eased back.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” he rasped, hips flexing as he slid deeper. “Fucked dumb. Not even sure who’s making you come anymore.”

“Both of us,” Sylus growled from behind, the slap of his hips harsh now, his voice wrecked and low. “She begged for both. Let’s not let her forget.”

Your moans were helpless, muffled around Xavier’s cock, your body bouncing with every thrust from Sylus, every grind of Xavier’s hips forward. You were gone. Absolutely gone—sweat-slicked, soaking, mouth full, cunt dripping around Sylus’s cock with every brutal snap of his hips.

And then Sylus cursed—loud, ragged—as his rhythm faltered, hips jerking in short, desperate thrusts as he came hard inside you, one final growl of your name pulled from somewhere primal in his chest.

You barely had time to collapse before Xavier’s hand fisted in your hair, holding your head steady as his pace quickened, the soft curses spilling from his lips unraveling into something far less composed.

“God, your mouth,” he groaned, voice hoarse. “So fucking good—gonna come—fuck, baby—hold still—”

And you did—barely—lips stretched wide, jaw aching, tears slipping down your cheeks as Xavier groaned deep in his throat and spilled into your mouth, thick and hot, hips twitching as he held you there, pressed tight against your tongue, his breath shuddering above you.

When he finally let go, you sagged—completely spent, used, trembling with the weight of what they’d both poured into you.

You collapsed between them, your body boneless, trembling, your throat raw and mouth swollen, legs weak from everything they’d taken and given back tenfold. The couch beneath you was too warm, the air thick with sweat and sex and quiet breathless awe.

Xavier moved first—brushing the damp hair from your forehead, his fingers soft now, reverent, like he was grounding himself through the feel of your skin. He leaned in, kissed your temple, then your cheek, his voice a low murmur just for you.

“You did so well,” he whispered, lips grazing your skin. “Took everything we gave you. All of it.”

Sylus’s hand slid up your thigh, not seeking anything—just there. His touch was warm, his presence less wild now, but still charged. You felt him lean in close, his voice like dark velvet.

“You wrecked us, sweetie,” he said with a smirk. “Never seen Xavier lose control like that. Never thought I’d share.”

You let out a breathless laugh—half delirious, half overwhelmed—as they settled against you, Xavier at your side, Sylus curled in behind you, one arm thrown lazily across your waist. Their bodies pressed to yours, surrounding you with heat, the silence no longer heavy, but full of something softer.

Sylus broke it.

“So,” he drawled, fingers tapping absently against your hip, “who won?”

The air shifted.

Xavier’s hand stilled where it had been stroking down your side. His body tensed, just barely—but enough to feel it.

“She hasn’t answered,” he said, quiet but pointed.

Your breath caught. You turned your face into the crook of Xavier’s shoulder, but Sylus’s laugh was low and smug behind you.

“She will,” he said. “She has to.”

Their attention shifted to you at once—two sets of hands pausing, two very different energies pressing into your skin.

“So,” Xavier said, voice quiet but steady, “which of us is it?”

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed.

“I choose both.”

Silence.

And then—Sylus groaned.

“You’re kidding.”

“She’s not,” Xavier muttered, exhaling slowly.

You opened one eye to see Sylus sitting up, already reaching for his pants, shirt rumpled and jaw tight.

“Really, y/n?” he asked, tossing a glance toward Xavier. “So, what, we take turns now?”

“I’m not giving her up.”

“Neither am I.”

You covered your face with your hands, half-laughing, half-sighing as they began arguing over logistics, position, timing, like two wolves circling the same flame.

“Oh my god,” you groaned. “You’re both ridiculous.”

But you were smiling.

Somehow, some way, this could work out beautifully.

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