kunikags02

[kunikags02]

emo xavier?

[kunikags02]

﹒⌗﹒ 𝑺𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥-𝘟𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴 . ⸝⸝

𝑨𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴 : 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘤𝘴 🥹 𝘴𝘰 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴!!! 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘺 :3

𝑹𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 : 𝘚𝘍𝘞

Soft!Husband Xavier who is always in your personal space. Doesn't matter if you're working or doing a hobby, he is always right next to you. Hand holding yours, arm wrapped around you, head in your lap. You can never escape him.

Soft!Husband Xavier who loves the smell of you. I know people put this hc with Caleb and while I do agree, Xavier is also one of those people to just smell you whenever you're close. He gifts you new perfume or lotion to try out but his favorite smell is whenever you get out of the shower, he is speed walking to you if he isnt right outside the door or even in the shower with you.

Soft!Husband Xavier who wants to be involved in everything you do, after you both got married he knew basically everything about you but when you pick up a new hobby without telling him. He is asking so many questions "where did you learn this" "why does the paper smell like that" "can I help" Of course he could go online and research about it, but he loves learning things from you.

Soft!Husband Xavier who, as we all know, sleeps alot. So no surprise when he comes home with new cooling blankets or super soft pillows for your bed. And if you think you're not trying out every new blanket with him then think again because he is already dragging you to the bedroom for some nap time.

Soft!Husband Xavier who swears up and down that he gets much better sleep when it's with you. Who swears he absolutely needs your presence in order to get a full 12 hours (but knowing him it's more like 14). Who added this reason on to many others when suggesting to move in together way to early. (And it working)

He is so sleepy alien I love him

[kunikags02]

working on hunter uniform pt 2

[kunikags02]

a hunter uniform’s purpose may vary

[kunikags02]

Good Morning Starshine, The Earth Says Hello!

Synopsis: Xavier has blue balls and tries to fit in an early morning quickie. But being a father is hard, and so is his cock.

Warning: Somno-ish, eepy smex, blue balls, Xavier is a good dad.

Xavier is an amazing father. He loves his son more than words can say. But there is something he might love just as equal.

Your aching cunt, squeezing around him in the early morning hours. Being parents AND Hunters was a time consuming job. So early morning before work and caring for Xander was the perfect opportunity.

You are still very much in slumber when he peels your already sticky underwear to the side. You barely stir when he rubs the nearly purple head of his cock against your folds.

“Mm..?”

“Shh…just let me in-a-ah shit…” he murmurs against your neck in the same sleepy tone as you. The head of his cock finds your hole and eases in. Your sleepy moan grows louder and your walls tighten as each slow inch pushes in.

His thrust start off lazy, his hands and mouth more focused on worship. His hand trails up between your thighs, rubbing circles onto your pulsating clit with precise control.

“M’ leakin’…” you whine, your breast heavy and sore with milk. Xavier curses under his breath, mouth pressed under your ear.

“S’kay Starshine. I’ll be quick n’ then we can pump, ‘kay?” He’s so desperate for you. You’re leaking through the thin button up shirt of his, the liquid almost chafing your over sensitive nipples.

But he can finish fast.

He has to.

He’s almost-

The baby monitor on the side of the bed crackles to life. Xavier almost pierces it with a beam of light for interrupting. He tries to chase his release, but when Xander’s early morning gurgles turn to cries, he sighs.

Erection gone and mood ruined. He pulls out with a wet tug, quickly cleaning and tucking himself back in. He kisses the side of your head, noticing you already falling back into a slumber.

“My sweet girl, I’ll take care of him.”

But oh when he gets his hands on you, he’s pumping you full of another kid.

[kunikags02]

𖧁୧ ִ  your first time with rafayel!

rafayel x virgin!fem reader, established relationship, unprotected sex, i need him biblically

you’d been kissing for what felt like hours. soft, deep, slow, the kind of kissing that left you lightheaded and aching, every inch of you trembling from how careful he was being. like you’d shatter if he touched you any harder, like he wanted to devour you whole, but was forcing himself not to.

rafayel’s hand was splayed over your lower back, warm and steady. you’d barely touched him yet, not really. and still, you were burning—thighs pressed tight around nothing, panties soaked through, lips parted and swollen from how long he'd been kissing you. every inch of you was wound tight with want, but he held you there, unmoving, as if having you pressed to his chest was its own kind of pleasure.

“you’re shaking,” he murmured against your mouth, voice barely a breath.

you gasped, trying to move your hips, but his hands caught your waist. “please, raf—”

“shh,” he whispered, gentle but firm. “don’t rush. just let me feel you a little longer.”

he nuzzled your cheek, kissed the bridge of your nose, your jaw. then just held you there, sitting open and needy in his lap, the heavy press of his cock pressed beneath you. you could feel the throb of him through the thin layer between you. hard, hot, big. the kind of size that had you wondering if your body could even take him. maybe he knew that, and that's why he was being so devastatingly careful. like if he touched you the wrong way, you’d vanish.

“i think about this too much,” rafayel whispered against your skin like a confession. “how good you’ll feel when you open up for me.”

“you'd take me, wouldn’t you?” he continued, his thumb brushing lazy circles just below your navel. “you’d let me stretch you open?”

“uh huh,” you hiccuped, already breathless, thighs clenched around him.

you were already bare for him, legs spread across his lap. his shirt off, yours somewhere on the floor, your underwear soaked through and peeled to the side. he moved one hand down, sliding between your thighs with a deliberate slowness that made your whole body arch. and when he found you, wet and trembling, his breath caught.

“fuck,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed. “you’re soaked, sweetheart. i haven’t even touched you yet.”

his fingers didn’t push in, didn’t even circle. he just rested them there, barely moving, like the heat of you was enough to ruin him. like he wanted to remember how it felt, this first time. how soft and flushed and ready you were.

“we’ll go slow,” rafayel promised, voice raw. “i’ll make it good for you. so good.”

you felt the first gentle stroke of his fingers. just once, slicking through your folds. then, without warning, his sinks a finger in slowly, so slowly it makes your breath catch. he eases in a second, working you open with a worshipful hunger that sends a thrill straight to your core. you sobbed, full-body and desperate.

“oh, baby,” he whispered, like he was in awe. “don’t cry. you’re perfect. i’ve got you.”

his voice dropped lower, like sin wrapped in silk. “you’re just aching, aren’t you?” another soft stroke. “all filled up with nothing.”

you nodded, frantically. he kissed you again, filthy this time, tongue and teeth and heat, your moans caught in his mouth. you were so overwhelmed, trembling with how much you wanted. how warm his hands felt on your skin. how much care he poured into every motion, like he couldn’t believe he got to touch you like this at all.

his fingers were soaked. he spread your slick across your aching folds with unbearable care, circling your clit with the gentlest touch, over and over, until your hips were twitching up into his palm.

“you’re making such a mess,” he crooned, kissing just under your jaw. “this pretty little cunt’s just dripping for me, huh?”

you whimpered, high and helpless, nails digging into his shoulders like that might somehow ground you. his lips trailed lower, slow kisses down your throat, over your collarbone. he reached your chest and didn’t just grope, he worshipped. cupped your breast in one hand, kissed the other like it was something sacred. sucked soft at your nipple, groaning when your back arched into him.

“you want me inside?” he breathed, tongue flicking over your skin. “think you’re ready, baby?”

you were soaked, throbbing, your whole body begging for him. “yes,” you gasped. “please, raf, please—”

he shifted above you, carefully, cradling the back of your head like you were breakable. his hips moved forward, the thick weight of his tip nudging at your entrance.

your breath hitched. he was hot and heavy, the blunt head of his cock barely pressing in, stretching you with the slightest pressure, and already, your body tensed with the ache.

he held himself there, just barely inside, unmoving. waiting. his forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing your own. “deep breath, baby,” he murmured. “it’s just the tip. you’re doing so good.”

his hips rocked forward the slightest inch, just enough to push deeper, to draw another gasp from your chest. your spine arched in response, thighs twitching around his sides like instinct. your cunt was gripping him, velvety and soaking, stretched wide around that impossible girth. every ridge, every twitch of him pressed to the softest parts of you. heat bloomed deep in your belly like a bruise being kissed into place.

the weight of him inside you was staggering. every inch he gave you felt like it rewrote something in your body. your walls pulsed around him, struggling to take more, and yet wanting it, aching for it, the way lungs ache for air.

your nails pressed into his back, searching for something to hold onto. his mouth hovered near your cheek, brushing warmth over your skin with every shuddered breath he took. you were wet enough to hear it, that slow, molten slide of his cock coaxing its way in. and still, it felt impossible. your body didn’t know what to do with him, had never held anything like this.

“you feel that?” he whispered, nosing along your jaw. “feel how deep i am already? and i’m not even halfway, baby.”

your breath caught. another push forward, and you felt it hit something deeper, that place inside that made your legs jerk and your throat tighten around a whimper. he stilled, panting softly against your shoulder, grounding you again.

your cunt clenched again, hard. it made him groan, made you whine. it felt like your body was sucking him in, desperate, needing. and still he moved slow, so slow, sinking in deeper as your muscles pulsed around him in surrender.

“that’s it,” he breathed, praising you with every breath. “such a good girl. lettin’ me in so slow. stretchin’ so pretty for me.”

the praise didn’t land in your ears so much as in your chest. it bloomed under your ribs, settling somewhere deep, where your pulse couldn’t tell the difference between fear and pleasure. you were stretched taut, cunt clenching involuntarily, the ache delicious and dizzying, every part of you tuned to where his cock filled you, inch by careful inch.

he bottomed out with a shudder, cock seated deep inside you, and everything went quiet. for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. couldn’t think. you were just so full, stretched wide and gasping, every muscle fluttering from the sheer pressure of him. you clenched around him again, instinctively, helpless, and his jaw locked tight like it took everything in him not to move. he was shaking above you, breathing ragged into your skin.

you whimpered, your legs wrapped around his waist to keep him close, not that he was going anywhere. his hands were firm on your hips, thumbs smoothing over your skin, trying to soothe you both. you felt wrecked already, and he’d barely moved.

“too much?” he asked, voice barely a whisper, even as you shook your head before he finished the words. “tell me what you need, angel.”

“i’m okay,” you breathed. “need you to move, raf. please.”

a tremor ran through his body, and then he pulled out before sinking back in with slow, deliberate force. you moaned, high and trembling, eyes fluttering shut. it was so deep. too deep, too much, and yet not enough. your body couldn’t decide. your walls tightened, clinging to him greedily, even as your thighs trembled from the effort of keeping yourself open for him.

he kept up the slow pace with careful, gentle thrusts. not hard but steady, like he was still testing your limits, still giving you time to adjust and still barely holding himself back. each drag of his cock rubbed against something unbearably good inside you. it made your back arch, your mouth part, little whines spilling out uncontrollably.

“god, look at you,” he moaned softly, watching every twitch and flutter of your body. “so sweet. that tight little pussy's holding me so good.”

you were trying to answer, trying to thank him or ask for more or just breathe, but the words all dissolved somewhere between your parted lips and the fire low in your belly. your thoughts were melting, every coherent thing washed away by the slow grind of his hips and the thick heat of him inside you.

he pressed his forehead to yours, breath heavy and hot against your lips. “wish you could feel what i feel. you’re squeezing me so tight. i’m gonna lose it if you keep looking at me like that.”

you couldn’t help it. your eyes were glossy, mouth swollen from his kisses, your whole body open and aching for him. every slow thrust sent a ripple through your thighs, your belly, your heart.

each stroke was smooth and full, dragging slick and warm through your walls, pressing into the parts of you that made your toes curl and your breath catch. you could hear how wet you were, how your heat welcomed him in every time, sweet and messy and perfect.

“you’re so good for me,” rafayel whispered. “so fucking pretty like this. all spread out and dripping. letting me fuck you open, taking it so well, baby.”

you whimpered, trying not to cry from the sheer overwhelm of it. you’d never felt so full, so bare. so cherished and ruined all at once.

the rhythm stayed steady, but your moans didn’t. they were growing louder, breathier, sweeter with every thrust, until they broke apart into needy, high little cries that made his hips stutter. you didn’t mean to, you weren’t trying to push him, but it was as if your body was speaking for you. arching up into him, pulling him deeper, greedy and frantic despite how slow he was still moving.

“raf—” you gasped, clawing at his shoulders. “more. more, please.”

a choked groan fell from his lips as his hips jerked with a need that echoed yours. you felt the shift in him—the control fraying, slipping through his fingers. he was trying to hold on. trying so hard to be good for you.

the sounds in the room were obscene. your slick, the wet drag of his cock plunging into you, your needy little gasps and his wrecked moans, all tangled into something raw and dizzying and perfect. you were wrecked, gasping and sobbing his name between whimpers of please and don’t stop and feels so good, every word tangled with want.

you sobbed his name, body arching into him, eyes glossy and unfocused. you sounded like you were coming apart under him, like he was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

“i know,” he groaned, barely holding himself together. “i know, baby. you’re taking me so well. so fuckin’ perfect for me. never felt anything like this.”

he sounded wrecked, like he was drowning in you. his voice was thick with heat and disbelief, every word unraveling between praises. “your pussy’s got me losin’ my mind. fuckin’ made for me. feels like heaven, baby. so soft, so warm—fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

you were too far gone to speak. you just cried his name, again and again, your body shaking as the pleasure built like a tidal wave. his praises never stopped. like he had to say them, practically bursting out of him. your body was coiled tight, every muscle drawn and trembling, the heat inside you swelling fast and hard like it couldn’t hold any longer.

rafayel felt it in the way you clenched around him, how your moans cracked and pitched into sharp, high whimpers, your legs trembling where they wrapped around his hips. “ohh, baby,” he panted, face buried in your neck. “that’s it. that’s it, i got you. just let go, let go for me.”

you hands scrabbled for purchase, digging into his shoulders like he was the only thing anchoring you. white heat exploded through you, shattering everything. you came with a cry, back arching up off the bed as your cunt clamped down around him, tight and fluttering, soaking his cock in a wave of hot, helpless release.

he groaned deep in his chest, felt it, like your orgasm ripped through him, too. “oh, fuck—fuck, you’re milkin’ me, baby, i—”

he didn’t last a second longer. one more pulse of your cunt around him, one more cry of his name, and he snapped. he buried himself deep, his tip kissing your cervix as he came hard, spilling inside you with a low, shaking moan. he held you close as he painted your walls with every last drop, your name a reverent chant on his lips. he trembled above you, chest heaving, one hand braced by your head and the other scooping you up by your waist like he couldn’t bear not to be touching you.

“you’re perfect,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “so perfect for me, baby. you did so good.”

you blinked up at him, vision blurry, lips parted. your whole body felt numb, boneless and oversensitive and wrecked in the most perfect way. the ache between your thighs was sweet, deep, and dizzying. you whimpered, barely able to breathe.

he cradled your face in both hands now, brushing the wet hair from your cheeks, his thumb sweeping slow under your eye. “you okay?” he asked softly, nuzzling your noses together. “talk to me, sweetheart.”

you nodded, eyes glassy. “yeah. yeah, i just… wow.”

he smiled—melted, really—and leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. your thighs twitched around him. he was still thick inside you, still stretching you, but you didn’t want him to move yet. he rocked into you just once, slow and deep, making your breath catch.

he let you fall into him, arms around his shoulders, forehead resting against his chest while he whispered all the things he didn’t have the breath to say before. “so beautiful,” he murmured. “so sweet. you were perfect, baby. took me like you were made for it.”

you buried your face in his neck, dazed and warm and aching, as he kissed your hair.

“i love you,” he said, soft as a secret. “so, so much. my perfect girl.”

you stayed tangled in the heat and sweat and softness, still joined at the hips, your bodies humming with afterglow, too wrecked to speak and too in love to need to.

thank u sooo much for all the love on my last two posts ♡

[kunikags02]

New official merch announced!!

And it’s from the catbutler banner!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!

(guess who’s freking out and WILL get it 😂)

More details here:

Twitter/X One

Twitter/X Two

Edit:

Also merch for the solo banner (link)

[kunikags02]

HELL YEAHHHHHHHHHHH

# A KING’S CURE ! ᯓ★

ᯓ★ SYNOPSIS: King Xavier has fallen sick! But it’s not a normal type of sick..?

ᯓ★ PAIRINGS: king!xavier x personal maid!reader

ᯓ★ WARNINGS: p in v, pussy slapping, backshots, degradation, teasing, breeding, marking, kissing, little bratty reader, belly budge, he gets soft at the end because ur soo cute

ᯓ★ A/N: posted this EXTREMELY late, sorry guys not that proofread, OH AND. should i have a taglist?

WC: 2.2K

White curtains opened, the spacious room being filled with sunlight, veils on veils of white lace surrounding the King’s bed, leaving a print of shadows on his face. His soft skin that shone beautifully when the sun hit, his tightly closed eyes that told you he wasn’t pleased at all this morning. The wounds of his whines coming through and the sheets shuffling with noises.

“Your Majesty?” a soft voice chirped in his ear, which could onto belong to his beloved personal maid, a soft hand pushing the veils around his bed to reveal him to the sun properly. Another whine. His body turning over onto his stomach, revealing his muscular back to you.

Your brain froze in shock, hands going to the duvet to cover his pale skin from the blind eye, to which he replied with another groan. “Your Majesty, it’s 5:30am…You always awaken yourself at 5.”

Muttering the last part, your hand looked at his collarbone to see if anything was unusual about him and after seeing nothing…you continued with your routine, “Your schedule is full today, a breakfast is being served until 6:30 and you have a meetings at 7:15 and a royal conference at 8:30–“

“Cancel everything.” he replied in his monotone voice, yet you can hear the difference from yesterday. You hesitantly answered back, “…Cancel breakfast?”

You placed the back of your hand on his forehead before flinching and the heat, removing your hand immediately.

Something wasn’t right.

His cheeks were flushed with a red hue. His forehead radiating enough heat to cook an egg..and his refusal to wake up even when he was 30 minutes late for his usual routine…

The King was sick.

A gasp echoed in the room before Xavier turned his head, his eyebrow furrowed and his pout bratty, “…you’re making too much noise, make another sound and i’ll have you fired.”

Empty threats, you thought, he’s threatened to fire me over 10 times this month already. Flattening the backside of your robes, you sat down on the edge of the Caesar bed, your hand going to his long, soft hair. Grabbing a hairbrush, that was on the bedside table, you began to brush out the messy, matted locks.

“Oh my king…you’re ever so sick! Should I get you some medicine my little baby?”

“Don’t patronize me.” Xavier glared at you over his shoulder, “and you’re too loud.”

“OH. He’s ever so bratty…who knew the king could act like a child—“

Seeing his eye glow and his lightblade slightly appear on his hand was enough to make you shut your mouth, “Oo—Apologies.”

“..Don’t—“ he sniffed before coughing, “—make fun of your king..” for someone who killed over 30 enemy soldiers only 12 hours ago, he was so cute and submissive when he was sick.

The hairbrush ran easily through his hair, barely any knots coming through. Placing the hairbrush back on the dresser, you heard Xavier move, turning to placing his head on your lap. He felt so hot and was acting like a baby, you felt slightly guilty. With a sigh, you took off your gloves before using your bare hands to run your fingers through his hair, giving his head a massage. “What can I do for you? Should I get Duke Jeremiah to prescribe you something?“

He whined, hands going around your waist, “No, I’ll just—get through the day with this stupid flu…i don’t have much to do anyway.”

“…Are you sure Your Majesty? It might be worse than just a flu—“

Xavier sat up, his naked torso uncovered, shaking you his well toned body, the slightly darker scars that littered his body from endless battles, his muscular back which would look great with your nail marks.

His eyes cold, that icy blue which always made you shiver when he glared at someone or even you.

And that voice of his? So serious and stern, a voice that commands an army in less than a second. A voice that can make you feel so much better when you’ve had a bad day—

“Ah!“ You yelped, his hand holding your chin with a firm but not painful grip.

His eyes were sharp, a blue that only sent shivers down your spine, “Are you also sick? I’ve called your name over 5 times already. Or are you ignoring your King?” His glare deepened slightly, not with anger but with a playful intention.

With a shocked expression, your heads shook no, “N-no! I would never, I was just thinking about something.”

His eyebrow rose before he smirked, his hands leaving your chin and removing the duvet. Yet his body seemed too pale in the corner of your eye..

His nicely shaped abs and v-line and his—

With a gasp, your hands went to your face, “Your Majesty! I’m still here!

A chuckle escaped the man beside you, watching as your body turned around. I forgot he sleeps naked all the time!

Xavier spoke with a more playful tone, “I know you are. Why are you so shy? You’ve seen my naked body multiple times.”

“Y-yeah but not out in the open! And you never had your—“ It embarrassed you to even say, a whine filling his ears, how adorable, “…thing out as well!” Xavier didn’t even know how to react, his cute maid getting shy over seeing his body? What else could he ask for.

“You know,” he sat up before placing his head on your shoulder, whispering in your ear, “for someone who chooses my clothes, prepares my food, cleans my body in the bath, you’re really shy. You’ve touched my body before, why not examine the body you’re touching properly?”

Your eyes sprung open before you turned around, staring at him, “Huh?! Are you sure this isn’t some…weird Evol that hit you? Why are you so playful this morning?” It would make sense, he came back yesterday from a mission in a highly Evol-reactive space, but he’s smarter than that, and stronger.

It could only be two things: Wanderers or Evols.

Xavier has been fighting in battle since the day his father allowed him too, after mastering swordsmanship since he was young. He could adapt to any sword, fighting with elegance and got multiple medals and awards from his battling techniques.

He’s fought over 70,000 Wanderers since he was a teen..so they definitely aren’t a problem..then what was it—

“You know Heartbreaker?”

Oh no.

“…Heartbreaker? Yes I do, why..?”

“I found out yesterday that not only can it break a love bond…it can intensify one whenever it pleases, and that can lead rather extreme hatred or…extreme lust.”

Silence filled the room, both of you staring at each other like the palace was being robbed.

“…As you can tell, I don’t hate you so, if you’re okay with it. I have a suggestion to get rid of this…horrible feeling.

“And that is?” You tried your head before his hand went around your throat, gently holding you still before whispering.

“I bend you over my bed, fuck you raw until your cute little pussy can’t take it any longer.” He smirked, your face flushed and your eyes widened.

Even though you definitely don’t mind, it was shocking to hear from the usually stern and merciless king. Your head turned to see his teasing face, “Your Majesty?!—“

His hands pulled you closer, his lips nearing against yours, “So…deal?”

It’s only one time…

“Deal.”

“Ah!”

“Fuck—you take me so well, my queen.”

Your face was stuffed in a pillow, hands digging into the soft mattress that was currently withstanding the force of Xavier fucking you like a filthy animal. His left hand holding onto your hips, his cock digging deep into your pussy.

The right hand was on the headboard, using it to dig deeper. Moans filled the air, your voice filthy to your own ears. Your body was barely taking it.

He’s been fucking you got hours now, your pussy sensitive to the touch.

His long length was slamming into you, just touching your cervix with wet slaps, The girth stretching your pussy out. With every thrust, your body would holy forward, making you hold onto the mattress tighter and cry into the pillow.

“P-pleaseee! Your Majesty! Your Majesty—oh gosh!” a pornographic moan left your moan, high pitched. Xavier’s hands grabbed your hair, making it into a ponytail before pulling your head up.

“Yes? You glad to be— hah fuck! — taken by your Majesty?” He groaned, pressing his chest to your back, your ass pressing right onto his crotch, “Lemme see what’s going on there.”

His hands left your body. Spreading your ass cheeks and staring my down at where his dick was plunging into your cunt. He spat on the mid section then quickly pumping it into your hole.

A squeeze, a grope. Everything that he could do he was doing, spanking, slapping, squeezing, kissing—you name it. He was obsessed.

“I knew you were my love since I saw your pretty f-face! Seeing your hips in that stupid maid dress…”

Rip!! The sounds of your top being torn filled your ears over the moans and sound. of skin slapping.

“..your fat ass bouncing with your every step…”

His hand squeezed the curve of your plump rear, lowering his head to kiss each cheek. His dick slow lying down for only a moment, then thrusting back into you.

“…your cleavage always showing, or was that just for me?”

“..Just f-for you king! Oh j-just for you!! your body arched more for him, a soft but commanding laugh leaving the man behind you.

His hand went down, wrapping around our neck and lifting you up, his head on your shoulder, his hips slamming into the fast of your ass, his dick making your walls clench around him, the precum and slick escaping your hole already. His thickness still stretching you out whilst fucking you, his balls heavy with cum slapping again your clit, giving you more pleasure with every shift.

Your moans increases in the room, high pitched wails and pleads begging him to cum inside and not waste a drop. And did Xavier love it, his hips slowing. But they reached deeper, your legs trembling with every thrust, “Oh please—I wanna be filled with your cum! your majesty, i’ll—hah!— i’ll do anything for your cum!!”

“Oh yeah? Anything? You’ll take my cum like a good slut, aren’t you? This pussy’s never been stretched out like this before as it? Not the common whore, I thought you were.”

Despite being over so much stimulated, your brain made a cocky reply, “M-me? Common w-whore? Are you sure that you’re not—talking about yourself your majesty?”

His head tilted, blue eyes glaring into yours, his hand loosening down your neck, “Someone’s gotten bold.”

“Ah!”

Xavier held your hips with a tight grip, bruises forming slowly as he took a deep breath.

His body slamming into you from behind, his right hand going down to rub circles on your puffy clit, your moans encouraging him to run faster every few seconds. Xavier’s grunts barely reached your ears—jeez you sounded like a pornstar…

“Who are you fucking talking to? Is that how you talk to your king? Your ruler? Your owner? Tch, I think you’re in need of a very valuable lesson, missy.”

Slap!

The sting quickly went from pain to pleasure, your hands grabbing whatever you could, “Ah!—wait xav—mhm…”

Xavier smirked, his hand going to your waist to feel the bulge appear whenever he thrusted in, “Who do you belong to?”

Slap!

His hand landed hard on your folds, his dick thrusting at a rhythmic pace, his balls hitting your clit just right.

“You, my king! Only y-you—only you!!” a hand went to the mattress, holding onto his expensive sheets, nearly ripping them from your nails.

Slap! Slap!

“Mm..fuck! Who does this pussy belong to?”

“You!!”

Slap!

“Say my name properly, slut.”

Tears flooded from your tears, your tummy twisting with the urge to release, it was right there! Right there!!

Your head turned back, “…k-king xavier…”

Just hearing you coo his title made him proud, his lips lowered to give you a kiss, passionate. His lips gentle, his tongue barely fighting against yourself. His hand went to your back, running it down your soft skin to rest your fucked put brain, his body pressing into yours.

Moaning into the kiss, you pulled away, a string of saliva connecting you to Xavier. His lips returned for a little peck, “My good girl…my Queen.”

A gentle finger rubbed your face to get rid of the mascara running down your cheek, your curls tangled up from his rough holding, your body littered in multiple hickies and handprints, your hips have no slightly brown marks from where his fingers were.

That knot in your stomach formed quickly, your moans loud when he pressed a hand on the bulge that appeared on your stomach, “…nnngh…mmmh! please—“

You tried to hold it back, clenching your pussy around his cock, but xavier was observant, he knew you were about to come, “Cmon, you know what to say if you want to cum. We’ve—hah!—done this multiple times already tonight.”

“…please can i cum king xavier? please—i’ll be a good girl! i am a good girl, i cant—i can’t hold it anymore!” You cooed, pressing your head into the pillow, your hand went back to hold his. he gladly accepted, pressing your hand into the mattress.

Xavier lowered his gaze to your body which was twitching, your hand ripping at his sheets, “Can you wait for your King? Or is it too much?”

Mumbling into the pillow, Xavier heard you whimper, “…it’s too much…”

Xavier laughed, hearing your now obedient voice take over, moving his hands to hold your hips tightly, “I’ll make you cum then,”

@ alyakhq, do not plagiarise, copy or translate my work pls :)

[kunikags02]

Extra Credit

⟡ Word Count: 15k

⟡ Tags: professor!Sylus x student!reader, fem!reader, teasing, sexual tension, enthusiastic consent, cunninlingus, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, nicknames like kitten, sweetie, miss, young lady, good girl

⟡ Summary: Rumors of a new history professor begin circling around campus, though your determined to ignore them, too busy upkeeping your gpa to worry about new hot professors. That is, until he actually manages to catch your attention of course. And it seems you've caught his attention too...

“This has given me the revelation that I should change classes. We’ve crossed the line after all, professor. It’s been…nice.” You give him one last glance before turning back to leave, determined not to look over your shoulder again. Suddenly, the air shifts. In a blur of red and black mist, you suddenly feel him behind you—so close that the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. You jolt in surprise, your pulse spiking. He…has an Evol?? You pant as he rests his hand firmly on the door above your shoulder, blocking your way out. The solid thud of his palm against the wood sends a vibration through the frame, making your chest tighten and your pulse quicken. He leans in closer, so close you swear you can hear the faintest hitch in his breathing, his warm breath brushing against the shell of your ear and sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. “You can recount several treaties by memory but can’t tell when a man is teasing you? How cute,” he murmurs, his voice low and rich, each word slow and deliberate, curling around you like smoke and sinking under your skin. His hand slides slowly down the door, the movement unhurried, almost taunting, until his fingers find the lock. The faint scrape of metal turning is deafening in the quiet room, and with a soft, final click, he twists it in place, sealing the two of you inside with no chance of interruption. You swallow hard, unable to stop the way your heart stutters excitedly.

⟡ AN: I wish I had hot professors when I was in college LMAO. Would've made my classes a lot less boring...anyways I'm super excited to be back from my mini break and post this for you all! History won as Sylus's subject in my poll, and I know NOTHING about that, so I decided to just make some stuff up since Linkon isn't a real place anyways xD

If you were tagged it means you selected to be tagged in any future fics I post!

Enjoy!

@leiaglamela @shia247 @Lazylightmusic @hyphensei @beaconsxd @adzir @zoezhive @mmeerraa @webmvie @mysterios-hoe @sylvieisoffline @riamir @blcknebula @wooasecret @chososlvrr @deathlycrow @mcdepressed290 @sylusqt @becky-chan @shawnberry @abrielletargaryen @Itsme3rin @2004crows @kokoqian @lioria @hon3yydew @laudyadee @yiddyyaddayami-blog @chaemaire @mylifedoesntexist @moonlitreveri3 @dvwnstar @ellie662 @your-l0cal-puppy @miserysscompany

You sluggishly swipe your dining hall card through the reader, the tired beep followed by a cheerful ding confirming that yes, you’ve successfully "paid" for your breakfast. It's barely 8 a.m., your brain feels like it's still booting up, and the industrial lighting in the hall is far too aggressive for how little sleep you got last night.

Balancing your tray with one hand—a slightly overcooked omelet, a cup of watery coffee, and a sad-looking banana—you make a half-hearted pivot toward the corner where you always sit. Your goal is simple: food, silence, and maybe some peace before the madness of your morning classes begins.

That’s when Tara barrels into you like a human missile, practically radiating chaos and caffeine. You barely register the blur of her hair before her arms are around your neck, squeezing tight enough to jolt you back to full consciousness. Her sneakers skid slightly against the slick dining hall floor as she launches herself into the hug with zero regard for the tray you’re holding—or the laws of physics.

"EEE! You're never usually up this early, bestie!!!" she shrieks, her arms wrapping around your neck in an ambush hug that nearly sends the entire tray flying.

You stumble, your elbow knocking into a napkin dispenser, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the edge. You manage to steady yourself just in time, shooting her a glare while trying not to spill breakfast all over your shirt.

"Tara! Jesus—warn me next time," you mutter, clutching the tray like a shield.

She bounces back with a grin, eyes wide with the manic energy of someone who’s either had too much coffee or is running purely on adrenaline. Her short brown hair is immaculately styled, every strand in place like she spent half an hour perfecting it in the mirror—despite the fact that she’s bouncing around like she mainlined espresso for breakfast.

"What are you doing awake right before class? You good? Are you sick? Are you dying? Should I alert the RA?"

You smirk, adjusting your tray. "Just...figured I’d try being a functional human for once."

"Uh huh. Sure. Just out of the blue you decide to turn over a new leaf at 8 a.m.?" she says, raising a skeptical brow as she falls into step beside you. "This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain new professor, would it?"

You roll your eyes so hard it actually hurts. That’s all anyone had been obsessing over for days now—whispers in crowded lecture halls, overheard conversations in library study rooms. Every time someone so much as mentioned the history department, mentions of him came up like clockwork.

You couldn’t walk across campus or sit down in the dining hall without catching snippets—"Did you hear he's taking over Alden's class?" or "I heard he's, like, stupid smart and scary hot." Even the TA had mentioned him with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

"Oh my god. Not you too," you say, groaning into your tray like it might protect you from further humiliation.

Tara gasps like you just confessed a dark secret. "So it is! You’re totally crushing already, I knew it!"

You glare at her, signaling that she’s pushing it, but she just beams wider. "No one’s even seen him yet, much less me," you say sharply, appalled at the very idea that you'd ever crush on a man that you'd never even laid eyes on. "What are you even talking about?"

Tara snorts and whips out her phone like it’s a mic drop. "Oh c'mon... you didn’t see the photo posted to MOMENTS last night? Someone leaked his resume and everything. There’s literally a thread titled ‘Hot History Daddy.’ "

You freeze for a split second, internally cringe and then groan. Who would name a thread something so...awful? "Of course there is."

"I mean...he’s tall, he’s broody in that unreadable, 'probably knows six dead languages' kind of way, and he apparently got his PhD in military and political revolutions by the time he was twenty-four?! And he’s teaching that upper-level history class right?"

You don’t answer to Tara's continuous yapping, mostly because your absolutely starving. Instead, you find an empty table and finally set your tray down, shoulders still tight from the collision. Tara sits across from you like she’s waiting for tea to be spilled.

"I’m just saying," she hums, propping her chin on her hand, "if he’s half as intense in person as he looks on paper, you’re gonna be in trouble."

You snort, shoving a bite of omelet into your mouth before answering, voice thick with sarcasm. "Tara, I’m on track to graduate with one of the highest GPA's on campus. Some 'hot' professor is not going to throw me off course."

She giggles and casually reaches across the table to take a sip from your coffee like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"You’re better than me. I’m genuinely considering switching majors just to get into his class. That man could lecture me about 18th-century tax codes and I’d still be hooked. He’s twenty-eight, did you know that? Twenty-eight! And apparently, he has one of those low, sexy voices that makes everything sound ten times more important. Like, how can a girl resist?!"

You roll your eyes but can’t help laughing with her. The two of you fall into your usual rhythm, the conversation drifting into safer territory—her awful roommate, who leaves dishes in the sink for days and uses her skincare without asking, and the flood of assignments you’ve both been hit with.

Still, despite the easy back-and-forth, your thoughts keep circling back. You hadn’t given much attention to the change in faculty—Alden’s resignation had seemed abrupt, sure, but professors left all the time. It wasn’t your problem. Or at least, it hadn’t been.

Now, though, a question stuck in your brain like a loose thread: who was this new guy, really?

You shook the thought off with a small, amused exhale. It didn’t matter. You had goals. And no broody, sharp-jawed academic with a mysterious background and a voice like smooth bourbon was going to distract you.

Absolutely not.

Eventually, breakfast winds down, though Tara tries her best to drag it out with one last dramatic rumor about the new professor supposedly having a pet crow. After a warm, slightly-too-tight bear hug—complete with her whispering, "Try not to drool if he speaks directly to you!". You both finally part ways and head off in separate directions to face the day.

Your first class is an advanced writing seminar tucked away on the second floor of the humanities building. You slip into a seat by the window, letting the late morning sun pour in as you unpack your notebook and pens. The professor launches into a lecture about persuasive structure—ethos, pathos, logos—but your mind keeps drifting. You find yourself doodling in the margins, scribbling random phrases like "commanding presence" and underlining them without meaning to. Every five minutes, your gaze flicks to the clock.

You manage to take decent notes—nothing spectacular, but passable. You answer one question without stumbling, which feels like a small miracle. But underneath it all, your mind hums. You keep imagining what his voice might actually sound like. Would it even be sexy? Or just...distracting? Maybe a little ridiculous?

You couldn't decide if you were intrigued or just caught up in the collective hysteria.

Next is psychology—an elective you chose partly for the credits and partly because you hoped it would be more engaging than another dry lecture. Today’s topic is groupthink, which your professor is oddly excited about. She moves around the room gesturing like she’s on a game show, explaining how consensus-seeking can override critical thinking. You catch about half of it. Your notes are scattered—some bullet points, a half-finished diagram, and an accidental sketch of what might be a jawline with glasses.

Tara’s words keep echoing: He’s twenty-eight. Low, sexy voice. Makes everything sound important. You hadn’t realized how thoroughly she’d infected your brain with this nonsense, but there it was—taking up real estate where your attention span should’ve been.

By the time your third class starts—econ, which you only enrolled in because you needed it for your requirements—you’re a mess of frayed nerves and wandering thoughts. The lecture is already underway when you slip into your seat. You open your notebook, but your pen just hovers above the page. The professor’s voice is background noise.

"Miss?" he says. Once. Then again, louder.

Your head snaps up. Everyone’s looking at you.

"Would you like to repeat what I just said?" he asks, not unkindly, but definitely with an edge of impatience.

You blink, heart thudding, throat dry. "Uh...something about...marginal utility?"

A few quiet chuckles ripple through the classroom. The professor gives you a look—just short of disappointed—then nods and continues.

You sink lower into your chair, wishing you could melt into the linoleum.

God. Tara had gotten in your head. And not just a little.

Now, every passing minute felt like a countdown—one that ticked steadily toward the class you were trying not to think about. Toward the room where you’d finally see him for yourself.

You told yourself again it didn’t matter. You had goals, a plan. You weren’t the type to get distracted by a face, or a voice, or...anything.

But still—your pulse beat a little faster. Your fingers tightened slightly on your pen.

Next up was "Conflict and Transformation in Modern History"—one of those broad, upper-level courses that tried to cover everything from revolutions and world wars to decolonization and ideological shifts. It was supposed to be challenging, heavy on reading and discussion, and definitely not the kind of class where you could just show up and coast through.

You had liked Alden. Sure, he’d been a bit elderly—white hair, soft-spoken, with a habit of misplacing his glasses—but he wasn’t intense. He’d stroll into class five minutes late with a thermos of tea and a thick stack of notes, and somehow still managed to deliver lectures that felt more like storytelling than instruction.

He graded fairly, gave actual, thoughtful feedback instead of those vague comments professors sometimes scribbled in the margins, and his assignments—while definitely not light—had been surprisingly fun. Creative, even. You’d created a detailed, annotated map showing troop movements, resource lines, and political borders during a war and actually enjoyed yourself.

You always knew where you stood in his class. Alden taught because he loved history, and it showed. You respected that.

So yeah, when they announced he was stepping down mid-semester, it had thrown you. And the fact that his replacement was someone younger, fresh-faced, and supposedly "brilliant" only made it worse. The buzz around campus hadn’t helped either. It turned what should have been a simple change in faculty into something laced with nerves and speculation.

You dreaded to think what this new professor would put you through. The syllabus had been updated without warning—longer reading lists, more rigid grading structure, and a participation section that made your stomach twist. You feared the type: overly serious, hyper-competitive, the kind who took some kind of intellectual pride in confusing their students and pretending it was all part of the learning process.

If you were lucky, maybe he’d be the kind who relied on endless PowerPoint slides, assigned textbook readings that no one did, and tossed in the occasional multiple-choice quiz to make it feel like he was keeping everyone on their toes. You could handle that. That was survivable. That was routine.

But something told you luck wasn’t on your side this semester. Not with the way everyone was talking. Not with the way Tara had described him like he was a character straight out of a gothic novel—sharp eyes, sharper voice, and a mind that probably never turned off.

You hadn’t even met him yet, and still, he was already taking up space in your head. And that...was not a good sign.

Your nerves didn’t ease as you sat alone in the corner of the dining hall for lunch, choosing a small table by the window like you always did when you needed to think. The glass was cold to the touch where your elbow brushed it, the view outside a blur of passing students and drifting autumn leaves. Tara was across Linkon on another campus, buried in some group project for her class, which meant there was no one to distract you from your spiraling thoughts—or the restless energy twisting in your stomach.

The soup in front of you sent up gentle curls of steam, smelling faintly of chicken, salt, and something vaguely herbal. You scooped it up in quick, uneven gulps, as if finishing faster might stop the churn in your gut. Instead, each swallow landed like a stone, heavy and uncomfortable, making you wonder if it was anxiety or the soup that had turned your insides into a knot.

The walk across campus felt longer than it ever had before. Your shoes scuffed against the pavement, and you fell into a rhythm of letting out a sigh every dozen steps, hoping it might somehow bleed the tension from your shoulders.

When the history building finally came into view, you slowed, almost without meaning to. The stone façade loomed ahead, cool and imposing in the shade. You rubbed your damp palms against your jeans, willing your heartbeat to calm. At the entrance, you paused, pulled in one long, steadying breath, and stepped inside.

It didn't take long to find your class, passing about six or seven doors before you finally made it.

The classroom was already alive with sound—low conversations weaving together into a steady buzz, chairs scraping against the floor, backpacks hitting the ground with soft thumps. Students were sliding into their usual seats, greeting each other, flipping through notebooks. You caught snippets of laughter, a complaint about last week’s reading, someone unwrapping a granola bar.

Your eyes scanned the room automatically, taking stock. It didn’t take long to notice the changes: Alden’s personal touches were gone. The framed maps that had lined the walls, the slightly dusty shelf stacked with worn hardcovers, even the old, battered globe that had sat near the window—they’d all vanished. Without them, the space felt stripped bare, almost clinical.

But of the new professor? Not a single trace. No bag on the desk. No laptop waiting to be opened. Just an empty chair at the front of the room, and a silence in that corner that made you all the more aware of the seconds ticking by.

Your nerves eased slightly, but not completely. You glanced down at your phone, the screen glowing back at you with the time. Late on his first day? Ugh. Maybe you’d been overthinking this whole thing after all. If he couldn’t even be bothered to show up on time, how intense could he really be? The rumors had painted him as punctual to the point of severity, the kind of man who valued discipline above all else. But now, with the seconds slipping by, that image began to crack.

You let out a slow breath, forcing your shoulders to loosen, and slipped into your seat. The room felt warmer now, filled with the restless hum of idle chatter. A group of boys in the back had taken it upon themselves to entertain the class, cracking loud jokes about the “ten-minute rule” and declaring that if the professor didn’t show up soon, they were morally—no, legally—obligated to leave. One of them even glanced at his watch theatrically, prompting more laughter.

A girl two seats over leaned toward her friend, whispering something that made them both snicker. Pages turned, backpacks shifted, and a faint, impatient drumming of fingers on wood began somewhere behind you. The atmosphere was loose, unbothered—like everyone was already half-expecting a free period.

A few minutes pass…then a few more. The restless shifting in the room grows louder, students exchanging glances as the seconds drag on. The boys in the back keep their running commentary going, each joke a little louder than the last, like they’re performing for an invisible audience. Pens click, chair legs scrape against the floor, and the tension between expectation and impatience hangs heavy in the air.

Finally, one of them pushes back from his desk with a dramatic sigh, stretching his arms high overhead as if this has been the most exhausting wait of his life. He rolls his shoulders, glances at his friends with a grin, and saunters toward the door like he’s about to lead them in a bold, freedom-seeking escape.

“Damn, teach is late on his first day? Sheesh,” he says, pitching his voice so it carries across the entire room. A couple of his buddies chuckle. He reaches for the handle and swings the door open wide—only to stop short as he nearly collides chest-first with what feels like a solid wall of black wool and muscle.

The man standing there is tall—easily over six feet—with the kind of presence that turns heads without trying. His silver hair is styled into a sleek, well-kept mullet, the front and crown swept neatly back to catch the light from the hallway while the longer layers brush the nape of his neck, and his coat hangs perfectly tailored over broad shoulders. Beneath it, a black turtleneck only sharpens the lines of his frame. For a moment, the noise from the hall seems to vanish, replaced by a hush that seeps into the room. The boy at the door loses his grin in an instant, his hand still on the knob. 

The man tilts his head, studying the student with piercing red eyes that seem to miss nothing. When he speaks, his voice is smooth, resonant, and edged with just enough dry humor to sting. “I’d hate to think you were planning to leave before I even had the chance to start.”

The boy laughs awkwardly and steps aside, but the damage is done—the air in the room feels different now, taut and expectant, every eye following the professor as he steps inside.

You suddenly feel like you can’t breathe. This is…your new professor? No fucking way. He looks like he should be modeling for some high end magazine, not teaching an advanced history course at a college. Up close, he’s even taller than you’d imagined, the lines of his tailored coat cutting a sharp silhouette as he steps into the room. He shuts the door behind him with a quiet, deliberate click.

Your eyes track him without meaning to, caught by the way he moves—unhurried, purposeful, not sparing a glance for anyone just yet. It’s the walk of someone who already owns the space he’s in, whether or not anyone has given him permission.

Your classmates are just as spellbound. The room, which moments ago had been a low roar of chatter, falls into fractured silence. Heads swivel, whispered words taper off, and even the boys in the back quiet down. He reaches the desk and sets down a sleek black laptop, the soft thud of it hitting the wood somehow louder than the hum of the heaters. The faint glint of silver at his temple catches the overhead light, drawing your focus again.

Without so much as a word, he turns toward the whiteboard. The shift in his posture is subtle but unmistakable—a slight straightening of his back, a set to his shoulders that makes him seem even taller. Hushed whispers stir again, a rustling of curiosity that moves through the rows like a current.

He picks up a marker, and the motion is quick yet deliberate. His hand moves with the kind of certainty that brooks no hesitation, each stroke sharp and clean. The faint chemical tang of fresh ink drifts in the air. You find yourself leaning forward without thinking, your eyes fixed on the letters forming under his hand.

In bold, uncompromising block letters, he writes:

“Power never dies. It only changes hands.”

The words stand stark against the whiteboard, heavy with implication. He pauses, marker poised, then draws a single underline beneath the sentence—slow, steady. The scraping sound of the tip against the board seems to echo in the stillness.

For a heartbeat, no one moves. No one breathes.

Then silently, he turns, the marker still in his hand, and lets the corners of his mouth curl into a small, knowing smile aimed at the class. Your heart drops straight into your stomach as your eyes take in his entire face for the first time. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, a mouth that looks like it was carved to smirk, and eyes sharp enough to pin you to your seat.

“He’s fucking hot…” the girl next to you whispers to her friend with a half-stifled giggle.

You can’t help it—you agree without hesitation. Yeah, he’s more than hot. He’s unfairly gorgeous, almost otherworldly, like someone took every good feature possible and assembled them in a way that made it hard to breathe. Tara’s going to lose her mind when she hears she was right. The thought makes your face heat, especially when that faint smile of his lingers just a second longer.

Then, in a voice that’s smooth and measured, he says, “We can skip the honorific titles. No ‘Mister’ here—you can all call me Sylus.”

He adjusts his thin, wire-framed glasses with a small push at the bridge of his nose, the motion precise and somehow just as disarming as the smile. Your heart beats faster at the sound of his smooth, sultry voice.

Another win for Tara.

“You’re not here to memorize dates,” he says, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. “If that’s what you’re after, leave now. Google can tell you who won, and when. I’m not interested in that.”

He paces slowly at the front of the room, the low sound of his shoes against the floor filling the silence. There’s no PowerPoint clicker in his hand, no projected bullet points to follow. Just him, his words, and the steady thrum of anticipation in your chest.

“History is not simply a list of dead men and dusty treaties. It is a graveyard of decisions,” he continues, his gaze sweeping the rows like a searchlight. “It’s blood soaked into soil no one remembers walking on. It’s ordinary people destroyed by extraordinary ambitions. And it never stays buried.”

He stops mid-stride, facing the class head-on. For a moment, he doesn’t speak—just lets the weight of his words sink in. His eyes, sharp and unblinking, roam over the faces in front of him, and you get the uneasy feeling he can already tell who will thrive here…and who will flinch.

You feel your blood run cold as his eyes seem to stop directly on your face, the weight of his gaze locking you in place. For a second, the rest of the room blurs—just you, his piercing focus, and the thudding in your chest. Huh? Are you imagining it, or is he actually looking at you? Your skin prickles under the possibility. Heat creeps up your neck, and embarrassed, you force yourself to break the moment, pretending to dig through your bag as if searching for something urgent. The crinkle of paper and shuffle of pens feels absurdly loud in your ears. You let out a quiet sigh of relief only when you sense his attention drifting to the other side of the room.

“In this course, we do not celebrate civilizations,” he says, his tone dropping even lower. “We dissect them. We pull apart the gears to see how they worked, who turned them…and who was crushed in the process. You will read primary sources that lie outright. You will examine revolutions that sputtered out before they could burn. You will question the heroes you were told to admire. And if you do this right—if you’re brave enough—you’ll realize how terrifyingly easy it is to repeat the worst mistakes of all of it.”

Another pause, longer this time. His voice softens, but the intensity doesn’t waver.

“We begin,” he says, taking the same marker and writing the words slowly across the board, “with the fall of the Virelian Republic.” He sets the marker down, turns, and adds, “Not the empire. The republic—because that’s where the real story begins.”

A ripple of unease moves through the room. You feel it too.

But your unease is…different now. It’s not the jittery nervousness you felt when you first walked in—this is sharper, coiled tight in your belly, making your skin buzz with awareness. You can’t take your eyes off him as he moves across the front of the room, the quiet thud of his shoes punctuating his words. His voice flows with an unhurried confidence, carrying easily to every corner of the classroom without him ever raising it.

You’re mesmerized. The way his piercing red eyes scan the rows, never lingering on any one person for too long, as though he’s taking mental notes on each of you. The subtle flex of his jaw when he emphasizes a point. The faint gleam of light against the lenses of his thin, wire-framed glasses before he nudges them higher with a practiced push of two fingers. Even the shift of his shoulders when he changes direction catches your attention, and it makes your face warm in a way you try desperately to ignore.

He stops mid-stride, turning to face the class fully. His hands rest lightly behind his back, posture straight, expression calm. “So,” he says evenly, his gaze sweeping the room, “what do you think was the single most significant factor in the collapse of the Virelian Republic?”

The question hangs in the air, heavier than it should. A few hesitant hands rise. “The assassination of Marcellus Vire,” one student ventures. Without hesitation, he gives a small shake of his head. Another offers, “Economic inequality,” and he tilts his head slightly, acknowledging the thought but clearly unsatisfied. A third, from the back row, says, “Corruption,” earning a raised brow and the faintest hum of interest, but still no sign they’ve hit the mark.

He lets the silence stretch, his gaze moving from face to face, giving each student a moment under its weight before shifting to the next. The soft scratching of a pen somewhere in the room seems unnaturally loud in the stillness.

You sit there, pulse pounding in your ears, realizing with a jolt that you know the answer—really know it. It’s there, fully formed, pressed to the tip of your tongue, your hand twitching faintly against your notebook. You can already imagine the way his eyes might narrow, the way his attention might lock on you if you spoke. The thought sends another rush of heat to your face. Still, the answer burns inside you, insistent, demanding to be said.

Your academic side gets the best of you—and, if you’re being brutally honest, maybe there’s also that ridiculous, sudden craving for his attention—so you raise your hand before you can talk yourself out of it.

He nods in your direction and it sends a strange jolt through your chest. You can feel the shift in the room instantly, the weight of your classmates’ eyes settling on you, their curiosity almost tangible. For a moment, it’s just you under his gaze, your pulse loud in your ears, the answer balanced on the edge of your lips.

“That's a trick question. It wasn’t just one event,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “It was the breakdown of the political norms that held the Republic together. Once those were gone, everything else—civil wars, power grabs, Marcellus Vire—was inevitable.”

A beat of silence follows. His eyes stay locked on yours, unreadable, and then—just barely—he nods. Not a perfunctory acknowledgment, but a slow, deliberate motion that makes your chest tighten.

“Correct,” he says, his voice carrying enough weight to make it feel like more than a simple affirmation. “And the fact that you understand that means you already know how dangerous that kind of collapse can be.”

The attention in the room shifts again, but you can still feel the echo of his gaze lingering, as if he’d left a mark you can’t quite shake.

You breathe a sigh of relief, the tension in your shoulders easing for the first time since you walked into the room. Yeah, this was going to be fine—maybe even easy. Even with a new professor, the material wasn’t foreign to you. He clearly knew his subject, his explanations were sharp, but nothing about the lesson itself felt beyond your reach. You could keep up, you could answer questions, and maybe, if you played your cards right, you could even impress him.

So why the hell did you still feel so nervous? The unease wasn’t the same as the pre-class jitters—it had shifted into something heavier, something you felt low in your stomach. Every time his eyes swept over the room and passed your row, you caught yourself holding your breath without realizing it. Your pulse would skip, and a faint heat would creep up the back of your neck before you forced yourself to refocus on your notes.

You told yourself it was because he had a commanding presence, that it was only natural to be on edge around someone like that. But deep down, you knew there was more to it. The timbre of his voice stuck with you longer than it should have. The way he moved, the precision in his gestures, the deliberate pauses between his sentences—they all had a way of pulling your attention back to him, no matter how determined you were to concentrate on the material.

The rest of class passes in a blur of steady pacing, crisp notes scratched into your notebook, and that deep voice threading through every explanation like it’s weaving itself into your brain. He moves effortlessly from one concept to the next, making complex political shifts and centuries-old grievances sound like stories you’d overhear in a shadowy tavern. By the time the clock’s hands creep toward the hour, you’ve almost forgotten how tense you’d been when you walked in.

Then he caps his marker with a deliberate click and turns toward the class, his eyes scanning the rows before landing somewhere in the middle.

“For your first assignment,” he says, “I want you to write a two-page account of the Virelian Republic’s collapse… but from the perspective of someone who didn’t survive it. A soldier, a baker, a servant—anyone whose voice might have been lost in the official records. No research yet. Just imagination.”

A ripple of confusion moves through the room—eyebrows raise, a few pens pause mid-scratch. It’s not the kind of task you expect in a history course. You can feel the class collectively leaning into the idea even as they exchange wary glances.

The room stays hushed for a beat before the rustle of notebooks and backpacks resumes, louder now in the silence he’s left. He gives a single nod of dismissal. “Due next week. That’s all.”

And just like that, it’s over.

Relief rolls through you in a warm wave—not just because there’s only one assignment, but because you’ll finally get to leave. Leave the stifling awareness of the way your heart stutters every time your gaze lingers on him too long. Or the inexplicable urge to press your thighs together when he smirks mid-sentence.

You shove your notebook into your bag with unnecessary force, the corners catching on your sleeve, and stand so quickly your chair legs scrape the floor.

You follow the flow of students toward the door, the din of shuffling feet and low chatter filling the air. You’re only a few steps away from freedom when it happens.

“Miss?”

The single word cuts through the noise like a blade, rich enough to seem almost tangible. It slides along your skin, curling low in your stomach. You freeze mid-step as every nerve in your body sparks awake.

You turn toward him, trying to regulate your breathing, your throat tightening with the effort to look composed. Meeting his eyes is harder than you expect—like staring into something that might see more than you want to reveal. Still, you manage, holding his gaze for a fleeting moment. “Yes, Mr— I mean, Sylus?” you say, the stumble making you cringe inwardly even as you force a small, nervous smile to soften it.

He doesn’t comment on your slip, but his attention doesn’t waver either. Unexpectedly, he gestures toward the desk where you’d been sitting just moments ago, his fingers flicking in that direction. “Your bag,” he says simply, the syllables clipped but not unkind.

A wave of embarrassment surges through you, hot and immediate, making your skin prickle. You almost want to laugh it off, but your voice comes out in a quick, higher-than-usual rush. “Oh! Thank you—silly me,” you manage, the words tumbling over each other.

You turn on your heel and make your way back to your seat, every step feeling strangely amplified, as if the sound of your shoes on the floor is far too loud. The imagined weight of his gaze follows you, a steady pressure between your shoulder blades. You bend to grab the strap of your bag and sling it over your shoulder with more force than necessary. Your cheeks are warm, and you’re painfully aware of the way your hair shifts around your face as you move.

As you straighten and turn toward the door again, you resist the urge to glance back, though you can feel—deep in your gut—that his eyes are still on you. The awareness lingers, prickling at the edges of your thoughts, all the way to the doorway.

Way to make yourself look like a complete dumbass, you think, but the truth is, part of you wonders if he’s still watching long after you’ve gone.

There was no denying it—it was crush at first sight. The moment you’d seen him, something in you had shifted like the click of a lock, and there was no pretending otherwise. It had been instant, irrational, and a little terrifying. And it was immediately obvious to Tara, of course. You could never hide anything from her for long. She had a talent for sniffing out gossip and romantic tension faster than anyone else on campus, like a bloodhound with a nose for drama. She could read you like an open book, whether you wanted her to or not.

She didn’t even wait for you to bring it up. The second she saw your face, she lit up with a grin that spelled trouble. “You like him! I knew it!” she declared, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

You groaned, rolling your eyes, but she only leaned in closer, unwilling to let you wriggle free. “Seeee? I told you you’d be in troubleeeee,” she sing-songed as the two of you strolled down the long campus hallways. The polished tile echoed your footsteps, her teasing voice bouncing off the walls just loud enough to make you want to clamp a hand over her mouth.

You stifled another groan, dragging your hand over your face as if you could physically hide the flush blooming across your cheeks. “Okay, yeah—he’s hot. Like, really hot. How am I ever gonna be able to focus in class?” you muttered, your voice halfway between defeat and disbelief.

Tara laughed, looping her arm through yours in an almost conspiratorial way. “You won’t,” she said cheerfully, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And it’s gonna be amazing.”

You shot her a look, but she only smirked, clearly already imagining every possible outcome. Tara of course, would be no comfort. “Mark my words, you’re gonna thank me for warning you.” She bumped her shoulder into yours, and you couldn’t tell if she was joking or actually serious.

"What am I gonna do? His voice…his face…his…hands." You let your own hands fall into your lap with a dramatic thud, the sound echoing faintly down the hallway, making the moment feel even more ridiculous.

"Tara. They’re fucking huge. You should see him hold a pen. I could barely breathe…" The words tumble out in a rush, your voice low but urgent, like admitting it too loudly would make it more real. Just thinking about it sends your pulse racing all over again. The image is vivid—his long fingers curled around the pen, the slow precision of his movements, the ease with which he commanded even the smallest gesture. It had been ridiculous, and you’d been painfully aware of every second you spent watching. You sigh, leaning your weight against the wall, as if it might ground you before your legs give out completely.

Tara’s smirk widens knowingly. She crosses her arms and props herself against the opposite wall like she’s the audience to your confession, not your best friend. She tilts her head, eyes glinting with that dangerous mix of curiosity and mischief that always means trouble. "Get his attention! That’s what you do! You’re smart—use it. Answer all his questions, make yourself impossible to ignore. Find excuses to talk to him. Flirt!"

You gape at her, caught somewhere between disbelief and intrigue. "Flirt? With my professor?" you hiss, but she just grins, clearly savoring your reaction. Leave it to Tara to encourage behavior that could land you in academic scandal.

Your cheeks burn hotter at her persistence, and you cover your face with both hands again like maybe she won’t see the flush spreading across your skin. "You’re insane," you mumble through your palms. "He’s my professor, Tara. He’s definitely not gonna pay attention to a student. That’s…like…highly unethical."

"That’s where you’re wrong," she counters, her tone dripping with confidence. "Even the most strict professors drop their boundaries with a little push." The way she says it makes your stomach twist—not entirely from nerves. She pushes off the wall with a casual grace, falling into step beside you as you start walking again. Her voice stays light, almost playful, but her eyes stay sharp, calculating, like she’s already mapping out a plan you’ll have no choice but to follow.

You glance sideways at her, both dreading and curious about whatever scheme is brewing in her head.

Still, you listen as she rambles off advice, her tone breezy but her eyes sharp, like she’s enjoying every second of this. You tell her about how he’d called after you when you forgot your bag, expecting her to laugh it off—but instead, she seizes on it instantly.

"Forget it more often," she suggests with a sly grin, "but not too often. You don’t want to look like you’re doing it on purpose. Make it subtle—give him a reason to call you back."

Before you can respond, she’s already onto the next step. "And dress more…eye-catching. You know—tighter clothes, ones that show off your assets. Make him notice, even if he’s trying not to." She says it so casually, like this is just another piece of friendly advice, the same way she might suggest a good place for coffee.

You can’t believe you’re actually listening. The thought alone makes you want to laugh, but you bite it back. You half-wonder if she’s done this before. Then you realize—that’s a stupid question.

She’s Tara. Of course she has.

And maybe…just maybe…it couldn’t hurt to try. Right?

The next few classes were nerve-wracking, each one a mix of genuine academic focus and the constant, distracting hum of your awareness of him. Still, you took Tara’s advice to heart. You started wearing your tightest shirts, the ones that hugged your figure in all the right places, along with shorts, skirts, and leggings that left little to the imagination—always hovering on the right side of “college appropriate,” but enough to make you feel his eyes might catch on you, even if only for a second. Every morning, choosing an outfit became less about comfort and more about calculated impact.

Sylus’s next big lesson was on the Siege of Caelthorn—a brutal turning point long before Linkon existed as a nation—though it happened on the land that would one day become Linkon, rife with political betrayal, desperate alliances, and the kind of last-stand tragedies that could haunt you for weeks. He paced as he spoke, weaving the dry facts into a gripping narrative, his voice lowering and rising at just the right moments to keep you hooked. He spoke of generals who turned traitor, civilians who fought with spears, and an entire winter where the city’s people lived on scraps of bark and boiled leather. You could picture it in your mind, his words painting the scene vividly…or at least, you could have, if you weren’t so busy noticing other things.

Because today, he was in a short-sleeved shirt—simple, fitted, and criminally distracting. The cut of the fabric framed his broad shoulders perfectly, and every movement pulled it taut across his arms, revealing the kind of muscle definition you didn’t expect from a professor. Your pen hovered uselessly over the page as you watched the fabric stretch and flex with the roll of his shoulders, your brain catching on details that had nothing to do with Caelthorn.

Fuck. He has biceps? The thought popped into your head with the force of a revelation, almost making you miss the next thing he said. And then, because your brain clearly hated you, the thought spiraled. What does his stomach look like? Does he have abs under there?

And the more important thought of what was hiding in his pants. Tara had made the lewd remark of "Well...if his hands and feet are big...you know what that means!"

You tore your gaze away, fixing it firmly on your notebook. You tried to copy down the date of the siege, the names of key figures, but the words swam in front of you, meaningless. All you could think about was the curve of his arm as he gestured toward the map, the faint veins visible along his forearms, and how close you were sitting—close enough that if he walked past your desk, you might actually smell his cologne.

You exhaled slowly, willing yourself to focus on the lesson, but the mental image lingered stubbornly, just out of reach, refusing to fade even as the bell approached.

Deciding to push yourself, you start asking questions in class—questions you already know the answers to. "Did the Siege of Caelthorn shift trade routes permanently or just temporarily?"

"Did the loss at Caelthorn weaken the Republic more through military defeat or through the collapse of public morale?"

You pick your moments carefully, raising your hand when you’re sure he’ll notice, tilting your head in that curious way that says I’m engaged without overdoing it. Each time, he listens, then responds in that precise, almost measured tone.

“The siege permanently altered trade in the southern provinces,” he says, “redirecting goods through coastal routes instead of inland. And the greater blow to the Republic?” He pauses just long enough for a few pens to hover over notebooks. “It came from the public’s loss of faith in its leaders, not from the military defeat itself.” His delivery is steady, free of theatrics, but you swear you catch the faintest flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes before he turns away. It’s subtle, almost nothing…but enough to keep you trying again the next day.

After class, you decided to “forget” your bag again. You made a little production of it this time—sliding your notebook into your backpack with exaggerated care, glancing toward the door as if you were already thinking about your next class, then strolling right out without looking back. A giddy rush of excitement curled in your chest as you took a few steps into the hallway, pretending to fish something out of your pocket while waiting for that familiar sound—his voice.

Sure enough, it came. But this time, when you turned, you saw he’d already walked a few steps toward you, your bag in hand. “A few more times,” he said, holding it out, “and this might just become someone else’s bag.”

The corners of your mouth tugged upward in a laugh that felt lighter than you meant it to. “Thanks again, sorry about that,” you replied, reaching for the strap.

His fingers brushed yours as he passed it over, the contact brief but enough to make your pulse skip. He nodded, his gaze steady, lingering just long enough to make you feel like the hallway had gone a little quieter. “Good questions today, by the way. It’s always a pleasure to hear from you.”

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs as you smiled back, trying to ignore the warmth blooming in your cheeks. Holy shit—this was the longest conversation you’d had with him so far. You told yourself to keep it cool, to keep your voice even. “Of course,” you said, adjusting the bag on your shoulder, “history has always been my favorite subject.”

He gave the smallest smirk, just enough to make you second-guess whether you’d imagined it. “Glad to hear it,” he said, before turning back toward the classroom. And as you walked away, your mind replayed every word, every glance, clinging to the moment. He smelled....really nice.

The test came soon after, and naturally, this was no multiple choice hand-holding. Written answers only—the kind of exam that demanded you know the material well enough to explain it in your own words. Everyone else seemed deeply immersed in their own work…everyone except you.

Your eyes kept flicking upward, drawn against your will to Sylus, seated at his desk with a thick, worn book open in front of him. The light caught on the edges of his glasses as he read, his expression calm, almost unreadable. Every so often, his long, veiny hand flexed as he turned a page, the tendons shifting under his skin in a way that made your chest tighten. It was such a mundane movement, yet somehow it had your attention locked. You had no business noticing something like that during a test—but your brain didn’t care. Fuck, you gotta focus.

You dragged your gaze back to the paper in front of you, forcing your mind to zero in on the questions. They were challenging but fair, each one built to test not just memory but actual understanding. You found the answers coming to you without hesitation, your pen moving swiftly across the page. By the time you reached the final prompt, your hand ached faintly from writing, but you powered through, finishing with a flourish before setting your pen down. The relief was immediate, a quiet exhale as the weight of the exam lifted.

The minutes ticked down, and soon the end of the class arrived. Sylus gave a brief nod of dismissal, and the room stirred back to life. Chairs scraped loudly against the floor, backpacks were unzipped and zipped again, and the low hum of post-test chatter filled the space. One by one, students filed out through the door, drifting toward the rest of their day.

But not everyone left.

A small knot of girls lingered behind, their movements slower, their voices low but tinged with laughter. Some pretended to fuss with their notebooks, others hovered near his desk under the pretense of asking questions.

Fuck. You should’ve known you wouldn’t be the only one feigning for his attention.

But it gave you an idea. If they could linger, so could you—except you’d do it better. You could feign ignorance after class, asking questions about assignments you’d already mastered, making it look like you were just a diligent student seeking clarity. So you upped your antics. Not only did you sometimes “forget” your bag, but you also began lingering both before and after class, crafting questions that would buy you precious extra minutes with him. You watched the subtle irritation grow on the faces of the other girls who tried the same, and every small victory made you bolder.

Today, you timed your approach perfectly. The last few students were zipping up backpacks, some shuffling toward the door, when you stepped forward. “Sylus, about the essay on the Siege of Caelthorn,” you began, tilting your head with feigned thoughtfulness, “would it be better to focus on one civilian’s perspective in depth, or weave in multiple viewpoints for contrast?”

He glanced at you, cocking his head to the side. A faint crease formed between his brows, as if he were genuinely puzzled why you—one of his strongest students—were asking something so basic. “I think ones best work comes from making their own decisions,” he said slowly, his tone both curious and mildly amused. He looked like he might say more, but before he could, a shadow fell across the desk.

“Sylus, can you help me? I don’t know—” another girl interrupted, stepping forward with a notebook in hand.

He didn’t even hesitate. Offering her a gentle smile, he raised a hand in a small, dismissive gesture. “In a bit. I’m with another student right now.”

You fought to keep your face neutral, but the corners of your mouth tugged upward despite your best efforts. The warm flicker of triumph settled in your chest, and inside, you were practically glowing with glee. The girl’s forced smile faltered into a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but you didn’t mind—in fact, it only made the moment sweeter.

And when the test came back, of course you’d aced it. Not just a high grade—you’d nailed every single question with enough precision and detail to make your handwriting look smug. In fact, your answers had impressed him so much that he’d even left a little handwritten note at the bottom of the last page. It was simple, but it made you smile.

“Remind me not to underestimate you in debates.”

After weeks of your carefully planned antics, you and Sylus had settled into a rhythm of longer, more frequent conversations, each one leaving you with a little more to think about than the last. Today was no different—class ended, the shuffle of papers and zippers filled the air, and you quickly grabbed your bag before making your way to his desk, determined to reach him before anyone else could.

He glanced up as you approached, that faintly amused smile tugging at his lips again, the kind that made it seem like he already knew exactly why you were there. “Didn’t forget your bag today? I’m almost disappointed,” he said dryly. “It’s become a habit of mine to look for it.” His tone was light, but there was an undertone of familiarity there, like this was now a private joke between you.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help returning the smile. “I wanted to ask, Professor—what made you want to get your degree in such a subject? You always captivate me with how you speak during your lessons. It’s like you’re telling a story you’ve lived through.”

For a moment, he seemed taken aback by the direct compliment. His brow lifted slightly, his eyes narrowing as if weighing how much he wanted to give away. “I’ve always been a man who enjoys reading documents, old accounts, and learning about humanity’s failures and triumphs,” he replied after a beat, his voice low. “There’s a kind of…honesty in the past, even in its ugliness.”

He paused, and you caught it—the subtle shift in his gaze as he seemed to wander over your body. It wandered, just briefly, over you in a way that sent heat crawling up your neck, making your pulse quicken despite your best effort to stay composed. When his red eyes met yours again, there was a flicker of something unreadable, and his tone softened, edged with something far less academic.

“Though,” he added, his lips curling into a faint smirk, “I wouldn’t say I’m the only person who’s captivating when they open their mouth.”

The air between you seemed to tighten, your thoughts scattering as you scrambled for a response that wouldn’t give too much away. Was he...flirting?!

"O-oh?" you say, eyes widening.

He leans back slightly, the smirk lingering. “Mhm,” he says smoothly, “Like Alcibiades. He was truly a captivating figure in his lifetime—brilliant, charming, and entirely too good at convincing people to join in a revolution.” He lets the name hang in the air, eyes locked on yours, his tone perfectly casual as if it were just an academic reference. But you know better.

In your head, you can’t help thinking, what a save…acting like you’re keeping it professional, Sylus.

You could toe the line too. In fact, you could do it better. When he passed out papers after a test, you’d make a point to “accidentally” let your fingers brush against his when grabbing yours, just long enough for the warmth of his skin to register against yours. He’d pause briefly—just a fraction of a second too long—before moving on, and to you, that pause was further proof he wasn’t entirely unaffected. Sometimes you’d let your gaze linger on him as you returned to your seat, just to see if he noticed.

When talking to him after class, especially on days you wore skirts or tight leggings, you began taking it a step further—waiting until everyone else had left, then casually perching yourself directly on the edge of his desk, close enough that your knees were almost brushing his. From there, you’d tilt your head, ask a question, maybe fiddle idly with your pen while he answered, knowing the image you presented.

It was a risky move, one you’d half expected him to shut down immediately. You’d prepared yourself for a polite correction or a subtle shift in tone. But instead, he’d simply smiled, leaning back slightly in his chair, his gaze steady as he answered your questions with the same professional ease you’d come to expect from him—his voice calm, his expression composed, even if you swore you caught the faintest flicker of interest in his eyes, a quiet acknowledgement of the unspoken game you were both playing.

Today was no different. He’d assigned a worksheet after class, and the tension between you two had been coiling tighter with each passing day. You’d decided you were going to cross the line a bit today—Tara’s advice echoing in your head like a dare. The classroom was quiet, the hum of his laptop keys the only sound. He sat at his desk, focused, typing steadily, and thankfully, no students lingered to interrupt. Everyone else had packed up and left.

You took your chance.

Striding forward, you stopped in front of his desk before promptly hopping onto the edge, letting the motion speak for itself. You flashed the paper toward him with a teasing smile. “Since when do you assign worksheets with multiple choice? Is my professor getting lazy?” you joked, letting your tone dance between playful and challenging.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. With an easy motion, he pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose, his gaze never leaving yours. “Just something easy to end the week while I catch up on grading,” he said, his tone deceptively casual but carrying a subtle thread of amusement.

You caught the faint shift of his lips, the corners tugging upward like he was enjoying this more than he’d admit. His red eyes glinted under the light, catching just enough to make your stomach twist in that maddening way. Then, with the faintest, almost taunting smirk, he added, “Why? Too easy for you? A shame.”

The tease lingered in the air, the words wrapping around you with a challenge that made your pulse pick up.

"No, in fact, it’s far harder than I expected," you say, deliberately putting just a touch too much emphasis on the word harder, letting it hang in the space between you. Your lips curl into a faint smile as you glance down at the paper in your hand, flipping it over like you’re searching for something.

“For example—this one,” you say, pointing at a question halfway down the page. “Which charter established the Great Council of Aramoor? I know we went over it, but…I’m not entirely sure I remember.” You tilt your head in mock uncertainty, even though you could recite the answer in your sleep, watching closely to see how he’ll react.

He hums in acknowledgment, shifting in his chair as he leans a little closer, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re a smart girl. Top of my class. Why don’t you tell me?” he says, his tone dripping with amusement, each word laced with just enough weight to make your pulse skip.

Shit. You weren’t expecting him to call your bluff so soon. Your chest tightens, your heartbeat loud in your ears, and for a moment, you swear you can’t breathe. Don’t stutter, you warn yourself. You pull in a slow, steady breath, forcing your shoulders to relax, willing your voice not to crack. Even sitting, he’s tall enough that you still have to tilt your head to meet his gaze, and that alone makes your stomach twist in a way you don’t want to examine.

You let the silence stretch a little longer than necessary, just to see if he’ll flinch, before finally speaking. “If I get it right…do I get a prize, professor?” Your words are slow, laced with a subtle playfulness that you know could be taken the wrong way—or exactly the right way.

This time, he actually seems taken aback. His brows lift just slightly, surprise flickering in his eyes, before another chuckle escapes him—softer this time, but edged with something unreadable. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, like he’s deciding how much rope to give you. “A prize?” he repeats, drawing out the word as if tasting it. “I wasn’t aware I was teaching kindergarten,” he replies at last, the corner of his mouth curving upward in quiet challenge, as if daring you to try again.

"Alright, I’ll humor you. What exactly would you want for this...prize?" he asks, leaning forward slightly in his chair but keeping his gaze locked on you.

You lean in just a fraction, your voice slipping into something coy. Now or never. “A kiss seems fitting. It is a very hard question, after all.”

He pretends to be appalled, pressing a hand dramatically over his chest, though the chuckle that follows gives him away. His eyes glint with mischief as they flicker from yours, lingering there for a heartbeat, then—just for a second—drifting down to your lips. It’s quick, but enough to make your pulse skip.

“That’s highly inappropriate, young lady,” he murmurs, though the warning is undermined by the amusement tugging at his mouth.

You close the gap ever so slightly, your cheeks warm but your gaze unwavering. “Maybe,” you say softly, a small smirk pulling at your lips. “But that’s not a no, sir.”

The sudden shift in his breathing let you know that he definitely enjoyed the nickname you just sprung on him.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his expression shifting just slightly as though the gears are turning in his head, weighing his next words. The pause stretches long enough to make your breath catch, your heart beating faster in the silence, before he finally speaks—his tone tinged with something almost teasing.

“You're not wrong, I didn't say no. Go on then. Tell me the answer, sweetie. It shouldn’t be too hard for a smart girl like you.”

The nickname lands like a jolt of electricity, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine that you can’t hide. Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the paper in your hand, and you swear the air between you feels heavier now, warmer. Oh…boundaries are definitely slipping now, and by the way he’s still watching you, it’s clear he knows it too.

You answer quickly—maybe too quickly—blurting out, “The Great Council of Aramoor, established under the Charter of Unity, ratified in the winter of 642, after the War of the Seven Provinces ended,” your words tumbling out in a rush. You even add, “It was signed in the capital’s Great Hall, under the banner of the Phoenix Crest,” without thinking, the details pouring from you so effortlessly that it almost betrays how much you’ve studied. Your eagerness is impossible to hide now, and the moment the words leave your mouth, you wonder if you’ve given yourself away. But there’s no pulling them back.

He nods slowly, his eyes locking onto yours with a piercing intensity that makes you feel like he can see every stray thought flitting through your mind. The moment stretches taut, the air between you heavy, before he finally glances down briefly—almost as if deciding something—then looks back up, a faint, knowing smile curving his lips.

“Exceptional answer. Well, I'm man of my word,” he says simply, before patting his lap.

Your heart lurches into your throat. His lap? Your mind reels instantly with the implications. If someone walked in right now, there’d be no excuse, no cover story—nothing to hide what the two of you were doing. Heat creeps up the back of your neck, but your body moves before your mind can stop it. You slide down from his desk, the motion slow, almost testing him, before you hesitate for a heartbeat and then settle onto him. The shock of how solid he feels beneath you makes your breath catch, his frame fitting against yours in a way that unravels your thoughts. Your pulse hammers so loudly you wonder if he can hear it.

That’s when it hits you—you’re nervous to kiss him. Not because you don’t want to, but because the possibility of being bad at it gnaws at the edges of your confidence. You’ve never wanted someone’s approval like this. The thought loops endlessly, a dizzying hum in your head, until his voice slices through it.

“Whenever you’re ready, sweetie” he murmurs, the words slow, deliberate, as if he can see the hesitation in your eyes and knows exactly why it’s there.

You nod once, pulling in a deep breath to steady the chaos inside you. Then, in a surge of determination, you reach up and slip his glasses from his face. The motion is simple but intimate, your fingertips brushing his temple for the briefest second. His eyes flicker with surprise, the smallest crack in his otherwise unshakable composure. Just do it, you tell yourself, your pulse pounding so hard it echoes in your ears.

So you do. You lean in, closing the last inches between you, and capture his lips with yours. They’re warm—softer than you expected—and up close, he smells absolutely divine, a faint mix of clean soap and something darker, like cedarwood. Your plan had been to make this quick, just a small, testing peck. You didn’t want to take a mile when you’d only been given an inch. But the moment you try to pull back, his hands find your waist, firm and deliberate, holding you in place.

Your breath hitches at the contact, and before you can react, he deepens the kiss. It’s smooth, confident, and far more intoxicating than you’d prepared for, making your head spin. The world outside the two of you disappears, the only sounds the faint hitch in your breathing and the low, subtle hum from him. It’s not long before you’re both slightly panting against each other, foreheads brushing, the air between you thick with lust.

You begin to grind your lower half against his, slow at first, testing the waters. His reaction is immediate—his grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath catch. Encouraged, you slide your hands down his chest and start to trail them under his shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin. But just as the heat between you threatens to tip into something reckless, he pulls back.

His face is slightly flushed, his breathing uneven, but his eyes are steady. “As delightful as this has been,” he says, his tone quieter now but no less firm, “we can’t go any further. A sweet girl such as yourself has no business with a man like me.”

Frustrated, you look him square in the eye, your voice low but firm. “I can handle you. Don’t patronize me,” you say, refusing to back down. His lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your pulse jump despite your defiance.

“You don’t have any idea what you’re asking for, sweetie,” he replies, the endearment rolling off his tongue like both a warning and a temptation. "Shouldn't you head to your next class? An upstanding student such as yourself shouldn't be late."

You pout, your lips pressing into a thin line, but eventually sigh and slide off his lap, your feet touching the floor with a quiet thud. You’d come so far, and for what? Clearly, he’d just been toying with you for weeks—dangling the possibility, only to pull away at the last second. Whatever. You grab your bag with more force than necessary and march toward the door.

But as you reach it, you freeze. Something in you twists, and you turn back to face him, your voice cool but laced with a bite. “This has given me the revelation that I should change classes. We’ve crossed the line after all, professor. It’s been…nice.” You give him one last glance before turning back to leave, determined not to look over your shoulder again.

Suddenly, the air shifts. In a blur of red and black mist, you suddenly feel him behind you—so close that the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. You jolt in surprise, your pulse spiking.

He…has an Evol??

You pant as he rests his hand firmly on the door above your shoulder, blocking your way out. The solid thud of his palm against the wood sends a vibration through the frame, making your chest tighten and your pulse quicken. His presence is overwhelming—close enough that you can feel the subtle heat radiating from him, the faint scent of paper clinging to his clothes. He leans in closer, so close you swear you can hear the faintest hitch in his breathing, his warm breath brushing against the shell of your ear and sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

“You can recount several treaties by memory but can’t tell when a man is teasing you? How cute,” he murmurs, his voice low and rich, curling around you like smoke and sinking under your skin. His hand slides slowly down the door, the movement unhurried, almost taunting, until his fingers find the lock. The faint scrape of metal turning is deafening in the quiet room, and with a soft, final click, he twists it in place, sealing the two of you inside with no chance of interruption.

“Look at me, sweetie” he says, the command soft yet carrying a weight that leaves no room for disobedience. His tone isn’t loud, but it thrums through you, making it impossible not to obey, even as your breath comes faster.

You turn and look up at him, your knees feeling weak under the oppressive weight of the tension hanging in the air. Every inch of the room feels charged, the atmosphere so thick it’s almost dizzying. Your pulse pounds so loudly in your ears that you nearly miss the words that follow, his voice low but cutting through everything else.

“I’m going to make you cum three times,” he says, each syllable slow and certain, as if he’s stating an unshakable fact. He holds up three fingers in front of you, commanding your full attention. “Once with my fingers. Another with my mouth. And then…”

Your breath catches, your chest rising and falling faster as your eyes, without your permission, drift lower. They trace the lines of his torso until they land on the hardened outline of his cock in his pants. The sight makes your skin feel hot, your imagination filling in the rest before he even finishes speaking, painting vivid possibilities you can’t push away. You swallow hard, unable to stop the way your heart stutters at the unspoken promise hanging between you.

"You’ll have to be quiet if you don’t want to get caught. We would certainly be the talk of the campus," he chuckled, the sound dark and warm. His eyes gleamed with mischief as he tilted his head slightly. “So, I have your consent then?”

Yes. God, yes. Every part of you wanted to blurt it out, but your throat felt tight, your voice trapped behind the pounding in your chest. Instead, you simply nod, breath quick and uneven.

“I need to hear a yes, kitten” he murmured, his tone dropping lower, each word deliberate and coaxing. “Use your big girl words.”

“Yes. I consent, Sylus…” you sigh, the words spilling out with a mix of anticipation and heat as you lean up, wrapping your arms around his neck. He doesn’t waste a second—his hands slide to your waist, pulling you flush against him as his mouth captures yours in a deep, claiming kiss. The intensity makes your head spin, and before you can even register the shift, he teleports you both in a swirl of dark mist to his desk.

You’re both panting, breaths mingling in the charged air as he lowers you back onto the polished surface. The wood is cool against your skin, contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from him. Your shirt rides up just enough to expose the soft curve of your stomach, the edge of the fabric brushing lightly against your ribs. His gaze drops to the newly exposed skin, making your pulse race even faster.

He leans down, his lips brushing softly against the sensitive skin of your stomach, making you jolt and stifle a giggle. The sensation is electric, sending shivers down your spine. But your laughter quickly turns to a sharp intake of breath as his hands move to your skirt, slowly sliding it down your thighs. The cool air hits your skin as your skirt pools around your ankles, eventually dropping to the floor, leaving you exposed in your lace underwear.

"Cute choice," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "These are my particular favorite." His words send a rush of heat through you, a mix of embarrassment and desire. You realize with a jolt that he must have seen your underwear before, perhaps at a time when you bent over, and the thought sends a thrill through you.

Without hesitation, he slides your underwear to the side, revealing your already wet cunt. You squeal in embarrassment, the sound mingling with a moan as his fingers find your aching clit. The touch is electric, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You arch your back, pressing into his touch, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Mgnh! Ah...!"

His fingers move with expert precision, circling and teasing, drawing out moans and gasps from deep within you. The room seems to fade away, leaving only the sensation of his touch and the sound of your own ragged breathing. Each stroke building intensity with every touch. You're lost in the moment, your body responding to his every move, completely at his mercy.

"S-sylus!" you shriek, the sound a mix of surprise and pleasure as his long, dextrous fingers suddenly slide inside you. The sensation is intense, filling you completely, and you feel yourself stretching to accommodate him. Your body clenches around his fingers, a primal response to the sudden intrusion.

He leans down, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers soft shushes, trying to calm you. "Be a good girl and stay quiet kitten," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends vibrations through your body. You moan again, softer this time, as he extends his knuckle, touching that spongy, sensitive spot inside you. The sensation is overwhelming, and your body jerks. "You feel quite tight. A few orgasms should definitely fix that."

You feel like you can't breathe, your lungs constricting as your body tenses, teetering on the edge of release. Each movement of his fingers sends you spiraling closer, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable intensity. Your grip tightens on him, your nails digging into his skin as you try to anchor yourself to something solid in the storm of sensation.

"Oh, going to cum already? Adorable."

His fingers continue their relentless assault, curling and stroking, drawing out moans and gasps from deep within you. You're so close, your body trembling with the effort of holding back. Each touch, each whisper, each breath pushes you further, until you're balanced on the knife's edge, ready to fall into the abyss of pleasure.

"Ahh...mghn....ahh!"

You feel the coil snap tighter and tighter, the tension in your body building to an almost unbearable point. And then, suddenly, it shatters. You release with a force that leaves you trembling, your body twisting and grinding against his fingers. You stifle your sounds with one of your hands, biting down on your knuckles to keep from crying out, your body shaking with the intensity of your release.

By the time the waves subside, you feel like a boneless, limp mass of jelly, your limbs heavy and unresponsive. You're panting, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and you're already slick with sweat, your skin glistening in the dim light. Your eyes, heavy-lidded and glazed with lust, roam to Sylus, whose cock is harder than it was previously, strains against his pants. He watches you come undone, his gaze intense and hungry.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Just as I imagined. Now I wonder if you taste as good too?"

"W-wait...I need a brea-ah..."

Before you can catch your breath, he lowers his face between your soaking wet folds, his tongue lapping up your essence with eager, hungry strokes. You throw your head back, a cry of surprise and pleasure escaping your lips as his hot tongue finds your sensitive, swollen clit.

He laps at you like a starving dog, his tongue exploring every inch of your cunt. Each stroke sends jolts of ecstasy through you, reigniting the fire in your body. You're already on the edge of another release, your body responding to his touch with a fervor that leaves you breathless. You're lost in the sensation, your body and mind completely consumed by the pleasure he's drawing from you.

You've never felt such intense sensations before, not even with your previous boyfriends. Each touch, each lick, sends you spiraling into a realm of pleasure you never knew existed. He leaves you no time to think, his mouth and tongue working in a relentless rhythm that leaves you gasping and moaning.

He sucks on your clit, the sensation so intense that it rips another desperate moan from your throat. You cling to his mullet, your fingers tangling in the strands as you try to anchor yourself to something solid in the storm of sensation. Not that he seems to mind; if anything, it spurs him on, his tongue pushing into your walls with a fervor that leaves you breathless.

The feeling of his tongue is overwhelming, drawing out yet another embarrassingly quick orgasm. You feel your body tense and then shatter, unable to stop yourself from pushing against his face as you finish again. When he's sure you're done cumming against his tongue, he licks his lips and shifts, towering over you.

Your body is shaking, completely unable to move a muscle, as you pant and gasp for breath. "I-felt so…oh my god," you manage to stammer, your eyes fluttering closed as you try to process the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body. You're not sure you can survive another orgasm, your body already pushed to its limits.

You hear a low chuckle, followed by the distinct sound of a belt coming undone. "I did warn you" he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Don't pass out on me now." Your eyes shoot open as he lifts your shirt, exposing your breasts to the cool air. The sudden change in temperature makes your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of goosebumps spread across your skin.

His pupils dilate, and he lets out an excited breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He shifts his pants and boxers off his body, his movements quick and efficient. His hardened cock springs free, and you almost drool at the size, your eyes widening as you take in the sight. It's pale, thick and long, the head glistening with pre-cum, and you can't help but imagine how it would feel inside you.

You're caught in a mix of anticipation and fear, your body already aching for more despite the overwhelming pleasure you've already experienced. You watch as he moves between your legs, his eyes locked on yours, a predatory gleam in his gaze.

He begins to rub his tip between your folds, a low groan escaping his lips as he feels how easily he slides against your slick, sensitive pussy. The sensation is intense, sending jolts of ecstasy through both of you. You whine impatiently, using the last of your strength to try and push him inside you when he slides back again, your body aching for more.

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Eager, I know. My fault for teasing you, sweetie," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. "We should hurry before my next class. Tell me if it hurts." You nod breathlessly, your body tensing in anticipation as he begins to push himself slowly inside you.

You twitch and clench as he starts to disappear inside your wet walls, the sensation of being filled so completely sending a hint of discomfort through your body. He moves slowly, giving you time to adjust, his eyes locked on yours, watching your reactions closely.

The feeling is overwhelming, a blend of pleasure and pressure that leaves you nearly sobbing. You can feel every inch of him, stretching and filling you, and you're acutely aware that you might tear from the sheer size of him.

"F-feels so good…" you pant, your voice a breathless whisper as you attempt to tug him closer, your body aching to be close to him. He obliges, leaning in to capture your lips in a fierce, passionate kiss as he pushes himself all the way into you. You nearly scream against his mouth, but quickly forget the pain as you lose yourself in his searing kiss.

You can feel him poking the very edge of your cervix, making you whine and grind against him, willing him to move. He seems breathless himself, pulling away from the kiss slightly, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. "So wet and yet, still tight as ever," he murmurs, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine.

He pulls out slightly before slowly pushing back in, the movement deliberate and controlled. You both moan in harmony, the sound a raw, uninhibited symphony of the pleasure you're both experiencing. You stare into each other's eyes, the connection between you intense and electric, as his cock reaches the end of your walls again.

This certainly feels more intimate than a hookup.

He begins to thrust a bit faster, spurred on by the way your cunt tightens and loosens around him, sucking him deeper with each movement. "Shit…" he growls, his hands displayed on either side of the desk as he plunges into you, his body tensing with each thrust. You're shocked that a man as composed as him is cussing, and it nearly distracts you from the fact that your professor is quite literally balls deep inside you right now.

Your moans fill the air, mingling with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, as he picks up the pace, his movements becoming more urgent and desperate. The wetness between your legs begins to coat the desk, the sounds of it rocking back and forth filling the room.

You moan into each other's mouths, your lips locked in a fierce, passionate kiss as he drives into you. You can feel the tension building, the pressure in your body coiling tighter again with each movement.

The room seems to spin around you, the only steady point being the sensation of him inside you, the sound of your moans, and the taste of his lips.

You're both acutely aware of the dwindling time, the reality of his next class looming over you like a dark cloud. While it would be nice to do this forever, you start to feel nervous and glance at the clock, your eyes widening at the realization of how little time you have left.

"S-sylus…your next class will be here soon….mghm.." you moan, pulling away from his kiss, your voice a breathless whisper. He nods, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, as he tugs you back closer to him. "I'm aware. Hah-as...ah- shameful as it is to admit, I'm already close. You feel fucking amazing," he pants, his voice a low growl.

You whine as his thrusts begin to get more desperate, your body clinging to his and feeling like you're on the brink of dissolving into a puddle of jello. You can feel yourself on the edge of another orgasm, already on the brink of snapping.

“Gonna cum-ah-Sylus…please...”

Suddenly, the sharp sound of the door being tugged and a knock interrupts your impending orgasm. You gasp, your eyes widening in fear as you realize that students are forming on the other side of the door. You look at Sylus, your expression a mixture of panic and desperation, but he simply smirks, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

He puts a finger to his lips, a silent command for you to be quiet, before covering your mouth with his hand, muffling your moans. The sound of his next thrust is louder, the wetness between your legs making a lewd, obscene sound as he pushes into you, the desk rocking back and forth with the force of his movements.

You moan at the intense, increased pace, the sounds muffled by his hand covering your mouth. "Mghm! Mghn! Mhhn!" you whimper, feeling yourself drool beneath the skin of his hand, your belly feeling tighter and tighter with each passing second. Another knock, another sound of a student mumbling on the other side of the door, the reality of your situation only heightening the intensity of the moment.

Sylus is clearly at his end now, his legs shaking with the effort of thrusting as hard as he can, his body tensing. He looks down at you, giving you an apologetic smile, his eyes filled with contemplation. Your eyes widen in realization, the question clear in your gaze: He's not really going to cum inside you, is he?!

Sure enough, he pushes far as he can go, releasing hot ropes of cum inside your walls with a low, guttural groan. You feel it leaking out of you instantly, your body shivering beneath him as your forced to take every single ounce he gives you. The sound of his release is quiet, the wetness between your legs coating the desk, the evidence of sex on full display.

You both pant, faces flushed, the weight of what just happened settling heavily between you. Your thoughts spin, but his voice cuts through, calm and practical. “Apologies. Easier to hide the evidence if it’s inside you,” he says, his gaze dipping lower to watch as said "evidence" slides down your leg. "Well, most of it anyways." Heat floods your face at his words, and you instinctively glance down too, eyeing his cum with a sheepish smile.

“Here, we need to hurry.” He reaches into his desk drawer, pulling out a neatly folded handkerchief. Without hesitation, he begins helping you clean up—quick but gentle, his touch careful, almost reverent despite the urgency. You tremble slightly as he helps you fix your underwear and smooths your skirt back into place.

Looking around the room, your pulse spikes again. “Sylus… they’re gonna be suspicious if they see me leave…”

He meets your eyes briefly, then nods toward the far door on the opposite end of the room. “That leads outside. Go quickly,” he instructs, his voice firm but low, like he’s already thinking two steps ahead.

O-okay…” you breathe, your voice shaky as you turn to leave, grabbing your bag with quick, nervous movements. But before you can take a full step toward the far door, his hand wraps firmly around your wrist, halting you in place. In one swift motion, he spins you back toward him, and you barely have time to gasp out, “Syl—mghn…” before your words are swallowed by a searing kiss.

His lips are warm and commanding against yours, stealing the air from your lungs as heat floods your face. Your fingers tighten instinctively around the strap of your bag, your knees nearly buckling from the intensity. Just as quickly, he pulls away, but not without leaving a small, knowing smile on his face—one that sends your thoughts scattering.

Then, with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. His hand lingers briefly at your waist before he steps back, giving you a subtle motion toward the door. The silent order is clear: hurry.

You waste no time, rushing out of the door, the cool air outside hitting you as his cum continues to soak your underwear with every hurried step. Your heartbeat is still wild, each thud a reminder of the heat and chaos you’ve just left behind. Despite the soreness between your thighs and the damp cling of your clothes, a small, wicked smile curves your lips. You’re wet, sore, and absolutely thrilled by what you’ve just accomplished.

Tara is going to lose her mind when she hears about this…

Monday's class drones on, your pen scratching steadily across the page as you scribble notes into your notebook. Sylus’s voice fills the room, smooth and measured, as he delves into another lecture—this time on the rise of a long-forgotten civilization. You force yourself to focus, but the words blur a little, your mind drifting back to the last time you were alone with him.

You had spent all weekend thinking about it in fact. Dreaming of it even. You couldn't get it out of your head. Still, he had greeted you normally and started class like nothing had changed. That was it then? Well, at least you got it out of your system.

A soft buzz from your phone jolts you from your thoughts. Glancing down, you slide your hand under the desk and sneak a peek at the screen. The corner of your mouth tugs upward when you see Tara’s name and the message beneath it: Tell me if you hook up again!! I need DETAILS this time!! :D

You stifle a laugh, quickly locking the screen and slipping the phone back away before Sylus notices. Still, the smile lingers as you keep writing, your mind already forming the reply you’ll send her later.

The sound of Sylus's voice snaps you back to attention.

“I’m sure some of you are anxious to see your scores on the previous essay I assigned,” Sylus says, his tone calm but carrying that subtle edge of authority that makes the room fall silent. He lifts a neat stack of papers in his hands. “You’ll soon find out.”

A collective groan ripples through the class, a few students slumping in their seats. You can’t help but giggle nervously, tapping your pen against your notebook. Your eyes follow him as he starts down the first row, passing the essays out one by one. Some students light up with barely contained pride, others groan in dismay at their grades.

Your stomach tightens as he gets closer, your breath caught halfway in your chest. Then, suddenly, he’s there—pausing at your desk. You glance up, and for the briefest moment, your eyes meet his. The air between you feels heavier, charged, though he masks it with ease. He slides your essay onto your desk, the corner brushing your fingertips.

You give him a confident smile, as if you already know you did well. He returns it with the faintest curve of his lips before moving on to the next row, leaving you to stare down at the paper in anticipation.

Of course, a perfect score. As usual. You can’t help the small swell of pride in your chest as you scan the neat red ink at the top of the page. But then—what’s this? Your eyes land on a small arrow and a short, handwritten note in the corner: Flip to the back.

Your curiosity piqued, you turn the paper over. The moment your eyes fall on the words he’s written, your grin begins to grow, stretching wider with every sentence. Wasn’t very gentlemanly of me to shove you out the door…perhaps I can make it up to you over dinner? Your choice, my treat of course.

Another note catches your eye, scrawled in the margin near a passage you’d underlined. Call me, sometime? I’d be more than interested to hear that cute voice outside of class. Beneath it, in neat digits, is his number.

Your fingers tighten slightly on the edges of the paper, the quiet hum of the classroom fading into the background. You glance up, catching the faintest flicker of his gaze in your direction, and your heart gives a sharp, giddy kick.

He wants it to be more than a fling? The thought is unexpected—strangely so—but you can’t help the way your lips curve into a slow, pleased smile. The idea of keeping this going sends a ripple of excitement through you. Of course you’ll be texting and calling him later; that’s not even a question.

But your smile falters as your eyes catch on yet another note, this one written beside the final passage you’d worked so hard on. By the way, the Treaty of Westmarch wasn’t signed in the spring—it was in late winter. His neat handwriting continues: Should technically knock you down some points, but I’ll pretend I didn’t see it. See me after class for a refresher, sweetie.

You roll your eyes at the gentle jab, biting back a grin as you lift your gaze to find him. Sure enough, he’s already looking at you, a slow, knowing smirk playing on his lips.

Oh…this should be interesting.

[kunikags02]

PRINCESS TREATMENT ! —LADS!MEN

⋆˚꩜.ᐟ : including — fem!reader, wife!reader, established relationship, cutesy fluff, rafayel being dramatic as always, cutesy stuff. [౨ৎ] synopsis: princess treatment from the lads!men [♡₊˚ ♕]: her highness's decree: someone requested this a while ago but I can't find their ask I'm sorry! But this is for you my love <33

SYLUS --> ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ carries you when you say your feet hurt + random bouquets of flowers on your nightstand

From the moment you breathe out of a minor inconvenience —whether its from your feet aching after walking too long or you’re just feeling a little worn down—Sylus is already at your side, lifting you up with a gentle, effortless strength that somehow makes your heart flutter no matter how many times he does it.

He could care less about who sees. It doesn’t matter if you’re wandering through a high-end boutique, the polished floors gleaming beneath your tired soles, or sitting across from each other at a five-star restaurant where the menus feel heavier than usual—Sylus’s radar for your comfort is practically supernatural.

You barely have to say a word. The moment you sigh softly, or glance down at your shoes, or rub the arch of your foot, he’s moving. “Tired?” he’ll ask softly, voice low and caring, waiting just a beat for your answer. If you pause, he’s already there—hands warm and sure—lifting you up like you weigh nothing at all.

If it's in public and your embarrassed he simply scoffs with a low chuckle, "I've had to carry you out of a parties thrown over my shoulder like a beanbag a few times this year. I think you can stomach being carried like a princess before we get to the car."

And then there are the mornings—those soft, slow ones where you blink awake to find a fresh bouquet waiting on your nightstand. No card, no announcement, just petals still kissed with dew, their fragrance drifting into the room. Sometimes they’re roses, other times their different colorful assortments, or something exotic you can’t even name. You’ve long stopped asking when he buys them—Sylus just smirks and shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

ZAYNE --> ִֶ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ always opens doors for you + helps you down/up stairwells when your in heels

Its almost impressive how the second you approach any door—whether it’s the heavy glass door to a café or a creaky old classroom door—Zayne's already stepping ahead, reaching out to open it for you with a that small warm smile of his. (like he didn't just teleport to your side)

The same goes for whenever you’re in heels. Before your foot even graces a step, you’re already met with the steady anchor of Zayne’s soft hand, his other hand hovering just in case you wobble. Sometimes you’ll catch him watching you from the corner of his eye as you ascend, gaze flicking down to make sure your footing’s secure before lifting back up to meet yours. That faint splash of pink will dust the Doctor’s cheeks, but he won’t look away—he never does when it comes to you.

If you call him out on it, he’ll give a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as if you’ve caught him in some harmless crime. “I was simply making sure you didn’t slip or fall,” he’ll say, the corner of his mouth tilting just slightly before adding in that low, almost teasing tone, “Though… would it really be so odd to suggest that I was admiring my wife?”

CALEB --> ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ always offers you the last bite of his food + always carries your bags no matter how light they are

It doesn’t matter if it’s the fluffiest pancake from brunch or the last fry in the basket—Caleb’s holding it out to you on a fork, a spoon, or even between his fingers, that lopsided grin tugging at his lips like there was never a question about who it was for. “Go on, pips. I know you wanted it,” he’ll murmur, watching you lean in to take it.

A laugh escaping him as he sees you melt the second the fork enters your mouth, eyes fluttering shut like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted. You barely even finish chewing before glancing at the plate again, and he catches it instantly—those puppy-like eyes lingering a second too long. “You want more, don'tcha ?” he teases, already reaching for the dish. Before you can protest, he’s flagging down the waiter or spearing another perfect piece from his own plate. “You're so cute, we'll get you some more pips."

And when it comes to carrying your things, Caleb doesn’t discriminate between a heavy grocery bag or the tiniest boutique shopping bag with a single dress inside. The second he sees something in your hands, he’s already reaching for it, muttering a casual, “I got it,” like it’s second nature. You’ve tried arguing before—pointing out how ridiculously light it is—but he just scoffs and keeps walking, your bag dangling from his fingers like it weighs nothing.

"You say your 'fine' carrying it, until you see a whole rack of shoes you like and then your turning to me with those puppy eyes while giving me the bags."

"..shut up."

RAFAYEL --> ִֶ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ only gifts you the most body complimenting imported dresses + has monthly appointments booked in advanced for you (hair, nails, etc.)

As we all know, Rafayel takes his art very seriously—the wrong swatch of a color alone could have him stuck for an hour or two. So why would he treat his sweet wife any differently? Every dress he picks out is like a masterpiece, tailored to highlight your curves, your posture, your very presence. It’s never just about fashion—it’s about making you feel like the most radiant version of yourself, effortlessly stealing every room you walk into.

And god forbid you don’t fall inlove with a dress he’s chosen. Now he has to sit down with it, study every stitch, every fold, every detail for what feels like an hour, trying to understand exactly what doesn’t resonate with you. It's almost sweet how he dedicated he becomes to the little project but after a while it starts to get ridiculous.

"Raf, sweetheart, please come to bed."

He'll barely look up, murmuring something about light refraction under evening chandeliers and how perhaps the drape falls half an inch too far left. You sigh knowing you'll have to drag him to the bedroom at this point.

Though of course, his spoiling doesn't stop simply at clothes. Whether it's because he wants to take care of you from working hard or just because he likes seeing you all done up and happy Rafayel takes your monthly appointments very seriously. Already calling your place of work two days beforehand to ensure you'll be available.

"I've stored your laptop away somewhere for today—uh no, don't give me that. You've been working hard cutie, let me take care of you."

XAVIER --> ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ warms your hands when their cold + fixes your necklace for you

Usually on a chilly day, Xavier already has your hand entwined with his. Secured in his jacket pocket as you walk side by side, but in the rare case that he isn’t; he'll reach over, his own hand enveloping yours with that steady, unhurried ease. Thumb softly brushing over your knuckles like he’s coaxing the cold out of them with delicate care, and guiding your hand into his jacket pocket with his with a smile.

And if it’s not the cold he’s noticing, it’s the little details—like the way your necklace clasp has shifted or tangled in your hair. He’ll step in behind you without hesitation, brushing your hair to the side with careful fingers. The cool press of his knuckles contrasting with the warmth of his touch as he readjusts the chain, his focus entirely on you. “There,” he’ll murmur once it’s perfect, his voice low and close to your ear—"beautiful as always, my star."

® princessxmin all rights reserved. please to not alter, copy or translate my work !

[kunikags02]

OMG BABIEEEEE😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[Translated Comic] Xavier's Silence

Original artist: 香辣鱿鱼拌饭酱

Source ll Permission

❀ Please do not repost! ❀

[kunikags02]

hi:3 can you write one with xavier and reader where she's dressed like a bunny

𝐵𝓇𝑜𝒶𝒹𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝐵𝓊𝓃𝓃𝓎

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐂 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐚 𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐏𝐞𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲, 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐤!𝐧𝐤, 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞, 𝐬𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐤!𝐧𝐤 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐭.

She didn’t know how the silver haired man convinced her to wear this. Her tits were so pushed up she could feel them against her throat. Maybe that was her imagination. The floppy, fluffy white ears perched on top of her hair. Two thin pieces of fabric were the only thing covering her breast from being fully exposed.

This is what she got for even mentioning the thought of lingerie to Xavier.

But alas, here she was in his bathroom, giving herself a once over. She kept tugging at the bottom of the incredibly short skirt like a nervous habit. Well, she wasn’t getting any younger.

She opened the door slowly, poking just her head out to see Xavier waiting patiently on the edge of the bed.

“I feel silly.”

“Starshine, you could never be anything but perfect in my eyes.” And she knew it was true. She’d embarrassed herself plenty of times and her boyfriend was never anything but accepting. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom.

Xavier thought he had ascended to the heavens when his eyes caught sight of the outfit. Pink really was her color. She adjusted the bow around her neck with fidgeting fingers.

“What do you-“

“Turn around.” His usually monotone voice interrupted her before she could finish. She saw the fluffy tail, a buttplug, dangling from his fingers. “This is the final piece. I’ve already…prepped it for its final destination.”

Of course he would crack a joke. But she couldn’t think of much else when he walked over to her, brushing her hair off of her shoulder to kiss the exposed skin.

“You look beautiful. My own breeding bunny, hm?” He whispered in her ear. His fingers, still slick with lube, trailed up the lace thong. He pulled the thin fabric aside with his finger and rubbed his digits along the expansion between her cheeks.

“Oh, Xavier…” he whisper was breathless. He cooed softly, kissing her head right between the white fluffy bunny ears.

“Bend over the bed for me, Starshine. Hop to it.” If she wasn’t so horny, she’d slap him.

But her chest brushed the bed, her ass on full display for Xavier. Her breath hitched when a finger slid across her second hole. She shivered with a gasp when his index finger inched its way inside.

“So tight for me…but you can take it, bunny.” He whispered as if telling her the most sacred secret. When a second finger joined in soon after, Y/n swear she felt herself leak through the lingerie. Xavier was eager. He pulled out his fingers and lifted the plush bunny tail. “Deep breath bunny.”

Y/n’s manicured nails dug into the sheets as the plug slowly nestled itself between her cheeks. She gave a whine of approval when it notched itself in perfectly. Xavier rubbed her ass in a slow, circular motion as he stood back to devour the scene before him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.” He praised, pulling down his sweats just enough for his cock to spring out. He was already so hard, tip leaking with need. Y/n looked over her shoulder with wide, needy eyes.

“Xavier, please. I’ve been such a good bunny…” she pleads, lower lip jutting out in a pout.

“Oh, have you? Does my bunny deserve a treat for wearing such a scandalous outfit?” Xavier stepped forward just enough to rub the tip of his cock between her slit, collecting the juices there.

“Biiiig stretch, Bunny.” And he wasn’t kidding. Who knew such a nonchalant, soft spoken man was packing that much heat between his thighs. But Xavier could be patient contrary to belief. He lifted his sweat and clenched it between his teeth as he watched inch by inch disappear between her folds.

“Xavier…oh god….” Y/n whimpered. Her head bowed back as Xavier easily lifted her knees right at the edge so he could reach as deep as possible inside of her. The sweater dropped from his teeth when he bottomed out.

“Look at that Bunny. You’re so full. I’m all the way here…” he cooed, reaching below her to press when his cock was nestled inside of her warmth. Y/n bit her bottom lip to stifle her moans. “Ah, ah, ah…let me hear you, Starshine.” He punctuated his order by a harsh thrust that had his balls slapping her clit.

Y/n squeaked out a noise behind her bruised lips and Xavier immediately stroked her head. “That’s my good girl.”

His thrust, usually concise and solid, grew sloppy. Y/n could hear and physically feel how soaked she was. “X-Xavier! Feel so good, so deep….mmph!” She bit into the edge of his pillow but it was quickly ripped out from under her. Xavier lifted a strong long to the bed for balance and railed inside of her faster. The angle gave him an advantage and Y/n imagined the image they probably had laid out.

He was fucking her like a rabbit. Quick and sharp thrust, hellbent on one thing only.

Breeding.

Y/n’s little bunny ears were starting to slip and the thrust had her tits spilling from the top. Xavier could feel her walls flutter around him. He hooked fingers under her chin to make her turn her head to look at him.

Y/n’s little bunny ears were starting to slip and the thrust had her tits spilling from the top. Xavier could feel her walls flutter around him. He hooked fingers under her chin to make her turn her head to look at him.

“I’m gonna breed you, gonna b-breed this-Oh gods…-gonna breed this tight hole. My pretty bunny. My Starshine. My light. My-o-oh.” Y/n felt his balls tighten up against her clit. He was close. The way his curved cock was bullying that special spot inside of her, she wasn’t far behind.

His messy fingers gently tugged at the bunny tail. “Cum for me Bunny. Make a mess all over your Master’s cock. Serve me well.” Y/n was done for. With a strained cry, she tightened around his length to the point his hips stuttered. Xavier buried his face between the bunny ears that were barely hanging on.

Xavier was a sloppy man in the bedroom. He pulled out just enough for cum to trail down her thighs before using the head of his cock to scoop it up and push it back in. Y/n blushed at the stickiness between her thighs.

“Xavier, you pervert- w-wait!” Y/n was flipped on her back with ease. Xavier’s strong hands hooked behind her knees and pressed them to her chest in a mating press.

“Did you think we were done, Bunny? Oh no, I’m gonna fill you with all of my kits.”

Y/n swore in the back of her fucked out brain, that Xavier would be the next one to wear the bunny suit.

[kunikags02]

bsf caleb drabble pt2 | pt1

makeout, thigh riding, praise, slight degradation, humiliation.

#bringbackdryhumping

— ʚɞ

He’s got that stupidly attractive grin on his face the whole time after kissing you dumb.

All he could taste now was your green apple chapstick as the wet fabric of your cotton panties glides effortlessly against his clad covered thighs, pulling soft whimpers and whines from your kiss-swollen lips.

Your hands braced yourself on your best friend's shoulders. His large hands perched on the skin of your hips, guiding the methodic motion of you against his thigh like he'd done this a hundred times with you—at least, in his head he had.

He had anticipated this moment for years.

His back was slouched against the couch head tipped just enough for you to take what you wanted: sloppy kisses, open mouths, gasping against each other when the heat surged too fast. Your lips slid against his like you owned them, tongue teasing until he groaned into you, that deep, guttural sound that vibrated straight to your core.

Caleb couldn’t seem to find one thing to focus on—the way your mouth falls open with soft little gasps and sharp intakes of air, or how your eyes screwed shut with every tug of the fabric ghosting your clit, or the way your hips move against his leg, rutting desperately for release.

"Does that feel good?" He asked, thumb brushing the skin where your top had ridden up, exposing the thin fabric acting as the only barrier between the both of you.

The resistance in his pants, the thick heat building right where you were seated. It startled you, how quickly it lit something within your gut, so familiar but foreign with him.

You didn't answer. Couldn’t. Your eyes fluttered shut with a soft hum, and your fingers clutched at his shoulders as you kept grinding your poor soaked cunt over the rough fabric of his pants, trying desperately to follow his rhythm but faltering with every roll.

Caleb chuckled low. "Do you hear yourself, Pips? Whimpering.. all over my thigh like that. You’re soaked through your panties, baby."

You buried your face in his neck. Tears pricked your eyes, not from pain—from pleasure. From embarrassment. From how much you wanted this.

"Goddamn, you're pathetic," He groaned. "Grinding on your my leg, that needy huh? Desperate to get off, aren’t you?"

You whimpered, hips moving faster, chasing the friction shamelessly now. You couldn't stop the slick squelch every time your cunt dragged down the length of his tensed thigh—the heat of him bleeding straight through your underwear like it meant nothing. Couldn’t stop the heat that built every time he praised you, even when it came with a smirk and a condescending tilt of his head.

"Look at you," he murmured. "Didn’t even know how to grind or kiss ten minutes ago. Now you're humping me like a bitch in heat."

You whined into the curve of his throat, nails digging into his shoulders, your thighs quivering where they straddled his leg helplessly. The drag of your soaked panties against the rough fabric of his pants was relentless now, every pass catching just right—the heat in your belly coiling tighter and tighter.

His hands slid from your hips down to your ass, gripping, guiding, forcing your pace.

"C’mon, ride my thigh," He murmured against your ear, voice low and thick with undeniable lust. "I’ll help you make a mess. that's what you want, right Pips?"

You couldn't speak. Couldn’t even breathe properly. Just gasped as he pressed you down harder, grinding your needy cunt along the swell of his thigh until the friction made your head dizzy. There was no shame in the way you rutted against him now—just instinct, all slick heat and desperate want.

You were close. you could feel it, building with each stroke. the way his thigh flexed beneath you, muscles tense and unmoving — giving you everything to push against. You were shaking now, hips stuttering, thighs trembling as the tension inside you snapped and then shattered completely.

You came with a soft, broken cry—hips jerking forward, grinding yourself down hard as the orgasm rolled over you, the wet patch engraved into Calebs pants doing nothing to contain the mess you had made all over his thigh.

"Feel better?" He coos, fingers brushing the loose strands of hair falling against your face. "You want my mouth somewhere else next? Or are you done pretending you're not dying to ride me like a needy little slut?"

— ʚɞ

authors note: pt3 where they actually fuck??? idk, i figured this would make more sense since in pt1 reader is deemed as inexperienced :o

taglist ᢉ𐭩: @dayboundpapercrane @weird-mumbling @angelouu

[kunikags02]

𖧁୧ . . sea god!rafayel overstims u like it's his divine duty 🫧 ࣪ ˖

contents ㅤ♡ྀི ₊ nsfw under the cut ! overstim, established relationship, body worship, praise kink, soft dom!rafayel

the reef walls hid them from the rest of the sea, quiet save for the hush of the current and your trembling breaths. the water shimmered gold and pink, painting rafayel like something divine, something carved from reverence and sin, his arms around your waist and his tail coiled like silk beneath yours.

he held you in his lap, weightless in the water but anchored by him. and gods, he knew exactly what he was doing. his fin flexed, slow and deliberate, drawing you down along the rough underside, ridged and sensitive. made for this, for you. slick skin dragged against textured scale, again and again, until you were choking on your moans.

“rafayel,” you gasped, but your voice was nothing but broken light.

“i know,” he murmured, voice like crushed velvet. his hand held the nape of your neck, thumb stroking your pulse. “i know. let me give it to you.”

but, he didn't give it yet.

instead, he pulled your hips forward again, grinding you onto his tail with slow, devastating precision. the friction was perfect, just rough enough to bruise pleasure into you, to make you sob, to leave you so swollen and aching you could barely think. his tail flexed again, rutting up through your folds like a kiss turned brutal.

“i want to feel you,” he mouthed at your skin, breath hot against your throat. “i want to feel you come apart before i even fuck you.”

rafayel worked you with the same slow rhythm, grinding you against him with the unyielding patience of a man who adored your torment. your slick painted his scales, spread messily down the ridges of his tail, and he only pulled you closer, harder, drawing out every helpless whine, every sobbed gasp, until you were shaking in his arms, face buried in his throat.

when you came, it was violent. your body locked up around him, hips jerking, mouth parted in a soundless cry. he felt it—every pulse of your release soaking his skin, every tremor in your belly. he held you through it like you were sacred. only then, when you were limp and whimpering, did he shift.

you whined when his cock slid into you, still fluttering from the aftershocks, body raw and soaked with want. it was too much. he was too thick, too deep, stretching you open like you hadn’t just been falling apart in his lap for the last ten minutes.

“my god,” you moaned, clinging to his shoulders, tail tangled with the flex of his own.

“i’ve got you,” he whispered, lips pressed to your temple. his hips rolled forward, sinking into you like molten heat. you sobbed because he felt endless, because he moved like he planned for you to feel every aching inch of him. “you’re so perfect for me.”

rafayel pulled back just enough to look at you, flushed and trembling and glistening, and he groaned, like just the sight of you like this was too much to bear. he kissed you, and then he continued pushing into you with agonizing slowness. inch by inch. every glide was gentle, but deep, thick, until you were gasping into his mouth like you couldn’t breathe without it. like you were choking on the stretch, on the fullness, on the way he was whispering your name between every thrust like a prayer.

he didn’t move once his cock was buried in you, not at first. just held you, let you clench around him while he murmured against your ear, voice fraying at the edges. “feel that? that's all for you. all of me, just for you.”

and gods, he was big. the press of him inside you was dizzying, already edging on too much, already making you cry out as your walls squeezed around him, helpless and breathless. his tail was still curled tight around your own, muscles flexing just enough to keep you locked in place. when he finally started to move, it was slow. punishingly slow. like he was savoring every second he got to spend inside you, every stutter of your breath, every twitch of your body. he dragged himself out just far enough to make you ache, then rocked back in deeper, groaning into your shoulder. rafayel fucked you like he had all the time in the world. like there was no end to how many times he could give you this.

rafayel rocked into you again, deeper this time. the friction was unbearable, addictive. your whole body jolted with pleasure, fin twitching where it still locked with his. he slid his hand down to the curve of your spine, pressing you down onto him so you could feel just how deep he reached.

“rafayel,” you gasped, and it shattered in the back of your throat. “more, please.”

and he obeyed. of course he did, he always would. he still moved slowly, with the same worshipful precision he always had for you. each thrust pulled a sob from your lips, made you cling tighter, cry out louder. you were unraveling, already so close, already drenched and aching from how he’d pulled you apart before. he kissed the corner of your mouth, your cheek, jaw, breathing your name between each press of his hips.

you didn’t realize you were crying until he kissed the corner of your eye and tasted salt. “too much?” he whispered. “tell me if it is. i’ll stop. i’ll—”

“no,” you breathed, voice breaking. “don’t stop. please. i need it, need you.”

something flickered in rafayel's gaze. it lit him from within, that need. that plea. his hands curled around your hips, anchoring you to him as he rocked into you again, deep, slow, unrelenting. he gave it to you again, and again, and again.

until you were panting against his chest, fingers dug into his shoulders hard enough to bruise. until you were trembling, tail wrapped so tightly with his that the pressure alone was enough to leave you whimpering.

you came the next time with a broken cry, your whole body clenching around him so tightly he swore out loud. he stilled inside you, breathing ragged, letting you ride it out. his mouth hovered just over yours, breath unsteady, forehead resting to yours as if grounding himself in your shaking. he was shaking, too, but not from restraint. it was reverence. awe. as if even now, after everything, he still couldn’t quite believe you were real.

your head dropped to his shoulder, body limp and flushed and glistening in the fading sun. and he just kept moving, slower now, almost gentle, as if he were coaxing you through some ancient rite instead of fucking you senseless in the tides.

“still with me?” rafayel whispered, voice so low it was barely a breath against your temple.

you blinked up at him, tears clinging to your lashes, lips trembling as you nodded your head. he gathered you closer, lifting you with one arm under your fin and lowered you back down onto him, slow and deep, like he was fitting the two of you together piece by piece. his hips rolled up into you again, slow and smooth, making you cry out softly as your arms wrapped tighter around his neck.

every movement was worship. each stroke hit deeper than the last, and yet rafayel moved like he didn’t want to hurt you. like he could spend eternity right here, inside you, whispering your name between kisses and coaxing wave after wave from you until you couldn’t remember your own. and when you began to tremble again, quivering from overstimulation, your voice catching in your throat, he kissed you gently, murmuring against your mouth.

“i know, i know. it’s so much, isn’t it?” his voice was honeyed, reverent. “but you’re doing so well. just a little more, love. just one more, for me.”

his hand slid between you, gentle fingers brushing where you were joined, and you shattered, crying out against his neck. your whole body convulsed with it, boneless in his arms except where you clenched around him like your soul wouldn’t let go.

rafayel groaned raggedly, like he was falling apart just from watching you fall apart. he didn’t chase his own release. not yet. he held you through yours, breathing through it with you, kissing your jaw and hairline, whispering every loving thing that came to mind.

“so beautiful,” he breathed. “my love. my pearl. i’ve missed you so much.”

you could barely speak. your head lolled against his shoulder, a little whimper escaping your lips. but your hand moved, shakily cradling the side of his face. and when he finally moved again—still slow, still aching for closeness—his rhythm stuttered almost immediately. it was too much, the way you wrapped around him like you were made for it. his hips jerked slightly, mouth pressed to your throat. he let out a soft groan as he came undone, buried inside you, clinging like if he let go you might vanish.

he stayed like that for a long, quiet moment. chests rising and falling together, tails tangled, the sea hush around them like a lullaby. only your breathing filled the air, soft and warm and shared.

[kunikags02]

━━ jealousy

a corporate retreat on a paradisiac island, the whole weekend dedicated for fun and games under the hot summer air. everything is perfect... until xavier caught you dancing with somebody else on the first night.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ pairing: xavier x female reader (afab)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ warnings: mdni, explicit sexual content, fingering, oral (m receiving), piv sex, face grabbing, jealousy (it's xavier), dirty talking, pet names (starlight, darling, bunny), cumming on mouth, gagging, sucking fingers, unprotected sex, public sex if you squint, dom!xavier, possessive!xavier,

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ word count: 3.2k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ A/N: omggg on the last count of the clock, but it's here! this is my submission for the amazing Hot Gir Summer Event hosted by the even more amazing @unintentionalseductress ! thanks for hosting <3

i have not written for xavier in a long time, so this might be a little rusty. but he does deserve the love and attention even if he's not my main, so here we are! hope you enjoy <3

ꨄ︎ mdni | 18+ only | nsfw ꨄ︎

When Xavier told you to get ready at 19h, you thought he was only going to accompany you to the luau. That was the most expected event of the corporate retreat the Hunters Association was providing for their agents this weekend, and everyone in your division was just as excited for it as you were. 

Tara hasn’t stopped talking about it ever since your team first got to the island, yesterday. “I mean, getting drunk in front of your superiors is always a little risky, granted, but it's all free, so that's not getting in my way”, she had said. You half teased her for talking about drinking at 09h30, but honestly, you could relate. So imagine your surprise when Xavier starts guiding you to the opposite way of the luau on Saturday night.

You don’t really say anything at first. Xavier had been kind of giving you the cold shoulder all weekend, so you were just happy he had even invited you to hang out. But when you see him going to the wrong side on the shore, you frown in confusion. 

As you walk, facing his back, you can’t help but remember about his glistening muscles in other contexts. You guys have been casually hooking up, which was easy, because he was your friend and you always felt comfortable with him. Although you knew you were fooling yourself into believing that your feelings haven’t gotten deeper, trying to pretend it was just because the chemistry was too good.

“Xavier, I don't think this is the right way”, you say, even if you were sure he also knew that. Xavier just kept walking, his back muscles slightly flexing with every step he took. The vision was so tempting, you can almost convince yourself you don’t care where he’s taking you. 

But the need for free alcohol was a little bit bigger than your horniness at the moment, considering that Xavier had barely spared you a glance all weekend, even when you’ve been mostly underdressed with just your two-piece, like now. So you speak up again. “Xavi, the luau’s started a little while ago already…”

Your pouty voice and the way you called him by a personal nickname seemed to make him soften a little. “I don’t care about the luau”, he murmurs, his voice slightly… strained. “Can’t you just follow me?” 

It was so unusual for Xavier to act like this that you don’t even say anything back. You just take some large steps to walk closer to him, smiling, fighting the urge to grab his bare arm. “You wanna show me a secret place? Is there another luau happening? Because if not, I would really like to go drink on someone else’s behalf…”

He says nothing until you both reach a pier, where he makes his way to a motor-boat. It was considerably smaller than a yacht, but it had a comfy, big couch on it. He steps in, murmuring a soft “come on” so you’d follow him. After helping you get in, taking your hand in his, Xavier’s gaze lingers on your form as you sit down, settling yourself. The sundown was making your hair glow, giving your very revealed body a golden touch that he couldn’t avoid seeking.

He cleans his throat, looking back to the sea while taking place in front of the wheel to get the boat moving. You watch him as he sets the course, smiling from your seat, the wind blowing your hair back. “You could’ve told me you wanted to take me for a private ride before the luau; I would’ve brought my camera to take some pictures. I bet they would all find this pretty nice later. Andrew always talks about his family’s boat-”

“Why are you so eager to go to that party?” He interrupts you, his expression annoyed as he keeps guiding the boat further into the ocean. “You used to look for excuses so you wouldn’t have to hang out with them every week, yet now, you can’t stop talking about it.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong. As much as you liked your colleagues, you usually preferred staying in your apartment, or in Xavier’s, after a long day of work, instead of doing happy hour. “There’s drinking and eating and dancing…”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fairly aware you like dancing”, he murmurs, annoyed. His tone was so uncharacteristically pouty you immediately opened your mouth to answer him, but then you closed it again, as if having a revelation. He had interrupted you when you talked about Andrew’s boat… and now he was mad about dancing…

“Xavier, are you jealous?”

You had a smirk now, a surprised, satisfied one. You couldn’t help but bite your lower lip as you analyzed the pout in his lips, the redness in his ear, how his hands gripped the wheel tighter. Your cunt immediately clenches at the thought of Xavier even caring about you enough to get jealous, especially now that you’ve been missing him so dearly for days. “You can’t… Xavi, it was one dance”, you say, ignoring the fact that you didn’t technically owe him any explanation. Ignoring the fact that, in theory, he shouldn’t care less about what you do or not do with others. 

Xavier keeps his gaze on the sea. The boat was already very far from the shore, the city lights distant little points in your view. “I was right there, too”, he murmurs, as if half-whishing you couldn’t hear him. “And yet, you went straight to him.”

For some reason, his tone made you wanna kiss the pout right off his lips, a strong urge that has been getting more and more prominent inside you. The same urge made you stutter your way into a needless apology. “I didn’t… you didn’t even talk to me when I arrived last night”, your murmur, remembering how Xavier immediately avoided your gaze when you first got into the resort’s bar, how he excused himself out, how pathetic you felt at that after carefully picking a bikini you thought he was gonna like. “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.”

He sighs, stopping the boat and turning to face you. He had that slight pout on his lips, his soft cheeks reddened, but his eyes were merciless in that familiar way that made you cunt wet your panties. He stepped closer to  you, looking down as you were sitting on the couch, the wind and the waves as your only witness. “I didn’t talk to you when you arrived”, he starts, bringing one hand to your face, the back of his fingers touching your skin as if you were made of glass, “because I had to go straight to the bathroom to deal with the problem you gave me.”

Suddenly, he grabs your jaw firmly, no longer caressing your skin, making sure your eyes were up on his as he leaned down over you. “But you know exactly what you do to me, don’t you?” He murmurs, supporting one knee on the couch, right in between your legs, his free hand sliding up your side. “You have to know. I never tried to hide it. I just tried to take care of it for long enough to be able to talk to you in public before taking you to my room.”

Your breath hitches, your cheeks blushed in between his grab as he traces his other hand up your body, to the valley of your breasts. Your shivering skin had little to do with the sea wind, and your core was already sticky against your bikini panties. “But when I came back to the bar… you were dancing with him. His hands were all over you, like I wished mine were, like only mine are supposed to be”, he murmurs, jealousy and resentment clear in his voice as he leaned even closer, his nose brushing your neck. “And you were laughing. Such a cruel sight, after what you had done to me.”

“I didn’t-” His knee against your clothed cunt made you gasp, your sentence interrupted, and you barely mind. You were out of words, anyway, his breath on your skin making you close your eyes. 

“Quiet”, he murmurs, but you couldn’t obey him even if you wanted, not when he moved his knee against you, not when his lips met your skin, not when he didn’t even undo the knots of your top, his fingers merely pushing the cloth to the side to find your perked nipples. You let out a whine, already defeated. “The only sounds I wanna hear from you are the ones you let out when I fuck you. Okay?”

He pulls back from your neck to look down at you, and you nod, confirming,  so eager you didn’t even have it in you to get embarassed on how much you wanted this. Xavier pinches you nipple in delight, and you arch your back to him, needing more. 

“So responsive”, he murmurs under his breath, leaning in to trace his lips through your jaw. He frees your face so the hand not in your breasts can open your legs for him, and he takes no time in sliding his fingers under your panties. You moan, buckling your hips against his hand, your own hands holding his shoulders tight. “So wet already. You’re a very needy thing for someone who was throwing herself on someone else last night.” 

Your only defense was a moan when his index and middle fingers stretched your already prepared hole, the moisty sound making your brain focus on only him. You throw your head back, and your arched back made it oh so easy for Xavier to capture a nipple and suck it. “Fuck, so tight”, he mumbles around your soft skin, nibbling. 

But he barely pumps his fingers inside of you, getting them out as soon as he once touches that sensitive spot. “Xavier, please-” You try to plead, but he simply groans and pushes his two used fingers inside your mouth to shut you up. You could taste yourself on your tongue, moaning around his fingers and sucking them clean.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay quiet?” He murmurs, eyes up on your pretty face, tears of frustration finding their way down your cheeks. He always thought you were the prettiest like this, surrounded by him and by him only. “You don’t have the rigt to beg.”

He pulls his cock out of its confines, already leaking out of his angry pink tip, making you salivate around his fingers, making your pussy clench. Similar to what he did to your top, he only pulls your panties to the side, aligning his member to your entrace. 

“Last night, if you had come to me”, he murmurs, the muscles of his abdomen clenching when he uses your combined slick to lubricate himself, “I would’ve been so gentle. I would eat you out, taste you slowly, stretch you open with my tongue and my fingers before taking you, like I always do. I would've told you how pretty you looked on that bikini, how perfect you look in anything, how crazy you make me.”

You moan pathetically against his fingers as he rubs his cock against your glistening folds, the sound alone making your toes curl. Your nails were leaving marks on his shoulders, but he didn’t flinch.  “But you decided to ignore me, leaving me to dread by myself all night, thinking you were like this with someone else. You don’t deserve gentle, bunny.”

He thrusts all his cock inside you at once, stretching your walls open while a pornographic moan left your mouth. It was a bit of a burn, as it always was when taking him in for the first time, but god, you fucking loved it. You loved the way your walls accomodate him, the way he groans when he  feels you, the way he looks at you as if you were the only thing that mattered and wanted you to think the same of him. 

“But you can’t be like this for anyone else, can you?” He murmurs in between ragged breathing, starting to move. Slow, but hard, taking his cock almost all out before slamming his hips against yours again. “Fuck, so tight, so wet, such a perfect little cunt. No one else can make you react like this, right?”

You wanted to answer. You wanted to reassure him, even in your position, that nothing had happened with Andrew, that nothing could ever happen with anyone that wasn’t him, but you couldn’t talk, both because of his prohibition and because you were too busy moaning around his fingers. But you didn’t have to say anything. Your eyes, the way you scratched his back as if to mark him yours, how your walls fluttered around him as if you were made for each other… that’s answer enough for him. 

He fucks you against the boat couch, merciless, but never without the care he always has when it comes to you. He eventually takes his fingers out your mouth to let you moan freely, to get your hair out of your face, to trace your lower lip with his thumb, his gestures so sweet compared to the way his tip kissed your cervix repeatedly. Your moans were so loud they echoed in the darkened sky, and you were convinced it was impossible for the people in the shore not to hear you. 

Using one hand to keep your hips stable, he passes the other one under your waist, your back arched off the couch as he pulled your chest close to his. He was hitting so deep inside you like this that you clung even more to him, your head tilted back as he traced his lips on your neck, sucking, leaving unashamed marks behind. “Fuck, bunny, you feel so good… you were made for me, pussy so perfect, all mine to fill up…” 

Your cunt was sloppy as he find that spongy spot again and again, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the air with both your moans as company. Your legs start to tremble, tellltale of your upcoming release. You didn’t know if you could even speak up to warn him, but that also wasn’t needed. He knew you better than he knew himself, your cunt fluttering in that way that made him see starts. “Coming for me already, starlight? Such a dirty girl… this was supposed to be a punishment”, he murmurs, voice ragged as he moves faster against you. 

Without being able to hold back, you come around him, moaning his name as he let out a few curses under his breath, holding you closer as he starts to move his hips more slowly. Your fingers pull on his hair, but that doesn’t stop him from tracing his lips up to yours, swallowing your moans with a loving kiss. 

“So pretty, darling, so perfect for me”, he murmurs against your mouth, your brain still too dizzy to say anything back. You wanna beg him to let you speak, beg him to not slow down, because you needed him to find his own release, too, because you needed to feel him inside of you, but he kisses you again before you can even try. 

Then he suddenly takes his cock out of you, almost making you whine in protest, but his tip was in your lips before you can try, again. As if he knew exactly what you needed.

“Open”, he murmurs, his voice half a whimper, and you take him in your mouth, sucking him for all he was worth like this if he didn’t allow you to do it with your pussy. It was better like this, actually; you couldn't go to the luau with him leaking out of you.

He had one hand keeping your hair back and the other one caressing your face when he comes, his hips buckling against your mouth, making you gag a little as his cock twitches inside your mouth. Your cunt was already needy again just at that and at the feeling of his release in your mouth.

“Jesus, you can’t be real, bunny, look at what you do to me”, he moans as you suck him clean, doing your best to take the most of him on your mouth, your hands on his thighs for support. He was always so vulnerable, so raw when he was like this, coming for you…  “So good, I’d never let anyone else have you, you’re all mine.”

When he was clean and off his high, he pulled himself out of you, his eyes down on yours, hazy, intense. His breathing wasn’t stable yet, and neither were yours, and for a second, he just caresses your face, his smell and taste on you making you go insane for him. 

His thumb catches a drop of his release that had rolled down your chin, bringing it to your bottom lip, but he uses his sensitive tip to smear it against your mouth. It was so filthy it made your cunt clench for him again, even if you had just come, and the naughty sparkle in his eyes made you realize Xavier knew that.

“Show me you took all of it”, he demands, his voice low, and he once more has you opening his mouth for him, infinitely eager to please him. After he checked you had swallowed all of him with a satisfied smirk, he leand down and kisses you, his tongue on yours calming you down and working you up at the same time, as always. 

He breaks the kiss, placing himself inside his beach shorts and kneeling in front of you on the couch to clean in between your legs with a fluffy beach towel from the boat. You keep both hands aroud his neck as he does that, unable to let go of him, fingers caressing the hair on his nape while you bask on what had just happened in silence, even if you knew you could speak now.

You weren’t sure if it was because of the caresses or because of all you two had done, but Xavier was blushing, which made you smile. “Now, I’m gonna take you back to the shore”, he murmurs, having the audacity to sound flustered as he fixed your panties and top in place, “... and you can go to the luau and dance with anyone you want while having my taste in you.”

It was clear he was doing anything he could to avoid Andrew’s name, and you can’t help but giggle at that, still a little breathless. After all he had done, now was the time he chose to feel embarssed of his jealousy, when his card were all on the table? He was silly, and that made you want to tease him. “You really want me to dance with him?”

Xavier had his hands on your thighs, and he clenches his jaw at your words, chewing on his inside cheek. His pouty expression once again makes the urge to kiss him brighten inside you, and you were almost sure you wouldn’t need to hold that back anymore from now on. “No, I don’t”, he murmurs, his eyes up on yours. 

Your smile grows, your cheeks just as blushed as his. “You know what you have to do, then”, you say, one of your hands coming to cup his cheek. His eyes were intense, and the dark sky just made them even more blue, the moonlight lightening them up. You hadn’t even realized the sun had completely disappeared in the horizon while you were here with Xavier, but that was normal; you always lost track of time when you were together. The waves of the sea remained the same, and the distant lights from the luau on the shore reminded you that this was all real.

Xavier held your hand softly against his cheek before bringing it to his lips, still on his knees in front of you. Kissing your knuckles, his other hand tighten in your thigh, as if in nervousness. “Go on a date with me”, he murmurs, his voice so pleading it made your heart clench. “And don’t dance with anyone else anymore.”

© brekkersgf 2025

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ translations and/or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites are not permitted.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ i don't have any other accounts other than this one and the ones linked in this blog (ao3 and twt/x)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ dividers by animatedglittergraphics-n-more. headers by me.

[kunikags02]

"Being appreciated." oneshot

Info : 1.1k+ word count, fluff, possible spelling mistakes, hurt/comfort, supportive Rafayel, reader feels uncomfortable with how they look, reader wears makeup.

Notes : For all my girlies that need a confidence booster right now ❤️

You come back to your apartment after a long day, sighing as you kick off your shoes and head straight towards the couch. 

Work was hard lately, keeping up with deadlines wasn’t easy and that wasn’t even the worst part. Lately, you bought yourself some new clothes and makeup as a little treat for your hard work and you were so excited at first, yet it only took a moment for your mood to sour.

You quickly learned that you didn’t know how to do makeup, you wanted to look pretty but somehow, with makeup you felt even worse. The clothes? You thought they looked nice but your coworkers kept snickering behind your back about how you looked “childish” and it hurt. Probably more than it should have. 

Just as you reached the couch, you felt that you got a new notification on your phone so you checked it out. Luckily, it was from your boyfriend, Rafayel.

“heyy cutie is your work finally over?”

“cutie??”

“miss bodyguard??”

“rude”

“if you don’t answer me soon i will start spamming you with phone calls”

“come home reddie misses you (and his owner too btw)”

Right, you forgot to tell him that your work was running late today.

Just as you were about to respond to him, Rafayel called you and you picked up right away.

“Finally! I was starting to think my miss bodyguard forgot about me again! What took you so long? I could’ve died, you know.”

“I’m so sorry Rafayel, I just had… a hard day.”

Rafayel must have heard how tired you were because his tone softened as he spoke.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just- exhausted, honestly.”

“Get some rest then, lie under a blankie and your wonderful, handsome, thoughtful boyfriend will take care of the rest!”

“... Rafayel, what are you planning?”

“I’m planning to take care of my hardworking cutie partner, duh. So you just rest there and relax, I’ll come pick you up in about ten minutes!”

And he hung up. You should have expected that he wouldn’t let go of it so easily, he always seemed to know when you were feeling especially bad and he each time made sure to do something about it, and despite all his dramatics - you loved him for it. 

So you did as he asked and laid down on the couch, scrolling on your phone as you relaxed under your blanket that he gifted you once. After a while, you heard your doorbell ringing so you went to open the door. There he was, your boyfriend, in his usual white shirt that’s somehow not paint stained yet.

The two of you drove in his car, heading right towards Rafayel studio and his home. The drive there was pretty silent, mostly because you were too tired to really answer. It only took a short while to reach his place, as you got out of the car after Rafayel opened the door for you, you noticed that he was carrying a plastic bag full of something.

“What’s this?” You asked as you pointed at the bag when the both of you entered his home.

“Some snacks, food and other necessary things to cheer my cutie up. I got them on the way to pick you up.”

You felt your eyes tear up at that, he was always so thoughtful, always so gentle with you. 

“Aww, you didn’t have to do that-”

“Yeah I had to, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t try to make my lovely partner feel better? Now come on, lie down on the couch for me.” Rafayel said smoothly as he approached you and you did as he asked.

When he came over, he sat next to you and gently guided your head to his lap and wow, did it feel comfortable. You could honestly fall asleep right there because of how soft and warm he was. But then it got even better as he started to brush your hair with his fingers.

“Now tell me what sits in that pretty head of yours. I’ll listen to everything.” He said with a gentle voice.

And you did just that. You told him about what happened the last view days, about how hard the missions were, how much you missed him.

“Hold up- repeat that for me cutie, they said what now?”

“They said that I looked childish… and I don’t know why it hurt so much but it did. I was really excited for this, I thought I would look good and maybe I would like myself a little more but I just feel even worse now.” You cried out softly as you talked to him. You would feel bad for crying but at this point you knew that Rafayel doesn’t mind it if you are emotional with him.

“That’s nonsense, don’t listen to them. There is nothing wrong with wearing different clothes, they just don’t understand that not everyone likes the same fashion. I bet they are just jealous. In fact, I think that your clothes look very nice on you and you should wear them more often, and my opinion is valid since I know what’s pretty as an artist!”

Despite your tears, you managed to laugh a little at the determined way your boyfriend was trying to cheer you up. Rafayel always got like that when he disagreed with something, but it meant he cared.

“But.. What if they are right? I can’t do my makeup, it looks ugly and I don’t see anyone else wearing similar clothes.” You asked as you sat up a little to look at him properly, tears still running down your cheeks.

“Nuh uh, I won’t hear that from you. Just because others don’t wear it doesn’t mean it’s not valid, it just makes you more extraordinary for being brave enough to be special.” He said as his hand gently touched your cheek before he softly caressed it with his thumb.

“And the makeup? Well, I think you look good with and without it but if you are unhappy, I can teach you a thing or two.”

“You know how to do makeup?”

“Of course I do, it’s not much different from painting. If I can paint an entire sky, then I can do eyeliner too. Cheer up cutie, I don’t like the way tears look on you.”

Rafayel gently guided you to a hug then and you embraced him. He let you cry in his arms for a little longer before eventually he pulled out some snacks, got you a change of clothes and the rest of the day was mostly a mess of food, talking, trying makeup and watching movies with him before you fell asleep in his arms.

Happy, safe, comfortable and appreciated for who you were, and you wouldn’t trade this for the world.

[kunikags02]

Lads boys when you cry.

Info : 1,5k+ word count (around 350+ per part), fluff, hurt/comfort, possible grammar mistakes.

Notes : I took bits of inspo from their in game interactions and some of them were so cute! I don't listen to other boys since I'm a Rafayel main but awh Sylus was a cutie in Tete-a-tete ^^

Rafayel

You entered Rafayel's home just as he worked on another painting. You felt bad for disturbing his work, no matter how many times he said that you are more important it still made you feel bad, but you needed him now. Tears slowly slid down your cheeks as your lip trembled when the small, water beads shining like pears eventually hit the ground.

No words were needed, your boyfriend stopped painting for a moment and you saw his expression change to concern before he looked at you, as if he already knew what was going on in your head without needing to ask you.

“Cutie? What’s wrong?” He asked, the usual playful smile gone from his face.

He got down from his chair and opened his arms right as you ran up to hug him, now sobbing into his soft cardigan.

“I’m here, it’s okay… Nothing can hurt you now, not with me here.” Rafayel gently whispered into your ear as his hands wrapped around you, one hand on your back and the other gently holding your head as you cried into his shoulder. 

The two of you stood like that for a moment. No words of judgement, no fussing, just deep understanding and comfort. Soft, honey sweet words came from your boyfriend in waves as the lemurian did his best to reassure you, to cease that growing pressure in your body and upsetting thoughts flooding your brain.

After a while, you calmed down, the feelings that pressed onto your heart going away bit by bit. Rafayel looked you in the eyes as you lifted your head up, he had a gentle smile on his face.

“There there, all better now. You don’t need to tell me anything if you don’t want to, but I’m always here to listen, no matter if you are sad or happy, remember that, alright?.” He spoke as he wiped away the rest of tears from your cheeks as he caressed them.

“Now, what does my wonderful partner need? We can cuddle on the couch under a blanket, throw on a movie and order some takeout, or I can make us a nice, relaxing bath. We can do whatever you wish.”

Zayne

The apartment never felt smaller.

Oh how you wish you would feel better now, but you learned long ago that your mind mistakes a simple error for a reason to cry as if something horrible happened. So now, there you were, crying on your couch for who knows how long at this point. You felt hot, burning almost, and it was unbearable but at the same time you craved the warmth of someone familiar as the pitiful sounds flooded the room.

You didn’t even hear the sounds of keys opening the doors.

Zayne was just returning from his shift at the hospital, it ended early today and so he made his way back home after a quick visit to the local bakery, but the sounds immediately made him feel uneasy. He put down his keys and in what seemed like a second he was next to you.

“I’m here. Try to do deep breaths for me.” He said softly as he approached you, his voice quiet to not startle you.

You opened your eyes slightly, Zayne looked composed but he stared at you as if you were the most precious patient to him. Before you could stop yourself, you were already in his arms.

“It’s okay, focus on my voice. Deep breaths honey.” His voice instructed you and you found yourself following without thinking, slowly breathing in and breathing out as he guided you. 

The entire time you didn’t leave his arms. He pressed close to you, resting your head on his chest to help your breathing sync with his. Zayne didn’t ask what was wrong, he didn’t ask why you were home right now and he didn’t pressure you into answering anything, all he cared about is making sure you were safe at the moment, and you were, because he was right there. 

After a while, your breathing was more even and the tears less frequent. The both of you sat quietly now, though Zayne didn’t separate himself from you, letting you cry even if you were more stable now. The warmth of him by your side was a nice contrast to the natural cold of his hands that were working through the knots in your hair.

“Do you feel better now? I bought a new tea last week. It can help to relax one's mind, I can brew it for you if you like, I also got some new pastries to try. But for now, let’s stay like this a little longer, I’m not going anywhere.”

Xavier

This work day was just not for you. Everything seemed to fall apart but you did your best to not show it. 

The faint clicking of a computer keyboard kept the room filled with noise, but your head was louder. You didn’t remember opening your email, you didn’t think about what you were typing, it was just automatic at this point as you also went through the motions in your head. The same thing over and over again, you tried to distract yourself, think about something else, focus on something happening in the future but it always failed and made you even more shaken. Your fingers started trembling over the keyboard, tears slowly escaping your eyes as you hoped none of your coworkers would notice.

But he did.

One moment you were typing a mission report to Jenna, next you were in Xavier's arms in the break room. How? You didn’t know, and you honestly didn’t care.

“... Do you need something? Water? Food? Just let me know and I’ll get it for you.” He asked, his voice calm and focused like during missions but his body felt soft against yours as he looked into your eyes.

You managed to shake your head and nuzzle closer to him. You could feel the systematic way his hands ran over your back in order to reassure you. 

“I opened the window for you. Can you hear that? The birds chirping, the sounds of cars outside, the stray cat we sometimes pass by on our way to work? Listen to the surroundings and relax.”

Your boyfriend was worried, you knew that, you could tell by the way he did his best to figure out ways to distract you. Even though you didn’t have much faith in his method, you decided to try and do it as he asked and listened to what was happening outside. Soon enough, the sounds of nature and Linkons busy streets as well as the affection of your boyfriend made you calm down.

“Take your time and rest. Work will still be there tomorrow, it’s okay to focus on yourself and I’ll be there with you every step of the way.” Xavier said as he noticed you feeling better now, though he still didn’t let you go from the hold of his arms.

Sylus

Often you found yourself crying, a sudden flood of tears would come from your eyes. This growing pit formed in your heart in an instant but you never had with whom to share your pain. But that changed, now you have him - Sylus, the leader of N109 zone but also your wonderful boyfriend.

That’s why you arrived at his doorstep, already coming in since you had the keys and the twins didn’t try to stop you once they saw the state you were in. You weren’t exactly sure where you should go, he could be anywhere, he was a busy man after all but you had a feeling that he would be right where he always seemed to wait whenever something happened in your life.

Opening the doors to his bedroom, you saw him sitting on the bed, already changed into his bathrobe, a bunch of plushies on the bed and some food prepared on the table.

“Why hello sweetie. A little birdie told me that a certain hunter was in a particularly awful mood today, so I waited prepared.” Sylus said in his usual smooth, confident tone as he opened his arms to you.

You didn’t waste time and placed yourself in his arms, crying out into him as he toyed with your hair and held you tight. With him, you never felt like you had to suck up your feelings and play being somebody else, everything just came together, he always took care of you no matter what.

“Everything is alright now, you're safe, you can let everything out.” Sylus spoke softly as you clinged onto his bathrobe and sobbed. So many feelings were running through your head yet this never bothered him, he always welcomed you with open arms even if you felt bad.

The both of you stayed that way, he didn’t rush you, just offered words of comfort from time to time. Slowly but surely, you felt the ugly feeling in your mind pass and your eyelashes were no longer wet from tears.

“You can relax, I already took care of everything. There is food, drinks and essential oils. I know that you are strong but it’s okay to rely on me, I want to be your anchor.”