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laddelulu30 · 4 months ago

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@unintentionalseductress @jinwoosbabyboo @minaaa444 @aeyumicore @uyai1101-lads

You'll thank me for blessing your eyes, lovelies. (blows air kisses) Sorry not sorry.

Sending Zayne frisky pictures during work hours

Meeting him that night in a suggestive attire

Teasing him till he breaks

= no walking for atleast a day

And, I, thank you

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒

— 𝒁𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆

𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐃 the day with monastic precision—06:00 for procedures, 09:30 for lab analysis, 13:00 for final reports. The same sequence, adhered to without deviation, like liturgy. It gave shape to the silence. It excused his isolation. There was comfort in that—though he would never call it comfort aloud. It was discipline. Sterile gloves. Bloodied instruments scoured of memory. Silence. Always, silence.

And yet—

The message arrived precisely when the world was still.

He had just closed a file. His left hand lay quiet at the desk’s edge; a pen balanced between two fingers with surgical stillness. Then—vibration. A small sound, almost apologetic. Not urgent.

Her name.

That was all. A notification. A message. Nothing unusual. It might’ve been a follow-up question. A misplaced decimal. A joke. She had a way of doing that—disarming him, sliding into his thoughts with a kind of blithe intimacy, as if she had always belonged there.

He picked up the phone.

And at once, his breath faltered.

The image was not explicit. No, that was precisely the horror of it. Had it been vulgar, obscene—something he could discard with the sterile detachment of a surgeon—he would’ve felt nothing. But this? This was intentional. It was artful. A composition.

Her robe, half-fallen. Black lace visible beneath. Fingers at the knot. Lips parted. No face, not fully—but the mouth was enough. The expression there unmoored him more than any nudity could have.

He locked the phone. Too fast. As if caught. But there was no one. Only the hum of fluorescents and the sudden, suffocating thickness of air.

For a moment, he stood there—utterly still.

The pen had fallen. He hadn’t noticed. It lay near his foot like a desecrated instrument—dropped in a surgical theater, now unclean, now unworthy.

He peeled off his gloves and turned to the sink.

He did not need to wash his hands.

But he did.

Habit, he told himself. Reflex. Precision.

Lies.

The water ran for sixty-four seconds. He counted each one. Numbers steadied him, sometimes. The cold helped more. It shocked the system, drove the blood inward. His hands moved methodically—palms, backs, between the fingers, under the nails, up to the wrists—until the skin grew tight and flushed and borderline raw.

Still, she remained.

Not the image—he had closed the phone. But something in her lingered. Not in the eyes, but behind them. Not on the screen, but beneath his skin. She had entered him like a fever: slow, elegant, unannounced.

That robe. That fabric. That implication. That invitation.

A performance, yes. It had to be. Calculated.

And yet it felt—punitive.

As if he were being punished for something he had not yet admitted wanting.

He returned to his desk, sat, and stared at nothing.

Time passed. Minutes, maybe more. The edges of the room grew porous.

He imagined her wherever she was—still warm from taking the photograph. Did she check to see when he’d opened it? Did she wait? Did she wonder if he would reply? Did she hope?

He unlocked the phone.

Once. Just once, to confirm. To verify that he hadn’t hallucinated the severity of it.

It was worse.

He did not move.

He did not speak.

He did not touch himself.

But he was drowning in her.

It wasn’t lust—not merely. No, lust would have been easier. Familiar. Physiological. But this… this was sacrament spoiled. A reverence that strangled, holy and profane. The kind that ruins men—not with sin, but with devotion.

Zayne did not believe in possession. Not in the romantic sense. People were not things. Emotions were not facts. Love was a biochemical distortion. Lust, a reflexive betrayal of reason. He had built his mind like a fortress atop these principles—brick by brick, evidence by evidence. Rationality. Discipline. Observable data.

And yet—

The thought of another man seeing her like this—her robe falling open line scripture undone, her mouth slack with suggestion—sickened him. Not out of jealousy. No. That would imply entitlement. He knew she wasn’t his.

But it would be… wasteful.

A desecration.

A crime against something he did not yet have language for.

She was—

No.

He could not name what she was to him.

He feared what it would mean if he could.

He stood abruptly. The chair shrieked against the tile. The sound was too loud, too human. He paced. Once. Twice. The door loomed, a threshold he could not justify crossing. Where would he go? Where could he possibly leave her behind?

She was inside him now.

And burning.

Another message arrived.

He did not move.

The screen glowed in the periphery, a silent commandment. He knew what it was. Knew it would not save him. Still, the light held a gravity—like confession. Like damnation.

He could ignore it. Pretend. Resume the script of the man he was before.

Instead, he tapped the screen.

And exhaled through clenched teeth.

She was standing now. Or half-standing—angled toward a mirror. The robe was gone. In its place, red lace clung to her hips like capillaries, veins blooming over skin. Her back arched just so, her head tilted. And on her shoulder—something blurred. A smear. Lipstick. Or a bite.

He gripped the counter’s edge until his knuckles paled.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t even want.

It was reverence—terrible and holy. The kind of reverence that destroys. The kind that drips from Psalms and The Book of Job. The kind that made desert prophets wail beneath the stars and tear their garments in the face of God.

She had become an altar. And he—her heretic.

The thought struck him not with awe, but with shame.

Because he had known. He had always known. From the moment she first crossed the sterile threshold of his lab—unannounced, unafraid—something had shifted in him. Something tectonic. She was not simply beautiful. She was consecrated—and he had let her linger too long in the corridors of his restraint.

Now her image had become scripture.

And he was no longer a scientist, but a man unraveling at the feet of his own hypocrisy.

His fingers hovered above the keys.

A message bloomed in his mind:

My office. 8PM.

Simple. Clinical. Commanding.

But it rang like blasphemy in the stillness. To write it would be to cross a line—one he had drawn in blood and vowed never to breach. Not out of cowardice, but devotion. The kind of twisted, reverent denial that made monks tremble in their cells. The kind that gnawed holes into the soul.

No.

He could not write it.

To speak desire was to own it. To own it was to name it.

And once named, it would not be contained.

So instead—

He turned the phone over, face-down, as if shunning an idol.

He stood, methodically. Walked to the sink.

And washed his hands. Again.

Not for cleanliness.

Not even for control.

But because the ritual was the only thing left of him that still obeyed.

He loathed the warmth in his palms.

The water had long since cooled, yet still he scrubbed them together beneath the faucet, as if friction might cauterize the part of him that had responded—eagerly, hungrily, stupidly—to the sight of her. It wasn’t shame, not exactly. It was something darker. A recognition of sickness, as though desire itself were contamination and he’d breached his own sterile protocol.

He shut off the water, but lingered. Staring. As if the faucet might offer judgment. Or absolution.

Then the towel. Too rough. Too violent. He dried his hands with the force of a man punishing himself, and the fabric tore slightly at the edge. His grip again. Excessive. Undisciplined. He discarded it into the bin and returned to his desk, each step clipped with the weight of self-reproach.

The phone remained face-down. The screen black. Like an eye deliberately shut against sin.

He wouldn’t check it again.

He wouldn’t.

A knock broke the silence.

Zayne didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

The door opened, uninvited—as it always did when Elias was involved.

“Still here?” Elias stepped inside, balancing two files in one hand, a tablet in the other. His tone was light, unaware. “Not even a coffee break. Do you ever stop?”

Zayne said nothing. Not out of cruelty—though it might have seemed that way—but because speaking required breath. And breath might summon scent. And scent might bring her back. He was convinced her perfume still haunted the air, like a spirit refusing exorcism.

“Right,” Elias muttered, unbothered. “I’ll make it quick.”

He crossed the room and laid the files on the desk. Zayne didn’t look at them. Couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on the phone—face-down, inert, yet radiating like an unholy relic.

It wasn’t a device anymore. It was a presence.

Not mechanical.

Not digital.

Something worse.

Organic.

Pulsing with implication.

“So,” Elias tried again, undeterred. “You doing anything tonight?”

A dozen answers flared in Zayne’s mind. All of them inappropriate. All of them true.

I’m planning to self-destruct. I’m planning to dissolve twenty years of control in the wake of a photograph. I’m planning to abandon the man I was for the promise of something I shouldn’t even want.

Instead, he rasped, “No.”

Even that single syllable felt like betrayal—spoken past a throat tight with disuse.

Elias looked at him more closely. “You okay?”

Zayne looked up.

Mistake.

Because at that precise moment, the phone vibrated again.

A brief pause. Short. Surgical. Inescapable.

He didn’t need to turn it over.

He knew.

“Another emergency?” Elias asked, half-laughing.

Zayne’s voice barely made it out. “No.”

“Well,” Elias exhaled, missing the weight entirely, “some of us are heading out later. You should come. You’ve looked like death all week.”

Zayne inhaled. Slow. Controlled. “I prefer solitude.”

“Yeah. Clearly.”

And then Elias was gone.

The door closed behind him, swinging like the last breath of something dying.

He did not move.

He let the silence settle again—let it congeal around him like a second skin, one that no longer fit. His hands remained still, his spine locked, but inside, everything was spiraling. Decay disguised as discipline. Reverence masquerading as restraint.

Then, slowly—inevitably—he reached for the phone.

Face-up now.

The light struck him like judgment.

He opened it.

And what stared back was not cruelty.

It was not vulgarity.

It was revelation.

She was lying down this time. Somewhere soft. Somewhere unseen. Her hair unbound—he’d never seen it like that before—and it spilled across the frame like silk undone. Light caressed her in places no light had the right to touch. Her thighs. Her stomach. Her breasts—bare now, the lace pushed aside, forgotten.

Her fingers rested between her legs.

Not crude.

Not obscene.

Intentional.

It was art. In its way. But it was also more.

A confession.

A provocation.

A dare and a liturgy all at once.

Something twisted in his chest.

Not a flutter. Not arousal. No—something deeper. A contraction. As if guilt had a physical shape and it had begun to devour him from within.

There was no longer space for denial.

This was not an accident.

Not a flirtation.

Not innocence.

It was orchestration.

She wanted him undone.

And what horrified him most—what sank teeth into the hollow of his stomach and turned slowly, like a ritual blade—was that a part of him wanted her to succeed.

He closed the image.

Then opened it again.

Longer, this time.

He told himself it was analysis. Confirmation. A study of composition.

He lied.

He knew better.

He could hear his own voice—cold, clinical, merciless—echoing in the recesses of his mind:

This is beneath you. You are not ruled by this.

But the image remained. And with it came memories he had not consciously summoned—like blood seeping through a gauze dressing long believed secure.

The pitch of her voice when she said his name—always softer than it should have been. The peculiar weight of her gaze when it lingered too long on his hands. And the smallest thing—the one that undid him the most—was that she always remembered. Every word. Every insignificant thing he’d ever said to her.

No one did that.

Not with him.

Zayne stood.

His entire body felt wrong.

The blood in his veins moved too fast.

His spine was too rigid, his breath too shallow—as if he had been occupying this form without permission and it had finally begun to reject him.

He paced. Not for relief. Not for order.

He didn’t count the steps this time.

There was nothing left to measure.

The lab behind the glass wall glowed with quiet sterility—unchanged, untouched—but it might as well have been another planet. He was no longer part of that world. That man. That silence.

He had crossed a threshold. A sacred line now blurred by heat.

He’d exiled himself the moment he opened the second message.

He could message her now.

He could summon her—

with a line, a time, a place.

He could lock the door behind her, speak in absolutes, claim her as if desire were proof enough.

He could pretend this descent was deliberate.

But he didn’t.

Because doing it would make it real.

Would transform the ache into action, the want into history.

And if it became real, then there would be no undoing.

No unseeing.

No forgetting.

No return to the cold safety of indifference.

Zayne—rational, clinical Zayne—had always relied on the possibility of erasure.

So instead, he sat.

And let the image devour him in silence.

Not as indulgence.

Not as pleasure.

But as punishment.

He stood. Then sat again. Then rose—

as though his own body had grown foreign, ungovernable.

As though stillness itself had turned against him.

The chair groaned in protest. He ignored it.

Paced the narrow span of the office like a prisoner retracing the same four steps—except this cell had no bars, only thoughts. No guards, only the self. And he, the most merciless warden of all.

Once.

Twice.

His fingers grazed the edge of a bookshelf, paused briefly at a drawer handle, then moved on. He was not touching objects—he was testing the world, searching for weight. But everything felt distant. Unmoored. Functionless.

Even the room seemed altered now.

As though someone had shifted it in his absence.

Not visibly—no. But fundamentally.

As if the space itself had turned on him in some slight, cruel way he couldn’t name.

He crossed to the window.

Of course there was no view. Just the sterile corridor beyond the reinforced glass-fluorescent lighting, shadows that moved like ghosts of routine. Reflections. Echoes. His own outline, faint and pale, stared back at him with too much knowing in the eyes.

His mouth was set in that same neutral line he wore before patients, before colleagues—impassive, unreadable. But his eyes….

He turned away.

He could not bear the sight of himself.

He opened a file on the desk. Reflexive. A patient’s chart—nothing urgent. He scanned the text, sought solace in numbers, margins, diagnosis. He had annotated it earlier that day. His own handwriting blinked back at him, unfamiliar.

But the figures lost their shape. The characters bled.

She returned—not in the data, but behind it. Beneath it. Her form slid between the lines, her legs replaced vital signs, the slope of her neck inserted itself into white space. Even the ink seemed to carry the impression of her skin.

He shut the folder. Too fast. Too violently.

The paper crinkled under the force of it.

He exhaled—slowly, deliberately—like a man attempting to bleed poison from his lungs.

It’s just arousal, said the rational voice in him.

The physician. The empiricist.

But it wasn’t.

It was longing, and it had metastasized. Not into want, but into need.

Not for her body—at least, not only—but for her presence. Her attention. Her voice when it dipped in pitch. Her gaze when it lingered too long.

Absurd.

Undignified.

Unacceptable.

And yet, undeniable.

He no longer craved her skin. He craved her awareness—the way she remembered things he said that even he had forgotten. The way she looked at him as if he were still human, not just useful.

It was not attraction. It was not obsession.

It was the beginning of a disease.

He sat again.

Not from fatigue—he was far past the luxury of tiredness—but because there was nowhere left to stand that didn’t feel exposed. The room no longer accepted him. It watched him now, complicit and unkind.

His hands moved to his tie. Without thinking. The knot loosened slowly, reluctantly, as if its unraveling might relieve the pressure beneath his sternum. The air hit his throat sharp, medicinal—too cold.

He glanced at the clock.

No—not the clock.

The phone.

It hadn’t buzzed again. Not once.

That should have brought relief.

Instead, it felt like absence—raw and echoing.

Like a presence withdrawn.

A silence that accused.

Had she grown bored of the game?

Had she sent that last image, and then—simply moved on? Gone back to her life? Her evening? Her mirror?

Was someone else seeing her like that now?

The thought struck him like a blunt instrument—no blood, just bruising.

A slow, spreading sickness in the chest.

He nearly stood again.

Instead, he forced himself down, fingers digging into the armrest like anchors.

It didn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it did.

He stared at the device.

Daring it to light up.

Dreading what would happen if it did.

Time no longer moved in sequence. It expanded. Warped.

He could not tell whether minutes or hours had passed.

It might still be afternoon.

It might be near midnight.

The light in the office was always the same—artificial, unfeeling.

So was the air.

So was the silence.

So was he—

or had been, until today.

He let his head fall back against the chair.

The ceiling stared down—blank, uncaring, the color of anesthesia. He could have been anywhere. In a morgue. In a chapel. Inside a dream.

The moment stretched.

Not a pause, but a void.

Then, unbidden, he remembered Elias. The offer. The bar.

Zayne rarely drank. Two, maybe three times a year. Alcohol dulled his thinking, made his mind heavy. Sluggish. But tonight—

Tonight he already felt impaired.

Hollowed. Humming with something he didn’t know how to hold.

And there was logic—cold, brutal logic—in sedating a wound before it turned septic.

The thought arrived like a prescription:

Leave the building.

Say yes.

Sit in a room full of noise and let other people’s voices drown out the one in your head.

He wouldn’t have to speak.

Only listen.

Only forget.

ANd if he drank—just enough—maybe he would sleep.

And maybe—if sleep took pity—

he wouldn’t dream of her.

He leaned forward.

Elbows on knees.

Eyes locked on the phone.

It didn’t ring.

It didn’t buzz.

It didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The stillness returned—but it no longer soothed.

It had calcified into something hostile. A vacuum that amplified the smallest things: the tick of his own pulse in his throat, the electrical hum threading through the walls, the dryness crawling across his tongue like dust.

And beneath it all—her.

Not the image.

Not anymore.

She had transcended the screen.

What she had sent him was not a photograph. It was a threshold.

And he had crossed it—

unwilling,

uninvited,

but entirely unable to look away.

He imagined her fingers parting the lace—

but not for a camera.

For him.

No performance. No angle curated for effect.

Just her. Unedited. At ease in her ruinous power.

The kind of intimacy that didn’t demand witness, only presence. A gesture not made to provoke, but because it felt good to do so. As if she were bored with subtlety now—done with the elegance of implication.

He saw her look at him through lowered lashes, amusement curled at the corner of her mouth. A soft laugh—not unkind—when his hands hovered, reverent, just short of contact.

Not posed.

Not choreographed—

just lazy, instinctual, indulgent.

He would touch her—

God, he would—but not in desperation.

In detail.

His hands would move like confession, slow and deliberate.

He would begin at her wrist, press his mouth there first—as if to repent.

Then upward.

Each inch of her arm a gospel to be read in flesh.

His fingers would find the fragile architecture of her hips, splay there with measured reverence. No grabbing. No claiming.

Only worship.

His thumb would brush that place where skin turned—

softest,

warmest.

The point of surrender. The place where breathing changed.

He would ask her—quietly, without accusation—

if she knew what she had done to him.

And when she smiled, he would kiss her like punishment.

Not violently.

Not cruelly.

But with a kind of relentless devotion—

the kind that pressed too long, too deep,

Until even pleasure began to ache.

Until reverence became unbearable.

He wanted her trembling.

Not from fear, but from restraint.

From the exquisite pain of being denied what she already ached to receive.

He wanted to make her wait.

Make her feel the weight of what she’d done.

Not because he was cruel.

But because she had undone him first.

ANd fairness had to mean something.

His mind betrayed him further.

He saw her mouth open against his neck, felt the pause—the sacred, breathless space before sound escaped her throat.

Her body tensed beneath his—not in resistance, but in surrender.

A tightening that begged for release.

That told him she trusted him enough to break.

And in the moment before he gave in—

before he pushed into her with all the ruin she had earned—

he would say something he hadn’t said aloud in years.

Not an endearment.

Not a promise.

Just her name.

Only her name.

His hands curled around the armrests.

He hadn’t realized how hard he was gripping until the fabric groaned beneath his fingers—tense, strained, as though the chair itself were trying to resist him.

He wanted to bury himself in her.

To forget who he had been before she touched him—without touching him at all.

He wanted to erase the space between their bodies until there was nothing left to deny.

His eyes burned.

And then—without warning—he stood.

Violently. Absolutely.

Both palms slammed down on the desk, a thunderclap in the quiet.

The sound ricocheted off the walls, louder than any alarm.

His breath was ragged.

His posture undone.

His tie hung half-loosened at his chest like a mark of defeat.

He couldn’t stay here.

He needed to move.

To leave the room, the building, himself.

He reached for his coat. The fabric felt foreign—cold, stiff.

He dragged it over his shoulders with frantic urgency, the sleeves bunching, resisting. He yanked them straight, uncaring. Next came the scarf—creased, tangled, irrelevant.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing fit right.

Nothing softened the pressure building beneath his ribs.

He just needed barriers.

Cloth. Movement.

Distance.

Anything to armor himself against this heat that wasn’t physical.

He crossed the room in long, agitated strides, shoulders hunched like a man pursued.

His reflection caught him in the window—

briefly.

Enough.

Pale. Hollow-eyed.

Mouth clenching against something unspeakable.

He looked away.

The door opened with a shove, hard enough to echo.

The hallway outside was too bright—obscenely bright. The kind of light that revealed things best left bruised.

He walked anyway.

The elevator waited at the end of the corridor.

It’s light glowed steady above the closed door—silent, expectant.

It looked like a mouth. A mechanical throat ready to swallow.

Maybe that was what he wanted.

To disappear into motion.

To be pressed between strangers, noise, anything.

To be drowned in the anonymity of other bodies.

To forget the shape of her skin and the sound he imagined she would make when—

No.

He pressed the call button harder than necessary.

The panel lit. The gears behind the wall groaned to life.

And Zayne stood there—

breathing like a man who’d just escaped a burning room.

The elevator didn’t come.

He stood motionless beneath its steady, indifferent light, jaw clenched, breath caught somewhere between chest and throat. He didn’t press the button again—what would be the point? Even that motion felt laughable now. As if action could atone for thought. As if descending one floor might deliver him from himself.

The air was wrong. Too clean. Too still.

Every breath scraped against the back of his throat, as though filtered through gauze. The corridor hummed faintly with electricity—but beneath it, something else vibrated. Something internal.

A low, gnawing heat.

He felt it beneath his collar. In the hollows of his palms.

Between his legs, where logic had lost jurisdiction.

He hadn’t looked at the phone again. He didn’t have to.

The image was fused to memory now—a neurological brand.

Her bare body reclined, so deliberately unaware of mercy.

He hissed between his teeth—sharp, involuntary.

Then turned.

Slammed a palm against the wall.

Leaned into it, hard enough to jar his shoulder.

It didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

He tried to count his breath, tried to impose rhythm, control—but it wasn’t breath anymore.

It was need.

It was humiliation.

It was rage masquerading as restraint.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, a breathless sneer. “You’ve dissected neural tissue under pressure, and this is what ruins you?”

The words came like vomit.

Bitter, involuntary.

They sickened him.

His forehead pressed against the cold plaster.

He could feel his pulse in his temple—erratic, defiant.

As if his own body had tried of obedience and now moved on its own terms.

The world narrowed into raw sensation:

the dampness gathering at the nape of his neck,

the sting coiled behind his eyes,

the bite of clenched teeth barely holding back—

what?

A cry? A confession? A fall?

He wanted to rip her from his mind.

Not because he hated her.

Because he didn’t.

He wanted her in ways that had no language.

No anatomy.

No cure.

There was no clinical explanation for this kind of ache.

No scan that could chart it.

No sedative strong enough to blunt it.

And the thought—

God, the knowledge—

that she wanted him too?

It didn’t thrill him.

It hollowed him.

He swallowed the sound rising in his throat. It hovered between a groan and a prayer.

She had sent herself to him in pieces—image by image, suggestion by suggestion—until her presence no longer lived in photographs, but inside him.

She was no longer a thought.

She was a condition.

A fever.

A state of being.

He didn’t know where she ended and he began anymore.

He shut his eyes.

Then—

a sound behind him.

Soft. Measured. Clicking.

He froze.

No.

No. No, not now. Not like this—

The sound came again.

Deliberate. Rhythmic.

Heels.

Each step unhurried.

Not mechanical, not rushed.

Intimate.

The air thickened. Grew heavy, as if sound itself displaced the oxygen.

He didn’t turn.

He couldn’t.

Not yet.

The steps drew closer.

One.

Then another.

Measured like a ritual.

Unhurried as a heartbeat beneath silk.

His body locked.

Every muscle drawn tight, every breath withheld like it might break him.

Spine rigid, hands still planted against the wall.

Was he hallucinating?

Had his mind—already scorched, already unraveling—finally abandoned logic?

No.

He turned.

And the world ended, gently.

She walked toward him with the kind of composure that made madness seem holy.

A trench coat belted at the waist. Loose.

The fabric moved with her—fluid, sinless, damning.

From the slit at its side, her leg emerged, then disappeared again.

A rhythm that mocked modesty.

her skin glowed under the corridor’s sterile light.

Her expression—

unreadable.

His hands fell to his sides.

The floor tilted beneath him—

or maybe it was just his blood abandoning reason.

The air thinned. Gravity stuttered.

He couldn’t look away.

Not from the way her hips moved—graceful, damning.

Not from the place where the coat parted with every step, revealing flash after flash of skin like a secret told in stutters.

Not from her eyes—

that unbearable alchemy of innocence and audacity.

As if she had always known.

That he would come undone the moment he saw her.

That she had planned for it.

Her hips swayed.

The coat parted.

Her eyes held him there.

His knees almost gave.

Not in some romantic, tragic metaphor.

In truth.

His body faltered under the weight of her—

not her form, but her knowing.

The way she moved with intention. The way she looked at him like he was already hers.

Like she could take him apart without ever touching him.

He kept himself upright through force alone—

jaw locked, breath dragged through nose like discipline could save him.

Like a man seconds from collapse.

A sound escaped him.

Raw.

Involuntary.

Low in his throat—closer to a groan than a word.

Almost a prayer.

Almost a moan.

He didn’t even care.

He didn’t know what he was anymore.

Not a doctor.

Not a scientist.

Not the man who once measured everything in proof and principle.

Just a man—

bare, wordless, trembling—

reduced to one silent, devastating plea:

Touch me.

Let me touch you.

Just once.

Let me worship what I was never allowed to want.

But he said nothing.

Because nothing he could offer—no word, no gesture—

would be equal to this.

So he stood.

Trembling.

Waiting.

As she moved—unhurried, unstoppable—

toward the point of no return.

She drew nearer.

He wanted to speak. Truly, he did.

A protest. A warning. A plea.

Anything to wedge between this moment and its consequence.

But the words—so many, urgent and inexact—clotted in his throat like stones.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came.

Only air.

Thin. Unsatisfying.

His hand moved.

Just a tremor at first. A small, shameful spasm near the wrist.

But it betrayed him more than any cry could have.

A man in control didn’t shake.

A man in control didn’t falter.

Her gaze caught it instantly.

Of course it did.

She stopped just in front of him.

Close.

But not touching.

No—never that. She didn’t need to.

Proximity was its own form of possession.

She looked up at him—unapologetic, unhurried.

Her eyes held no urgency. No shame.

There wasn’t even cruelty in her expression.

It was almost passive.

Almost.

But at the corner of her mouth, something shifted—

a shadow of amusement, subtle as breath.

Not mocking.

Not cold.

Something gentler.

More maddening.

She was enjoying this.

Not sadistically. Not with malice.

But with the patience of someone who understood exactly how men broke—and had chosen, gently, not to intervene.

She watched him come undone like one watches a fever run its course—not willing it, but allowing it.

Knowing it would break something.

But not caring what.

Zayne swallowed. Loudly.

It felt like dragging gravel through his throat.

His fingers twitched again. Both hands this time.

He wanted—

God, what did he want?

To drag her against him?

To fall to his knees?

To beg her to leave before he did something he could never take back?

His heart pounded—not fast, but hard.

Each beat landed like a drum struck by purpose.

War drums. Warning signs.

His vision blurred—not from heat or emotion, but from the sheer overload of sensation.

And still—

she said nothing.

That silence—hers—was unbearable.

Because it was full of knowledge.

She knew.

She knew what she’d done to him.

And worse—she knew he wouldn’t stop her.

The scent of her—warmth, skin, faint perfume—reached him like an affliction.

Subtle. Precise. Unrelenting.

It slipped into his lungs and made a home.

His throat worked. He tried again.

“I—”

But it died there.

What could he say?

I can’t.

You shouldn’t.

Please.

Useless.

His shoulders stiffened in shame.

But his eyes—traitorous, starving—remained locked on the small space between the lapels of her coat.

Just there.

A breath of skin.

The soft valley he knew, from memory now, led to lace and ruin.

The faintest smile deepened on her lips.

She hadn’t moved. Not an inch.

Not even a shift of weight.

And yet—

the entire hallway felt tilted toward her.

As if gravity itself had been rewritten.

That was when he understood.

With the brutal clarity of a man falling:

This wasn’t a whim.

Not a game.

Not even a test.

It was mercy.

In her language.

A quiet offering.

A chance to surrender before he shattered.

And still—

he did not move.

Not because he lacked the will, but because he had already offered it.

He simply stood there.

Trembling.

Held captive in the silence she had made sacred.

Waiting for her to decide whether he was worth the fall.

She tilted her head.

Barely.

But it broke the stillness like a whisper in a cathedral.

And then she spoke.

“Did you get my messages?”

The words were soft. Almost playful.

But tucked between syllables was something far more dangerous—a blade wrapped in velvet.

He flinched.

As if struck.

The elevator behind him chimed.

Sterile.

Emotionless.

Perfectly timed.

Perfectly cruel.

He didn’t turn.

Didn’t move.

His breath hitched—

then held.

She hadn’t stepped closer.

She didn’t have to.

The silence between the crackled now—alive.

Charged

Like something pulled too tight.

He looked down.

Her leg—bare where the coat parted.

Light grazing along the line of her thigh, revealing everything and nothing.

No tights.

No stockings.

No pretense.

She had arrived like a secret.

Not offered—meant to be discovered.

His eyes climbed slowly.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t rush.

Each second felt like an offering, a moment suspended in something larger than choice.

And it undid him more than anything that had come before.

The muscle in his jaw twitched.

His fingers curled faintly, as if remembering what it felt like to hold nothing.

Then—without a word—she reached for the belt at her coat.

And pulled.

Just enough.

The fabric loosened. Shifted.

What lay beneath wasn’t vulgar.

Wasn’t loud.

It was intentional.

Burgundy lace.

Bare skin.

Soft shadows that invited and condemned in equal measure.

She didn’t reveal everything.

She didn’t need to.

He saw only what she allowed—and yet, in his mind, he traced the rest with the precision of a man who had studied her in dreams.

And something inside him—

snapped.

Not in rage.

Not in lust.

In relief.

His body moved before though could stop it.

No hesitation.

No stutter.

Only gravity, finally obeyed.

He stepped forward—not staggering, not rushed, but with the finality of a man who knew there would be no turning back.

One arm curled around her shoulders.

The other pressed firmly at the small of her back—anchoring her. Anchoring himself.

And then—

his mouth was on hers.

The kiss wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t careful.

It was starvation—

the mouth of a man who had survived restraint, only to discover that discipline had always been a slow kind of death.

He kissed her like she was air after drowning, heat after frost, absolution after sin.

She tasted like the only way out—

from the silence,

from the waiting,

from the nightmare he’d never woken from.

She yielded without surprise.

As though this had always been the ending.

As though his restraint had only ever been a curtain waiting to be drawn.

Her hand rose to his chest—fingers curling into the fabric of his coat—but he didn’t let her linger.

He turned.

Guided her back.

The elevator doors had already begun to close.

He caught them with one hand—forceful, unnecessary—and pulled them open like a man reclaiming something he’d been punished for wanting.

They stepped inside.

The light overhead flickered once, as if even the system knew this moment wasn’t meant to be observed.

The second the doors sealed, he lost what little remained of his restraint.

His hands seized her waist—possessive, not gentle—and he turned sharply, pressing her into the cold steel of the elevator wall.

Not thoughtfully. Not carefully.

With suppressed violence.

Not to harm.

To hold.

To tether himself to something solid before he fractured into vapor.

Her gasp bloomed against his cheek as her back hit metal.

He drank it in like a man starved of grace.

His hands moved—frantic, reverent.

He palmed her ribs, her stomach, the delicate underside of her breast through the lace.

The fabric was thin.

Too thin.

He hated it.

Wanted it gone.

But more than that—

He wanted to feel her through it.

To make her shiver beneath the barrier.

To know he could make her arch—not with skin, not with friction—but just from fingertips and will.

She leaned into him—arms sliding around neck, fingers threading into his hair with a trembling kind of care.

She tugged once.

He nearly lost his fitting.

His mouth found hers again—

but this time, it wasn’t a kiss.

It was a confession.

He kissed her like a man begging for mercy he knew wouldn’t come.

Tongue tangled with hers, breath caught between teeth, groans swallowed into heat.

There was no rhythm. No choreography.

Only want—

ugly and unfiltered.

He broke away—breathing hard, hoarse, wrecked.

Her eyes were already heavy-lidded.

Cheeks flushed.

Chest rising beneath the open coat like she’d been running for miles.

Zayne lowered his mouth to her throat—and bit.

Not cruel.

Not deep.

But sharp enough to leave something behind.

A mark.

A warning.

A memory.

Something she’d feel later and think of him.

His right hand slid down her thigh—fingers wrapping, firm, reverent.

He lifted. She let him.

Her leg curled around his hip, bare skin brushing the rough fabric of his slacks.

He was already hard.

Already aching.

And the pressure of her—right there, so close, so ready—

made his head spin.

Her head fell back—a soft thud against the elevator wall, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat.

He stared at it—pale, perfect, impossibly delicate.

And then kissed it—not with hunger, but with the kind of urgency reserved for last rites.

Not lust.

Not control.

Devotion.

Her coat slipped open—fully, finally.

And there she was.

Not in parts.

Not in suggestion.

Not in memory.

But whole.

No lens. No barrier.

Just her.

His breath caught.

All words abandoned him.

He said nothing.

Couldn’t.

He buried his face in her shoulder, inhaling the warm scent of her skin like it could steady the tremors in his hands.

It didn’t.

Nothing calmed.

Nothing could.

Her fingers slipped beneath his coat—dragged lightly down the back of his neck.

Nails grazing skin.

He shuddered.

It didn’t feel like seduction.

It felt like being claimed.

He kissed her again.

And again.

Each one rougher.

Each one slower.

Each one worse than the last.

They weren’t about pleasure anymore.

They were about surrender.

Each kiss another nail in the coffin of the man he had once pretended to be.

Her lips were swollen now.

Her thighs tightened around him—bare, trembling, unbearably warm.

He could feel her—not just body, but permission.

Every part of him wanted to tear the space between them into nothing. To sink into her until he forgot what it was to be alone.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

He held her tighter.

Not to take.

To remember.

This moment.

This body.

This surrender.

Because after this—

after her—

he would never go back.

His mouth hovered near her ear, breath unsteady—words clawing their way up his throat before he could tame them.

“You wore this for me,” he rasped, voice raw—gravel dragged through reverence. “This little thing under your coat… do I’d see it and lose my fucking mind?”

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Her fingers clutched the lapels of his coat like a lifeline.

Knuckles white.

Chest rising too fast against his.

He laughed—low, bitter.

Not mocking.

Punished.

“You wanted me to snap, didn’t you?” His lips brushed her jaw. “You wanted to know what I’d look like when I finally stopped pretending.”

She whimpered—soft, breathless—and it undid something low and deep in his spine.

“You like being watched?” he murmured, lips dragging down the column of her throat. “Standing in front of that mirror… touching yourself…”

His mouth brushed her skin.

“Knowing I’d see it. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to forget.”

He pulled back—just long enough to spin her beneath his grip.

She gasped as her body turned, coat slipping from her shoulders like a veil in slow motion.

Her spine met his chest.

Her palms struck the elevator wall—a muffled slap of flesh against steel.

Bracing herself.

He pressed into her from behind—chest to her back, hips grinding slow and deliberate between her thighs. Cruel in rhythm. Worshipful in intent.

Her breath caught.

She tilted her head to the side—automatically. Wordlessly.

Exposing her throat like it belonged to him.

He nuzzled once—then bit. Not hard.

But deep enough to hear her moan.

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” he whispered, voice thick with grit and fire. “One look at you and I knew.”

His hand dragged slowly down her side, fingertips skating over ribs, waist, hip.

“You wore that lace, stood in front of that mirror, sent me that picture—just to end up here.”

His fingers dipped, teasing the curve of her thigh.

“To be bent over. Held like this. While I ruin you.”

He nudged her legs apart with his knee—deliberate. Decisive.

She didn’t resist.

Didn’t hesitate.

His breath ghosted across her ear.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “Keep them open.”

His hand slid upward—slow, unmerciful—along the inside of her thigh.

The skin there burned.

Velvet and heat and want.

She gasped when he reached her center—slick, soaked, shameless.

Zayne groaned—

deep and guttural.

The sound vibrated against her spine.

“Fuck—so wet,” he whispered against her shoulder. “You’ve been like this all day, haven’t you?”

She nodded—barely.

He watched the motion of her cheek against the wall, her lip caught between her teeth.

“I should make you say it,” he muttered, his fingers teasing slow, punishing circles just shy of where she needed him. “Make you admit how much you need me.”

She arched—pushing back against him, hips desperate, thighs trembling.

He smiled against her skin.

Slow. Dark. Inevitable.

“No patience,” he murmured. “Good. I don’t have any left either.”

And then—

he slid one finger inside her.

Deep. Slow.

Deliberate.

until he was buried.

She cried out—muffled, desperate, beautiful.

His breath faltered.

A curse broke beneath it.

Her warmth—it was obscene. Unholy. Alive.

She clenched around his finger like she already knew how to hold him when he fucked her.

He curled his finger—once.

She shuddered so violently he had to catch her—one arm braced across her stomach, anchoring her to him.

His mouth pressed to her neck.

“You feel like sin,” he groaned. “And I don’t give a fuck if it damns me.”

She was melting.

Bent forward, hands braced against the wall, body trembling with every slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers.

Zayne couldn’t look away.

Everytime he pushed inside her, her hips jolted. Her breath caught. Her thighs clenched.

And fuck—the heat of her, the way she tightened around him like she knew he belonged there—it made his cock twitch so violently he nearly gasped.

He pressed his chest harder into her back, mouth at her ear.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Let me feel all of you.”

Her answer was a broken maon—

half-swallowed.

Pleading.

He slid his hand higher, fingers curling again—deeper this time.

Her knees buckled.

“Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he whispered, his voice shredded at the edges. “So wet for me. So fucking tight.”

She whimpered when he twisted his wrist—just right—pressing against the spot that made her body jerk forward like he’d struck a chord.

His other hand moved to her breast, cupping it roughly. Thumb dragging across the peak until it responded—until it peaked against the lace.

She cried out—sharp, breathless, shattering.

He groaned, deep in his chest.

A sound that trembled out of him like pressure escaping a crack in stone.

His cock throbbed—hot, slick, restrained.

He was soaked—leaking for her, so hard he could feel every beat of his pulse in the shaft.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he growled into her hair. “I’ve been hard since you sent that first fucking picture.”

His breath hitched. “There hasn’t been a second since that I could think straight. Could barely see straight.”

She arched.

Her legs trembled.

“You close?” he asked,

voice a rasp,

teeth grazing her shoulder.

“Yeah? You’re gonna come just from my fingers, aren’t you?”

She nodded—desperate, trying to grind back against his hand, chasing the edge he held just out of reach.

He smirked—dark, reverent, ruined.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured. “Taking it so well. Fucking dripping for me.”

He pinched her nipple—a tug, just enough.

She nearly collapsed.

“I’m gonna eat this pussy after,” he whispered, the words so low they barely existed.

“When you’re shaking…when you’re overstimmed—face down, ass up—I’m gonna spread you open with my tongue and keep going until you’re crying.”

Her whole body locked.

He pushed deeper, twisting his fingers just right—once.

She wailed.

The sound split from her chest—

cut off and strangled at the throat.

“Not yet,” he hissed, his breath shaking against her skin.

“You don’t come yet. You wait.”

She moaned—high, needy, broken.

But she obeyed.

He leaned into her fully, panting against her neck, his cock throbbing—painful now, slick inside his soaked boxers.

He was losing it.

Every inch of him flushed and trembling, the pressure unbearable. His own arousal smeared hot against the inside of his slacks.

He was going to snap.

He knew it.

If she clenched around him again, he’d come untouched.

But he didn’t stop.

Not yet.

because he needed her to break first.

She was breaking apart.

Every muscle in her back tensed beneath his chest, her breath reduced to shattering whimpers.

He felt her thighs twitch around his hand—desperate. Aching. Lost.

Her cunt clenched around his fingers, tight, greedy, rhythmic—each pulse a plea.

Zayne could barely stand.

He was seconds from coming—without friction. Without mercy. Just from the sound of her falling apart on his hand.

Still, he didn’t let her come.

Not yet.

Not until she earned it.

“You gonna fall apart for me, baby?” he rasped into her hair, his voice nothing but heat and grit. “Gonna soak my fucking hand?”

She whimpered, nodded—

hips rocking helplessly back into his hand.

“You want it so bad, don’t you?” His fingers curled deep and slow.

She cried out—louder this time.

“Feel that?” he growled. “That’s how deep I’m gonna fuck you. I’m not gonna stop. You’ll be shaking, crying, begging me to slow down—and I won’t. Not until I feel you come all over my cock—just like this.”

She gasped, legs threatening to give.

His palm never stopped—fingers stroking through the slick obscene heat of her, pressure building perfectly.

“You gonna cream for me, sweetheart?” he groaned, voice breaking against her ear. “Right here in the elevator, huh?”

His hand flexed.

His breath stuttered.

“You want to be my filthy little mess?”

She nodded—frantic, wild, one hand lifting from the wall to claw at his wrist.

Begging, wordless.

Zayne closed his eyes.

Her body was vibrating with the force of her need.

He kissed her neck—once.

A vow sealed in skin.

Then he whispered it,

low and final,

the only benediction she needed.

“Come for me.”

The words were still on his tongue when it happened.

PING.

The sound sliced through the moment like a scalpel.

He froze.

So did she.

The elevator doors began to open behind them—

bright light, footsteps, motion, reality.

Her body clenched—tighter than before—but still held,

suspended on the edge.

Zayne didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The world had just walked in on his damnation.

And she—

trembling, soaked, panting—

was still waiting for his permission.

#Needy #Zayne smut #zayne lads #zayne x reader #sinfully divine #don't let the angels take me #I wanna reverently worship our touch starved snowman #I'm lost #No hope for redemption

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laddelulu30 · 4 months ago

Text

Only devils are honest in their desires. I don't know what that makes me, but I won't apologize. Holy damn, I still can't get over there being a part two. Excited doesn't even come close to describing what I feel.

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐭

— 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒃

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟏 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝟐

(A/N: It's a bit long [sorry not sorry] but this is dedicated to the wonderful, @laddelulu30)

"I want your quiet, your screaming and thrashing The salt on your lips and the hands that God gave you I want your violence, your silent sedation [...] " —Flower Face, Spiracle

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆.

That alone should have meant nothing.

Farspace did not bend for names—it swallowed them. One by one, bodies moved through its corridors like white blood cells in a system too vast to care. They came with files, with ranks, with designations stamped in cold ink. And he? He signed off on them like numbers. Watched them arrive, watched them leave, and never once remembered a face.

But not her.

God, not her.

Her name wasn't just a data point. It was a wound—quiet, clean, and still bleeding.

Caleb sat behind his desk like a man awaiting judgement—not from a court, but from a god he no longer believed in. One leg crossed neatly over the other, spine a rod of iron, boots polished to a mirror-dark sheen. Everything about him was immaculate. Precise. Dead. His face might have been carved from stone—beautiful, yes, but empty, like something abandoned by its sculptor mid-devotion. Even his breath obeyed.

And yet, beneath all that stillness, his body rioted.

She was on the ship.

The knowledge of her arrival did not come with a message. It came like a pressure beneath the skin—like static before a storm. She was here. He felt it. Not through sensors or alerts, but in his bones, in that hollow place where the chip curled cold against his spine and pulsed like an unspoken name.

She'd signed a requisition form. A transfer slip buried three layers deep in cross-department logs. No greeting. No request. Just quiet movement.

She hadn't asked for permission.

Of course she hadn't.

She still believed she didn't need to.

The thought struck him like a blow. Not that she was here—he already knew that. It was the how of it. The defiance. The silent arrival. She hadn't come to be seen. She'd come to exist in his orbit again without asking.

His gaze slid—without thought, without command—to the bottle on the corner of the desk.

Apple Syrup. Still sealed. Amber and glinting in the dim light like a relic left on an altar. He hadn't touched it in years. Not since—

His fingers twitched. He stilled them.

That was rule number one: never indulge the memory.

Memory was a drug. It softened the steel.

And softness, in this place, was a slow death.

Still, the bottle remained. Unopened. A strange, pathetic offering to a ghost who had not yet arrived.

He told himself it meant nothing. Coincidence. A lapse in discipline. But the truth had sharper teeth.

His entire body was a collection of such lapses.

The arm that no longer registered pain. The mind, split down the center like a cauterized wound. The ship—God, the chip—nestled at the base of his skull like a parasite mimicking sleep.

And now—

Now it was waking.

Not in revolt.

In hunger.

He felt her.

Not in the way officers registered footsteps, or lovers caught scent—but in the marrow-deep way a sailor feels the tide turn before the waves break. No sensor had alerted him. No voice had called. But something ancient inside him stirred.

She was on his floor.

The knowledge slithered beneath his skin, static and electric, older than thought.

Not memory. Not reason.

Something darker.

It wasn't lust—though that, too, would come.

It was proximity.

A knowing so primal it predated language.

The kind that made gods beg for morality, just to suffer it properly.

Caleb did not move.

Not yet.

He let the sensation bloom inside him—slow, excruciating—a wound reopening itself by choice. Let it tear through the walls he'd so carefully built over the years. Let it remind him what it meant to want.

Not because he couldn't have her.

But because he shouldn't.

She was not a woman. Not to him.

She was his forbidden inheritance.

And desire, when starved long enough, becomes indistinguishable from punishment.

He closed his eyes.

And something old stirred in the hollow of his gut—not a memory, no, but the echo of one. Warped by time. Distorted by pain. Flickering through the static left behind by the chip they'd scorched into his spine.

She was sixteen.

Barefoot in the garden. Apple between her teeth. Juice dripping down her wrist. That grin—God, that grin—so radiant it made something writhe in his stomach.

She'd waved at him with sticky fingers. And he—older, bitter, already folding beneath weight no boy should carry—had pretended not to care.

But he remembered how the apple tasted when she pressed it to his mouth.

It tasted like belonging.

The memory was dangerous.

That was rule two.

Dangerous because it hadn't faded. Because it was still real.

He hadn't remembered much since the tunnel—not in any linear sense. There were gaps so wide he sometimes wondered if the real Caleb had been left up there, scattered among the stars.

What remained was a ghost. A weapon wearing a name,

But she—

She made him remember.

Even now.

She made him real.

The door didn't open. Not yet.

But he felt her. Paused just beyond it.

No movement. No breath. Nothing measurable.

And still—he knew.

She stood with her hand hovering above the control pad, uncertain whether to knock, to enter, or to turn and disappear down the corridor like a ghost he'd conjured too carelessly.

She didn't understand what waited for her on the other side.

Not anymore.

This wasn't Gran's kitchen or a sun-warmed garden or the makeshift family they'd once borrowed shelter from.

This was Farspace.

This was where monsters wore medals.

And men like Caleb passed for gods.

And she—

She was the last piece of proof he'd ever been human.

Part of him—small, buried, still barely human—hoped she would walk away.

That she'd feel the weight pressing through the metal, the hunger clawing just beneath his breath, and run.

Because if she stepped inside, he would not protect her.

He would keep her.

But the other part—older, deeper, honed by silence and sharpened by loss—

wanted her to walk in.

And never walk out again.

There were days Caleb believed he had been created for the sole purpose of suffering. Not in the dramatic sense. Not poetic. He had long since grown to despise both.

No—this was quieter. Older.

A truth that circled beneath his skin like a second bloodstream.

Some men learn pain. Others are woven from it.

He had not chosen the weight he carried.

Only the silence that followed.

He used to think that endurance meant strength. That if he held fast—if he broke without noise—it would carve him into something righteous.

But now he knew:

The carving was the point.

They hadn't made him stronger.

They'd made him hollow.

They gave him a new arm.

But they took something no metal could replace.

They tampered with his thoughts—gently, surgically—then told him to trust what was left.

They folded orders into his instincts like poisoned thread, then asked him to love as if nothing had been rewritten.

And worst—

worst—

they left her untouched.

Untouched by the chip. Untouched by the darkness that clung to him now like a second skin.

Untouched by the cold metal table, the vacuum of the tunnel, the until corridors where he'd been strapped down and told, yes—say yes—and we'll let you live.

She didn't know what it meant to choose survival over goodness.

And if he could help it—

she never would.

He had killed for less.

Entire squadrons, erased like bad code when the data suggested even a whisper of disloyalty. He'd signed off on transports that would never reach their destinations. Scrubbed names from rosters that once belonged to friends. Watched the Docking Bay doors seal shut behind people who still trusted him.

And he had done it all—

without hesitation.

Without sleep.

Without guilt.

But he would sooner flay himself alive than let her see him do it.

Because that was the final irony of what he'd become—

a colonel without a soul,

still measuring his ruin against the only eyes that had ever looked at him and seen a boy instead of a weapon.

He turned from the door. Abruptly.

Crossed the room with mechanical grace, boots soundless against the steel floor. At the wall, he opened the third drawer.

Inside—

a single datachip.

Unmarked. Illegal. Breathing silence.

A spare neural index. Seven months to strip the beacon. Five more to rewrite the failsafes.

It was treason.

It was contingency.

It was his.

He hadn't used it.

Not yet.

Not unless the day came when he had to run. Or erase himself. Or disappear into the tunnel again like smoke through a vent.

But still—he kept it close.

Like a rosary.

A quiet prayer to the version of himself that might still deserve to be saved.

His mind drifted.

Back to Gran's house.

Back to the days when fear was simple—missing a test, disappointing Gran, forgetting her birthday because of training.

How small those fears were. How blessed.

He had been different then.

No—not different. Just less revealed.

The darkness had always lived in him.

It simply hadn't learned its name.

He remembered waking one night, sixteen years old, heart racing like it had sensed something before he did.

She'd crept into his room—barefoot, shivering. Said nothing he could understand.

Just wide, damp eyes and a name he would die to un-hear now.

Without thinking, he'd let her crawl beneath the blanket.

She was freezing.

He'd wrapped his arms around her—the real one. The one he'd been born with.

And whispered,

"You're safe."

He had meant it.

God help him, that was what haunted him most.

Back then, it had been true.

Because if she ever knew—

what he had become,

what lived beneath the polished uniform, the bionic calm, the gleaming insignia on his collar—

she would run.

And he would let her.

He would watch her go with hands clenched at his sides, breath burning in his throat.

And then—

he would follow.

And bring her back.

Because love, when bent by time and silence and the ache of being half-alive, begins to resembled something else.

Not tenderness.

Not even obsession.

But possession, dressed in reverence.

And he—

he had never loved anyone else.

Not once.

Not in twenty-five years.

A sound—sharp, measured—broke the stillness.

Footsteps.

Steady. Controlled. Unhurried.

He knew the rhythm. Of course he did.

It was hers. But not the way she used to walk.

Gone was the careless bounce, the warm weightlessness of girlhood.

This was different.

This was the tread of someone who had learned—that being noticed could be dangerous.

She had changed.

So had he.

Caleb returned to his seat behind the desk.

Straightened his cuffs. Adjusted his collar.

The motions were familiar. Mechanical.

But beneath them—the storm was already gathering.

The door opened.

Not with ceremony. Not with hydraulics and authority.

Just a hiss. Soft.

A line of light.

And then—

her silhouette.

She didn't speak.

Neither did he.

She stood in the threshold like a question without a mark.

Framed by the corridor's artificial glow, her coat caught the light and cast faint halos along the edges.

The figure was familiar—achingly so—but time had carved her sharper.

Her posture was tense, not from fear, but from having learned to carry it

A soldier's stillness.

And yet—

when her gaze landed on him, something flickered.

Something old.

Something his.

He wondered what she saw.

Not the boy from the garden—that was long dead.

Not the one who used to kneel beside her at the windowsill, sketching stars like prayers.

The man behind the desk wore black like a verdict.

His posture was carved from marble.

His face—expressionless.

This was not a face made for reunion.

It was a mask designed to survive it.

Did she see it?

Did she know what had been taken?

Or worse—what he had willingly given?

He said nothing.

Did nothing.

Only looked.

As if she were a manuscript recovered from fire—edges blackened, but the center miraculously intact.

His gaze moved slowly, reverently.

The faint scar near her temple, half-hidden by her hair.

The crease between her brows—small, but deep enough to speak of sleepless nights.

The way her eyes, just once, flicked toward the bottle on his desk.

The same apple syrup Gran always used.

She had noticed.

Of course she had.

And for a moment, something in him cracked—because he didn't know what a single glance from her could still undo.

A small, traitorous thought bloomed in his mind:

Would she still remember how it tasted?

The syrup.

The past.

Him.

He exhaled through his nose and stood.

The movement was deliberate—unhurried, but final.

His boots met the floor like punctuation.

Sharp. Inevitable.

The room seemed to shrink around him. Or maybe he had grown—

not in height,

but in hunger.

She turned, followed his movement with her eyes—

but didn't retreat.

Didn't flinch.

Another change.

Years ago, she would've smiled. Rolled her eyes. Closed the space between them without thinking.

Now she measured it.

Not it mattered.

"You're taller," he said at last.

His voice was steady.

Controlled.

Not a compliment.

Just an observation.

She tilted her head, just barely.

"You're colder."

Not an accusation.

Just truth.

So.

It would be like this

He stepped forward.

Just once.

Not enough to crowd her—just enough to shift the air.

To see if she would move.

She didn't.

Not a blink. Not a breath.

Another change.

"You regret coming?" he asked, voice quiet. Careful.

Like asking about the weather.

Or the harvest.

A question whose answer would change nothing.

She tilted her head.

"Do you want me to?"

He didn't answer.

Because if he told her the truth—

that he had counted down to this moment like a condemned man savoring his final breath—it would cost him something he couldn't afford to lose.

She wasn't just a person.

Not to him.

She was a tether.

A thread back to something unbroken, unbought.

The living proof that he had once belonged to something other than violence.

But she didn't know that.

Couldn't.

She'd never understand what it meant to breathe in a room that held her body and still not believe he deserved to be near it.

She had walked through hells of her own—he could see it in the lines of her stance.

But he had been rewritten.

And she—

She still spoke in a language his hands had forgotten how to hold.

He turned from her.

Walked toward the far wall.

The window stretched wide across the room, a pane of reinforced glass holding back the void.

Beyond it—stars. Cold. Indifferent. Eternal.

He stood before them with his hands clasped behind his back, the way soldiers did when the needed to look composed.

It gave him time.

Not to think—

But to remember how to breathe without breaking.

"You shouldn't have come," he said, eyes on the stars.

"I didn't come for you."

He smiled.

A small, bitter thing.

She lied like she always had—

clearly,

and with conviction.

"I didn't authorize your transfer," he said.

His voice was flat.

Bureaucratic.

A man returning to the rules because everything else was slipping.

She didn't flinch.

"You didn't need to."

Her tone didn't challenge.

Didn't mock.

It simply was.

A fact placed on the table between them like a blade.

The silence that followed was longer this time.

Not empty.

Charged.

Like two live wires humming just before they touch.

He didn't speak again.

Not yet.

Because anything he said now might cost him the last shard of control he still believed he had.

Finally—finally—he turned.

Not a glance.

A full turn.

A reckoning.

He let himself look at her.

Really look.

And her eyes—

God, they hadn't changed.

Still clear. Still steady. Still impossible.

There was no condemnation in them.

No flinch. No fear.

Just presence.

Like she saw through every layer of ruin and still chose to stand in its shadow.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

The question came out raw. Almost hoarse.

She didn't answer right away.

When she did, her voice was soft.

But it landed like judgment.

"To see what's left of you."

And there it was.

The thing he feared most.

Not her pity.

Not her silence.

But her belief—

that something could be left.

She shouldn't have said that.

Not to him.

To see what's left of you.

The words echoed through him like a bell across an empty field—low, mournful, final.

He had heard many things.

Screams. Orders. The wet snap of breaking bone.

He had even heard his own voice, breaking into something he didn't recognize.

But nothing had ever struck him like that.

What's left.

As if he were debris.

As if he were a collapsed monument scavenged for sentiment.

He met her gaze.

And said it.

Low. Hollow. Certain.

"I am no longer a man in mourning."

A pause.

"I am the grave."

He took a step toward her.

Not threatening.

Not hesitant.

Just... inevitable.

She didn't move. Not forward. Not backward.

She simply held his gaze—

with that impossible steadiness she'd had as a girl.

The one that used to get her into fights she shouldn't have won.

The one that had always, always undone him.

But now—

there was something else in it.

Not fear.

Not revulsion.

Not even hope.

Understanding.

And that—

that was what broke him.

Because if she saw him—

truly saw him—

and still looked...

He wouldn't stop her.

He wouldn't protect her.

He would fall to his knees and give her everything.

"I'm not who I was," he whispered.

The words felt foreign in his mouth—too soft for a throat carved by orders and blood.

But they were true.

He wasn't asking for pity.

He was offering a warning.

A final mercy.

Her eyes didn't blink.

Didn't shift.

She saw him—

And she stayed.

"You're still Caleb," she said.

Soft as prayer.

Sharp as a blade.

And he—

He snapped.

Not outwardly.

Not with motion or sound.

But inside—

where his name had lived like a forgotten relic.

And she—

She had spoken it back into flame.

He stepped closer.

Too close.

Close enough to feel her breath ghost against his lips.

He didn't touch her.

But every inch of him—every wire, every scar, every command stitched into his spine—was screaming to.

His hands hung at his sides like weapons he no longer trusted himself to wield.

And his voice—

when it came—

was low, cracked, reverent.

"Say it again."

Her lips parted.

She didn't ask what he meant.

She knew.

"Caleb."

Just that.

No rank. No title.

Just his name,

wrapped in her voice like it had never belonged to anyone else.

He shut his eyes.

And that was it.

That was the whole damn war.

"I think of you constantly," he said, eyes still closed. "It's not memory. Not even thought."

He drew in a shaky breath.

"It's... breath. Reflex. A condition."

A bitter smile ghosted across his lips.

"I could kill a man with a flick of my hand."

But then his voice dropped lower.

"But if you were within the blast radius—

I'd tear the world inside out to keep your skin whole."

He opened his eyes.

And there it was—

the truth.

Raw. Final. Unhideable.

The kind of truth that—once spoken—undoes everything that came before it.

She whispered,

"That isn't love."

He didn't argue.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't look away.

"No," he said. "It's not."

A breath passed between them—

hot, shared, sacrificial.

"It's devotion."

And then, softer—

"Asphyxiating. Involuntary. Sanctified."

His mouth hovered over hers.

Not touching. Not yet.

But every inch of his restraint screamed.

"Devotion—when it lives too long without being answered—doesn't die."

Another breath.

"It starves."

He didn't move.

Didn't have to.

The air between them had already collapsed.

Caleb's hand rose.

Slow.

Like a man approaching fire he's begged for in his sleep.

His fingers curled midair—

hovering just at the edge of her waist.

Not touching.

But trembling.

He could feel her hear through the air itself—

through his gloves,

through the cold logic that had governed him since they cut into his spine and gave him orders instead of thoughts.

And still—

he didn't touch her.

Because if he did—

it wouldn't stop at touching.

And if it didn't stop—

he wouldn't let it.

His hand faltered.

Hung there, breathless.

Then dropped.

Like a condemned thing retreating from its own hunger.

She didn't speak.

But he saw it—

in the way her lips parted,

in the breath caught just behind her teeth,

like a question had risen before she knew its shape.

She wanted to ask.

He could see it.

Feel it.

The heat of it pulsing between them like a second gravity.

He prayed she wouldn't.

Because if she did—

he would give her everything.

Not just his hands.

Not just his mouth.

But the knife of his devotion.

The part of him no one had ever touched,

because it had always, always belonged to her.

He took a breath.

It didn't help.

His restraint was slipping at the seams.

And still—

she didn't speak.

Which only made him want her more.

"You think you're safe with me," he said.

Flat.

Cold.

A scalpel of a voice.

She didn't blink.

"I never said that."

He huffed once—

something too brittle to be a laugh.

"You don't have to."

He looked at her now—really looked.

"You've always been like this.

Brave.

Blinding.

Idiotic."

She stepped back.

Not out of fear.

Out of defiance.

And it cut deeper than retreat.

because he loved her for it.

He always had.

He loved that she wouldn't cower.

That she would burn beside him, eyes wide open,

until there was nothing left but ash—

and her name buried in the wreckage of his voice.

"Do you want to know what I think about when I wake up?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

Because her silence was already yes.

He stepped closer.

Not urgently—

but like a man reaching into fire because it's the only thing that ever made him feel real.

"You."

Not a confession.

A sentence.

A sentence he'd been serving for years.

"Always you.

Not the memory.

Not the child.

You."

Pause.

"Now. Here."

He let the words bleed.

"The way you smell when you walk past my quarters.

The way you move like you've been taught not to look over your shoulder.

The way you—"

He stopped.

Too much.

Too raw.

And she was just standing there, drinking it in.

Not mocking. Not turning away.

Just existing.

And that—

that unmade him more than any scream ever could.

He stepped back.

Not out of indifference.

Out of mercy.

Out of the last remaining shred of control still clinging to the wreckage of his soul.

"I'm not going to touch you," he said.

The words tasted like blood.

They wounded like a punishment.

Her eyes narrowed—just slightly.

"Why not?"

And for a moment—

he almost laughed.

Not from amusement.

From despair.

"Because I don't know how to stop."

The silence that followed was thick as sin.

And in it, his pulse thundered like a threat—

not to her.

To himself.

He turned his face slightly, dragging a gloved hand across his mouth. As if he could wipe the truth away. As if silence could undo confession.

It couldn't.

Not with her.

Not here.

Not now.

He had exposed too much.

And she—

God help him—

had received it.

"I'm going to give you a choice," he said after a long silence.

"I don't want one."

"You'll take it anyway."

She didn't move.

"If you walk out of this room right now, I won't stop you," he said. "I won't follow. I won't pull you back."

The lie tasted like ash.

"And if I stay?" she asked quiet.

"If you stay," he said, "then I need you to understand something."

Her eyes met his. Patient. Steady. Eternal.

"I'm not going to ask for your consent every time I think about you. I'm not going to apologize for the way I feel you in my veins. I'm not going to lie and say I can love you gently. I've already failed that test."

Another pause. His voice dropped.

"If you stay, you're mine."

She didn't answer.

The moment hung between them like a guillotine—suspended, waiting, silent.

And Caleb...

waited beneath it.

At first, he stood still out of control. Then it became ritual. Then necessity. He didn't turn to look at her. He just...

listened.

To her breath.

To her body.

To the storm of her silence.

There was no footfall. No rustle of cloth. No indrawn gasps or shift of stance.

Only stillness.

And it mocked him.

Because stillness could mean anything.

Stillness could mean no.

Or worse—it could mean yes.

And that was what terrified him most.

Because yes would mean the collapse of restraint. The death of control. The failure of every promise he'd made to himself in the months since he'd returned with blood in his mouth and nothing but her name left in his mind.

He had not imagined the moment would feel like this.

He had envisioned her angry. Cold. He had envisioned shouting, accusations, distance. The ability to keep her at arm's length by force or fury.

But this—

This was worse.

This was quiet.

She didn't move. And so neither did he. But internally, he was already bleeding.

Had he gone too far?

He replayed his words in his mind, dissecting them, slicing through their tone, their implications. Not going to ask for consent. Mine. failed that test.

God.

What if she thought he meant to take her like one of those stories whispered in the darker wings of the Fleet? What if she thought the chip had broken something fundamental in him, that he'd lost the part that knew how to love instead of claim?

But had he ever known?

Had he ever loved her in a way that wasn't possessive, selfish, desperate?

Even as a boy, he'd hated when others looked at her too long. Hated when she vanished into the winding streets without telling him. He remembered once punching a boy in the stomach when he wound out he'd held her hand during a school trip. She never found out.

He never told her.

He had been a monster long before they made it official.

Maybe the chip hadn't changed him. Maybe it only had revealed him.

And maybe... she'd known all along.

He glanced at her—just a flick of the eyes, no more—and what he saw made his heart stutter.

She was watching him.

Not coldly. Not cruelly.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He turned fully now, facing her.

The hunger was back. Fiercer than before. Not just for her body, but for her choice.

For her to speak.

To claim.

To give him the thing he could not ask for directly—the only thing that he had every truly wanted.

Not her forgivness.

Not her affection.

Her permission to need her.

Her silence stretched.

And in it, he saw futures unraveling like thread from a blade.

Did she want him to speak again? To explain? To apologize?

He could do none of those things. There was no logic that would cleanse what he was now. No apology that could reverse the memory of that cold metal table, the way they'd opened his flesh and whispered about capacity and compliance. No language that could undo what it meant to wake up different—more dangerous, more precise, more useful.

He was not the boy she had known.

But if she reached for him now—

If she said his name again—

He would be hers.

Entierly.

Without armor. Without orders. Without escape.

He could already feel his control breaking at the edges—his shoulders locked too tight, his mouth dry, fingers twitching against the seam of his coat like he needed to hold something.

Her wrist, perhaps.

Her jaw.

Her throat.

Not to hurt.

To anchor.

He had not touched her in years. Not truly. Not without consequence. He wasn't sure he remembered how. Every instinct in his body now was sharpened for impact—designed to break, to pin, to dominate.

What would it mean to touch her softly?

Could he even do that anymore?

The thought hollowed him.

And still, she said nothing.

Her silence was like a mirror he couldn't look away from—showing him the outlines of what he'd become.

He had power. So much power. He could lift her off the ground with a thought. He could seal the doors, command the lights, override the gravity controls in this room and leave her suspended, breathless, weightless, his

But what he wanted—

What he truly wanted—

was for her to close the distance herself.

Just one step.

One step, and he would fall to his knees before her.

Please, he thought, but didn't say.

And then—God, please don't.

Because if she chose him now, he would never let her go.

He would shatter the chain of command. Burn down the mission. Tear the whole of Farspace apart and offer her the bones.

Because if she stayed, there would be no leaving. Not ever again.

He would make sure of that.

She moved.

Only a breath's worth of motion, but enough. Her arms dropped to her sides fully. Her chin lifted. Her weight shifted forward—half a step.

Just one.

It was nothing. And it was everything.

And then, she spoke.

Not loudly. Not with theatrics or declarations. Her voice came like something secret, something sacred, something meant only for him.

"Lock the doors."

Three words.

That was all.

And Caleb felt the entire axis of his world tilt.

He didn't move immediately.

Couldn't.

Not because he hadn't hear her, but because every part of him suddenly needed to confirm—had she meant it? Had she said it because she was leaving and wanted privacy? Or had she—

No. No.

He saw it now.

She wasn't running.

She wasn't asking.

She was staying.

And she had just given him permission.

His throat tightened. His breath stalled. Something old and vile and unbearably beautiful cracked open inside him like a cavern wall splitting to reveal a pit of fire.

His body was still,

but his mind was a scream.

She said it.

Lock the doors.

It echoed like scripture. Like the final sentence in a prayer no one else had ever heard before.

She had chosen this.

Chosen him.

He turned toward the panel beside his desk and pressed one gloved fingertip to the override.

The door slid shut with a hiss.

Sealed.

Soundproofed.

Final.

And still—he did not go to her.

Not yet.

He stood there, gaze locked on her form, burning her shape into memory as if it might be taken from him again.

He needed to see her.

Just see her.

Like this.

Here.

Now.

Now longer part of the past.

No longer behind glass.

Real.

"I told you not to stay," he murmured, voice low, raw.

"And I told you I didn't want a choice,"

She met his eyes when she said it. Unblinking. Steady.

And that—that—was the final break.

It wasn't the words. It wasn't even the defiance.

It was the truth in her voice.

"You understand what that means," he said, barely above a whisper.

"I do."

"You can't un-choose this."

"I wouldn't."

And that was it.

That was when the yoke of restraint splintered—not shattered, not exploded.

Splintered.

Like wood beneath pressure too great for its age, groaning at last under the weight it had borne too long.

His body moved without command.

Not sudden. Not forceful. Just... inevitable.

He crossed the space between the, slow and deliberate. Like a man walking through the last breath of his old life. Each step another piece of himself falling away.

And she stood still.

Unmoving.

Waiting.

Not with fear.

But with knowledge.

With consent.

And God help him, he had never seen anything more beautiful than her silence.

He stopped just before her. Inches apart. Her breath mingled with his. Their shadows became one, cast in the dim light of the room like two figures drawn into the same orbit.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

And what he saw there—what she let him see—was not innocence.

It wasn't trust.

It was want.

Want, edged in something darker. Something that mirrored his own.

He reached out.

His gloved hand didn't touch her. It hovered—just at her cheek, trembling, uncertain.

Her eyes fluttered. And then—

She leaned into it.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

And everything in him broke.

Her skin met the edge of his glove.

Barely. Light as air. A brush. The gentles pressure imaginable.

And yet the world shifted.

It wasn't even a real touch—just a ghost of one, an allowance—but her warmth seeped through the cold synthetic leather and struck him like a low-grade detonation.

His throat went dry. His hand stilled mid-hover, and for a breathless second he simply stood there, fingers trembling by her cheekbone, caught between need and discipline.

She was so close.

And somehow, still untouchable.

His mind rebelled against it. Screamed against it. The part of him still drenched in military training, in consequence, in control—it fought to hold him back. He wasn't supposed to take. Not like this. Not when he'd already failed so many tests of restraint. Not when his very body was a weapon.

She was soft. She was mortal. She was herself.

And he... was not.

He was a thing patched together in labs and lies. Built for command. Forged in silence and sleepless nights and the desperate promise that someday, somehow, he could come home.

But home was not a place anymore.

Home was standing before him.

And home tilted her face into his hand like she belonged there.

His heart stuttered once, then thundered.

"Why... why are you doing this?" he breathed, more to himself than her. "Why would you...?"

He couldn't finish it.

Because he didn't know which ending hurt more.

Why would you let me?

or—

Why would you still want me?

"Caleb."

Her voice. A whisper.

He stopped breathing.

Not because she'd said his name, but because of how she'd said it.

Not soft.

Not comforting.

Inviting.

That one syllable unspooled him.

Because it wasn't a request.

It wasn't even a dare.

It was a welcome.

He stared at her. Saw her watching him—mouth slightly parted, chest rising just a little faster than before, eyes wide but unafraid.

And it hit him.

There would be no undoing this.

Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not when the world burned. Whatever they crossed now—they wouldn't come back from it.

And for the first time in a long, long time...

He didn't care.

"Fuck it," he said.

And he moved.

Not with violence. Not with hesitation. But with certainty.

His gloves palms framed her jaw, his thumbs trembling where they pressed beneath her ears, tilting her face up like something fragile, something holy.

And then—finally—he kissed her.

Not gently.

Not sweetly.

Not like someone reuniting with a long-lost love.

Like a man collapsing into the only thing keeping him from falling into the abyss.

He mouth slanted over hers with raw, consuming hunger. No preamble. No breath. Just contact—hot and immediate and final.

Her gasp caught between them. He swallowed it. Drank from it. And when her hands fisted into the front of his coat, pulling him closer, anchoring him there, he groaned—deep and low, like something primal had finally found a voice.

Everything else—the chip, the blood, the orders—disappeared.

There was only this.

Her lips.

Her breath.

Her body pressed to his like a prayer answered too late.

And him. Unmaking.

She tasted like defiance. Like every breath she had ever stolen back from fate and held in her own name.

And Caleb was drowning in it.

His mouth moved over hers with a hunger that had waited years for permission. Not tentative. Not teasing. Certain. Like his lips had been shaped for this moment and nothing else. Like he was returning to something he'd never truly touched.

She pulled at his coat again, dragging him closer, and his control snapped like a cable under pressure. He pressed forward, crowding her backward until her hips hit the edge of his desk.

A growl rumbled low in his throat.

Finally.

He broke the kiss, lips brushing against hers as he rasped.

"I should chain you here."

Her breath hitched.

"I should cut the comms. Keep you in this room for days."

His voice was rough, unsteady.

"You have no idea what it took to keep my hands off you all this time."

His gloved fingers rose to her chest—slow, reverent, obsessive. He didn't tear at her uniform. Didn't rip anything. He undid her, methodically, like dismantling a weapon.

One clasp.

Then the next.

Each undone with surgical precision.

He didn't speak again. Didn't need to.

The silence between each movement spoke for him.

I've thought about this.

I've dreamed of this.

You are mine now.

He peeled the fabric from her shoulders, baring her inch by inch, his eyes devouring every detail like a starving man memorizing a meal he didn't believe he deserved. His gloved hands didn't rush. They traced the lines of her collarbones, the curve of her arms, the dip of her waist.

And when her top slid down, when she stood before him half-bared, he didn't groan. Didn't exclaim.

He exhaled.

Like he'd just laid eyes on God.

His fingers, still sheathed in leather, drifted down to the waistband of her pants, and for a moment, he didn't move. Just rested them there, heavy and possessive.

"You don't know," he said, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet, "how long I've waited to ruin this."

Her breath trembled.

He leaned in, lips ghosting over her ear.

"Not fuck. Ruin.

There's a difference."

Then—he stripped her pants from her body in a single, fluid motion.

Precise.

Hungry.

Claiming.

And she stood there in her underwear, breath unsteady, skin flushed, gaze locked on his—and he saw no fear.

Just heat.

It shattered him.

He reached up to tug the gloves from his hands—slowly.

Each finger unwrapped with quiet ceremony, until at last he touched her with bare skin.

The first contact was electricity.

His palms, callused and warm, slid up her thighs. He lifted her, effortlessly, and sat her on the desk—back flat against polished metal, legs bent at the edge.

She didn't resist. She leaned back for him, gave him access.

Gave him everything.

His hands dragged up her inner thighs, thumbs brushing dangerously close to heat, but never quite landing.

"You don't know," he murmured, eyes locked on her parted lips. "how hard it's been—pretending you weren't mine."

One hand slipped beneath her knee, pressing it outward, opening her to him.

"I used to dream about this desk," he whispered. "Dream about bending you over it. Fucking you into it until you forgot your own name."

Her hear tipped back, her breath escaping in a ragged gasp.

His mouth followed.

He kissed up her inner thigh, slow and reverent, like a priest at a shrine. The heat between her legs pulsed against his breath, and for one suspended moment, he didn't move.

He just breathed her in.

Her scent.

Warm. Clean. Unmistakably hers.

It hit him like a drug.

Like gravity.

"Mine," he whispered against her skin. "You've always been mine."

Then—finally—his mouth met the damp heat of her underwear. Not urgent. Not hurried. Just... possessive.

He mouthed at her through the fabric, tongue dragging in slow, deliberate strokes, teeth just grazing.

She gasped—sharp, desperate—and his hands clamped down on her thighs, pinning her to place.

He didn't let her buck.

He didn't let her run.

He wanted her to feel it.

He peeled the fabric aside with aching care, caring her fully, and groaned when he saw how wet she was already.

"You were made for me," he murmured, almost broken. "Every inch."

His hands gripped her thighs tighter, possessive, grounding himself in the feel of her. She didn't flinch. Didn't close her legs. If anything, she leaned further back, spreading herself wider—offering.

And that simple gesture?

It undid whatever scraps of restraint still lived inside him.

"I should keep you like this," he murmured, voice hoarse. "Here. Open. Every night."

She whimpered—just faintly. It made his cock twitch behind his uniform.

"Let me look at you," he growled, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "Let me see what's mine."

And then—he dragged his tongue through her folds.

One long, deep, deliberate stroke from the base of her heat to the tight little bundle of nerves at the top, where he paused and sucked, hard enough to make her hips jerk.

But he didn't let her move.

His hands still locked her thighs in place.

"Stay still," he said, voice dark. "You don't get to run from this."

And then he went back in—tongue working slow, relentless circles, savoring every part of her. Every flick, every suck, every pause designed to build, build, build.

But he never let her fall.

He kissed her like she was air after drowning.

Suck.

Flick.

Moan.

Repeat.

He licked her with unhurried greed— mine, mine, mind—and never once took his eyes off her. Not even when she arched. Not even when her fingers fisted in his hair. He wanted to watch every tremor, every gasp, every little flicker of her unraveling.

And when her thighs began to tremble?

He pulled back.

Just slightly.

Lips wet. Breathing hard. Eyes dark with possessive hunger.

"You close?" he asked, dragging two fingers up her inner thigh, letting them hover just beneath her entrance.

She nodded, dazed. Voice caught in her throat.

And Caleb smiled.

Dark. Gentle. Dangerous.

"Not yet Pips."

Then he licked her again—slower this time. Crueler.

Keeping her right there.

Her breath was faltering.

He felt it in the way her legs tightened around his shoulders, in the way her hips strained against his grip. She was teetering—right on the edge—and still, he wouldn't let her fall.

Not fucking yet.

Caleb pulled back, slow as a tide receding from shore, lips glistening, chin slick with her arousal.

She whimpered in protest—a broken sound, half-gasp, half-plea—and he nearly gave in.

Nearly.

But then... he turned his head.

And there it was. Sitting on the corner of his desk. Still unopened.

The bottle

The apple syrup.

Untouched for years.

His fingers reached for it before his mind could form the thought. It was instinct. Memory. Ritual. He pulled it toward him, cradled it in his hand for a beat, and then—with deliberate care—uncorked it.

The scent hit him instantly.

Sweet. Viscous. Almost innocent.

But it wasn’t innocent anymore.

Not in this room.

Not on her.

He looked up at her—panting, wrecked, flushed and trembling on his desk, legs still parted, skin bare and shining with sweat. Her eyes were half-lidded, dazed, still lost in the slow torture of his mouth.

He held the bottle up between them. Said nothing.

Her gaze flicked to it—then to him.

And she nodded.

Once.

Just once.

And that was all he needed.

He moved again—lowering to his knees, positioning himself between her legs with the syrup in hand.

“I used to make this for you,” he murmured, thumb stroking her thigh. “Poured it over pancakes. Bread. Once on eggs, and you laughed so hard you cried.”

His voice cracked. Just slightly. “You said it was too sweet. But you still ate it.”

He unscrewed the top.

“I never touched it after Gran died.”

Then—he tipped the bottle.

A slow, golden stream of syrup spilled from the lip, warm from his hands, and he poured it over her inner thigh—just a ribbon at first.

She gasped.

He watched it trail across her skin like it belonged there.

Down her thigh.

Over the curve of her hip.

Trickling close—so close—to where he’d tasted her moments before.

And then—he poured more.

Lower.

Directly onto her folds.

The syrup hit her heat with a wet, sticky sound, coating her in gold.

She moaned.

He dropped the bottle—gently, carefully, like it was an offering placed at the foot of a shrine.

And then—

He licked her. Again.

Slow. Deliberate. Possessive.

His tongue dragged over the syrup-coated skin of her inner thigh, lapping it up with a sound that was all breath and heat and need. He groaned deep in his throat, the taste of her and the syrup mixing on his tongue—sweet and salt and sin.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You make it taste better than I remember.”

He pushed his face deeper between her thighs, licking the syrup from her—long, deep strokes that made her tremble. Her hands clutched at the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t let her think.

His mouth moved from thigh to folds, from syrup to slickness, from sweetness to heat.

And when his tongue pressed flat against her clit again, syrup still coating her, he moaned into her flesh like it was a blessing.

His hands gripped her thighs tight, holding her in place, keeping her right there.

And all the while, his eyes stayed open—locked on her.

Watching her chest rise and fall.

Watching her fall apart.

Watching her belong to him.

Every lick, every breath, every groan—

Was his.

“Mine,” he whispered against her soaked cunt. “All mine.”

Her hips lifted again, just slightly—subconsciously chasing friction. Caleb felt it in the tremor of her thighs, the faint stutter of her breath as her body tried to reach for what he kept just out of reach.

He didn’t stop her.

But he didn’t let her get there, either.

Because this—this—was where he wanted her.

Suspended.

Open.

Begging with her silence.

Sticky ribbons of syrup clung to the folds of her pussy, mingling with her slick until the sweetness was inseparable from the heat of her arousal. He dipped his tongue again—slow, deliberate, obscene—starting low and dragging upward in one unbroken stroke.

She gasped. Her legs clenched around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even breathe for a moment.

Just stared up at her, mouth still pressed to her core, watching her body react to him like it had been made for no one else.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice hoarse from hunger. “Fucking soaked.”

He kissed her clit.

Once.

Gentle.

Mocking.

“You get this wet for anyone else?”

She whimpered—choked and wordless.

Caleb growled low in his throat. His tongue dipped again, swirling through the syrup-slick mess he’d made of her, letting it coat his mouth, his lips, his chin.

Every taste pushed him deeper into something unhinged.

“I know what you sound like when you lie,” he murmured against her. “So if you even think about saying you’ve had better—”

He pressed his tongue flat to her entrance. Flicked upward.

“—I’ll fuck it out of you.

Again. And again.

Until you forget every name but mine."

𝑻𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅…. (𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟐 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏).

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝒃𝒚 𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔’𝒔 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒘

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laddelulu30 · 4 months ago

Text

LOVED THIS!!!!

Collateral Damage of Dragons

Synopsis: Sylus is still a dragon, but keeps tight control on his form. It's only when you lose all inhibitions while ovulating that he matches your energy.

Notes/Warnings: explicit shameless nsfw (MDNI), sylus x afab!reader, no use of Y/N, they're feral and break things, breeding, established relationship, you know he's not human but not much else, explicit consent and safe word established, predator/prey tones

This took too long to write. Barely proofread. Might cross-post to AO3 later. HAPPY BIRTHDAY SYLUS- I've been saving for the birthday memory.

wc: 3.1k

Tag List: @browneyedgirl22 @cherryredstarz

You were possessed. At least, that’s what it felt like rushing into the N109 Zone on your bike, the heavy vibrations making the ache between your legs unbearable. You’d only gotten off work just before racing over into lawless land because you couldn’t bother to wait. It was bad enough Xavier had been hovering, like he could tell your panties were soaked even after spending forty-five minutes wrapping up some paperwork from some wanderer encounters. You adored your sleepy coworker, but there was only one man on your mind all day making you ache.

Driving right into the underground garage where Sylus liked to keep all his various motorcycles was second nature to you these days ever since you and Sylus became rather serious about your relationship. You still liked to dance around each other in your methods of sharing indirect affection, but the dance held an electric zeal to it now. It was a good thing you both liked a little danger.

When you slipped into the base, you were on a hunt. Luckily, the twins seemed to be absent. It saved everyone from some awkwardness and trouble. Your boyfriend was proving to be rather elusive. He wasn’t in the boxing ring, his favorite music room, his bedroom, or the main armory. You made it back to the large common room that had an open kitchen and island with a quiet huff when finally a presence appeared at your back.

Your neck was brushed with a strong nose and curious lips that sent fire right to your aching pussy. Large, strong hands settled on your hips as the deep voice of Sylus practically purred into your ear after tugging your earlobe between his teeth momentarily.

“Looks like a little kitten brought herself to me in heat.”

You spun on Sylus, pointing an accusatory finger in his face until he tried to bite it. Your glare was fueled with playful annoyance.

“You-! You know exactly what time of the month it is and you were deliberately hiding from me.” You accused even as your boyfriend dragged you closer to press your bodies together.

“Hm.. guilty as charged. Fuck I could smell you the moment you walked in, kitten.” Sylus buried his face in your neck once more to breathe in deeply like he needed your scent to survive. A soft growl reverberated in his throat.

You couldn’t stop the shiver that licked up your spine, leaning your head to the side for him. It was the faintest whimper from your lips that had him lightly biting into your neck, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second before relaxing in what you knew to be an exercise of restraint. That simply wouldn’t do.

Ever since you learned Sylus wasn’t exactly… human, you’ve been wanting to see more of that wild part of him that he always kept careful control over. You learned quickly that your scent drives him crazy, so you intentionally didn’t put any artificial smells on your skin today.

Oh you knew exactly what you were doing. You intentionally denied yourself the littlest pleasure as the peak of your ovulation hit just so you could truly let loose with Sylus. You even already put in for tomorrow off. It was all for this. You wondered if he suspected anything.

Planting a firm hand on his chest, you pushed Sylus away with blushing cheeks, knowing your panties were ruined and that he could smell that. It was such an unexpected turn on. Sylus didn’t look at all upset at being pushed away save for the tiniest frown as his eyes danced over your face.

“Down boy…” You laughed lightly. “You go sit over there for thirty seconds. I get to have a head start since you decided to hide from me. You better not hold back. I have my safeword: Pomegranate.”

You swore you saw Sylus’s dilate more than they ever have before at your quiet words. It was so embarrassing at first, having open and honest conversations over something like sex, but Sylus always stressed the importance of it and now it made things like what you were about to do utterly thrilling knowing you’re safe with him.

You’ve never seen Sylus drop onto a couch so quickly, his eyes burning holes into you. The red gaze never once left your direction and followed you as you neared the doorway to the hallway. You looked over your shoulder at him, kicking off your boots one by one.

“Start counting… Now!” With a final shout you broke into a sprint, heart already racing and giggles flying from you without your say.

During your run, you started discarding things. First it was your holsters for your pistols. Then your socks. Your pants and shirt took the longest, but as you let your ruined panties hit the bare floor, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and quickly ran off again, now only left in your bra.

You slid into the long hallway that would eventually lead to his bedroom and felt that sensation again- that you were being watched by a predator. You didn’t even make it halfway down the hall before a heavy mass was shoving you into a wall chest first. A hand landed above your head and there your dark red panties were twisted in his grip. A long drag of Sylus’s tongue up the back of your neck and the rough pressing of his hips into your ass had you gasping out his name, reaching back with one arm to bury your hand in his silver hair.

“I caught you.” Came his low growl.

An irreverent hand slipped between your legs to drag through your dripping folds. He pauses to circle two fingers into your swollen clit for several moments. Pressing yourself back against his cock, you didn’t hold back your noises as he drew them from you.

“My pretty girl… so ready for me… You put so much effort into trying to drive me wild, huh? You want me to breed your pretty pussy so badly, kitten?”

The filth that came from his lips was just what you wanted as you forced him back a step with a harsh elbow, caught by his hand wrapped in your panties of course. Spinning, you dragged him up against you by the waistband of his pants.

“Why are these still on?” You grumbled before his lips crashed into yours in a wild flurry of kisses that was an obscene connection of tongue, lips, and panting breaths.

You only have a brief second to latch onto his shoulders as he drags your legs up around his waist. He only walks you both a small distance before he settles you on a table just meant to display some of his “shiny things” as you call them. Items of exorbitant value that he likes because of one reason or another. You try to be careful to not knock anything over, almost mentioning it to him to be careful, but he was kneeling between your legs.

You were given no warning as his lips closed over your clit for him to suck on and felt two fingers spread your folds to expose your aching hole clenching around nothing. Sylus groaned into your heat, pulling back only briefly to drown you in praise.

“You taste so good- I can’t get enough.”

You felt the cold tingling sensation of his evol as it wrapped around one of your calves to drag it over his shoulder as he buried his face into you once more. He slipped two fingers into you instead of starting with one like he usually did and it sent your back arching and snapping a hand down to his hair.

“Fuck!” You whined out, feeling his fingers slowly thrust into you at an easy pace. It was when he pulled lightly on your clit with his teeth and teased his tongue along the hood of your clit that made your arm snap out across the table. You were desperate for something to hold onto, but instead you sent a gorgeous piece of kintsugi flying to the ground, shattering immediately on impact.

The sharp sound made you jump, apologies starting to tumble off your kiss-swollen lips, but Sylus didn’t so much as shift from his position of worship between your legs. He only curled his fingers up to rub that delectable spongy spot in you that made you see stars and felt his grin when you sobbed out his name. It was right there, that delicious edge promising a most wondrous fall that had you bucking your hips into his mouth.

“Sylus! Please! S-so close. Wanna cum…” You cried.

Part of you knew he was going to pull away, but it still didn’t stop your despairing gasps that melted into frustrated growling and huffs.

Sylus rising from between your legs was a sight you’ll never tire of as his tongue worked over his fingers to collect every drop of your essence. Your slick covered the lower half of his face and that only made the denial of your orgasm all the more painful. The way he was watching you, you knew he was giving you a moment to put a stop to things if you truly wanted. Shaking your head, you sat up just so you could tear open his buttoned shirt. You glared at him when he only gave you an amused quirk of his eyebrow.

“Such a hissy kitten… You should know by now that you’re not allowed to cum tonight unless my cock is buried in you and filling you with my seed.”

Your glare became more of a pout at his purred words, a fresh wave of need hitting you like a freight train. Gods you wanted that so badly. You needed that.

“Then stop talking and take me to bed, or do you not want me to have your baby.” As you spoke you wrapped your legs around him to pull his hips into you and felt his throbbing bulge get soaked with your dripping need.

Sylus’s groan made your toes curl before he was sweeping you up in his arms and stumbling towards his room even as you desperately ground your pussy against his confined cock. His fingers sinking into the flesh of your ass almost felt sharp when he finally kicked his bedroom door in. He was too focused on biting bruises into your neck to even spare a moment of his attention to the fact that he kicked his poor door hard enough to break off one of the hinges.

When Sylus finally threw you down onto his bed you looked up at him with a cheeky smile, rolling over onto your stomach and raising your hips with a little wiggle. It earned you a hard slap as Sylus spanked you while getting rid of what remained of his shirt and his soiled pants. You let out a sharp yelp that eased into a whiny moan as heat radiated from where his palm landed on your ass.

The coolness of his evol was on your skin again as your bra was tugged free and a pillow being moved to support your hips. Then it concentrated on your wrists as your arms were pulled taut in front of you, pinned.

“Is this okay, kitten?” Sylus’s voice was a comforting roughness that always left you putty in his hands. You started to nod before verbally responding instead.

“H..haah… yes. I need you inside, Sy… I need it so badly.”

You wanted to push back into him when you felt his cock throb against you. You were still so high strung from your denied orgasm, the cusp just lingering beyond your reach. Couple that with how horny you’ve been practically all week, having waited for this day in particular, you were at your wits end.

While discussion of kids has floated around, you two haven’t tried to exactly plan for any of it. If it happens, it happens was the mentality you both were okay with, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t try to tip the odds in your favor. It most certainly wasn’t because one of your coworkers on maternity recently stopped by with her new baby and something gripped at you so desperately you’ve been thinking about it non-stop since.

“Don’t worry Sweetie, I’ll take care of you.” Sylus’s words were an oath and you knew he’d deliver.

One of his hands massaged the cheek he slapped moments ago while his other guided him to your dripping heat only for him to sink in right to the hilt immediately. Normally it took a little time for you to relax properly. His breathless laughter was at your neck as he leaned over you, brushing your hair away so he could trail kisses along your spine.

“You really weren’t kidding… you’ve never taken me so eagerly before, baby.”

You sobbed out in utter bliss as his cock filled out every inch of you just as you’ve been needing, but even this felt like it needed more and he was already huge to begin with! His little bits of teasing didn’t even get a real response from you beyond you trying to bounce yourself against his hips.

Sylus didn’t need to be told twice to get moving, working both of you up to a brutal pace that had your entire being singing with pleasure. His cock hit you in all the right ways, reaching deep enough to tease your empty womb. Your evol-bound hands twisted into the bedding as each noise was forced from your lungs.

“More… Feels so good Sy… Want more…” You babbled, unable to see the slight emergence of black scales along his skin.

He’s never had a lapse of control over his form since long before he even jumped to this time from the Deepspace tunnel, but you right now- the way you cried for him, the scent of your fertile womb at its peak, knowing you’ve been struck by a wave of baby fever from a coworker… It made this beastly side of him rear its ugly head. The need to pin you down with his teeth and tail, to claim you as his mate properly with a vicious bite, to fill you completely and knot you to make sure his seed catches. Oh, you ruined him in all the best ways.

He knew his teeth were already sharper with how his jaw ached to clamp down on your neck and uncontrollable drool pooled in his mouth. His nails wanted to become familiar claws, but he refused to lose the sensation of feeling your skin with the sensitivity fingers offered. Your pleading for more was going to be his undoing. He could already feel a knot forming at the base of his cock and from the way you suddenly bit into the bedding with a sob, the rest of it changed too. Firm ridges and all.

“Oh gods… yessss! Sylus!” You were so lost in your pleasure you hardly paid attention to the differences other than it felt so good. Feeling drool hit your shoulder, you instinctively dropped your head the opposite way.

“Bite me.” You commanded between tearful mewls. “I’m so close-”

The noise Sylus made definitely sounded more beastial than man, but where he worried you might get scared, you just cried his name again, begging him to cum in you as you hit your peak. Sylus was growling when he slammed his hips into you, bullying his knot into your tight hole just as he clamped his teeth down on the junction between your neck and shoulder.

You were crying, overwhelmed completely between the pain and pleasure. The way he rolled his hips with every steady pulse as he filled you dragged you through the remnants of your orgasm. Something deep inside you was immensely satisfied, feeling so full of your lover.

You vaguely heard Sylus swear and your neck ache, but everything was fading out fast with sweet sleep dragged you under with a siren’s song.

“Love you… Sylus…” You mumbled before drifting off fully.

—

When you woke up your entire body was sore, but your pussy ached the most. You could smell Sylus on your pillow and hummed in contentment while stretching out as a lazy cat would. You nearly drifted back to sleep when tender fingers brushed your hair from your face and a low voice called your name.

You blearily pried one eye open, barely peeking out from your blanket you had pulled up right under your chin. Red eyes filled your vision and a tender hand crept past your blanket defenses to cup your chin.

“Hey Sweetie… Are you alright?” Sylus looked so concerned, his hair a wild mess as if he’d been running his hands through it constantly.

“Mhm… It was amazing.” You started to push the blankets down to reach out for him when you realized he already had you in a fresh set of one of your favorite jammies.

“Why aren’t you cuddling me?” You pouted.

“You, my dearest, are a menace.” He drawled out slowly, a visible relief melting into his body and eyes before he dragged a hand through his hair. You narrowed your eyes slightly.

“Were you worried about me?” You questioned, starting to sit up before he shook his head and crawled into bed with you. He dragged you on top of him like you usually preferred and he started playing with a bit of your hair.

“I lost myself a little.” He admitted quietly, meeting your eyes with genuine remorse. “I hurt you because I wasn’t-” “Did I say pomegranate?” You interrupted him, tilting your head slightly.

“No, but-”

“But nothing. I didn’t say it. I wanted all of you. Even the nonhuman-y bits. Those are starting to become my favorite.” You grinned, cheeks going the slightest bit red as the memories started coming back.

“I trust you. You trust me, right?” You reached to run a finger along his upper lip.

“I do.” He responded without hesitation. “I just… losing any level of control for me is-”

“You don’t have to explain. I know.” Your finger traced up his nose and along his brow. “You’re Sylus. My Sylus. And I’ll always love every part of you- good, bad, and wild.” You sat up slightly on his lap, dancing two fingers up his chest while humming. “And if you ever decide you want me to see all of you, I’ll savor every bit of it. Because it’s you.”

Sylus snatched your hand in his, lacing your fingers together with a quiet laugh, his eyes shining with love and face just the slightest bit red. He dragged your hands close so he could kiss the back of yours.

“I love you.” He breathed your name with reverence along with his declaration of love. It’s hardly the first time you’ve heard him like this, but it still made your heart skip a beat. You snuggled into his chest, letting your hands rest together completely entwined.

“I love you too.”

#DragonSylusSmut #love and deepspace sylus #Holyshit #Smut #ovulation for the win #holding out comes with rewards #Mmmm... yummy.. dragon Sylus #sorry not sorry #Shameless and horny

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laddelulu30 · 4 months ago

Note

This was so yummy. I have no words for how achingly good this was.

Sylus going into an uncontrollable frenzy but it's his dragon rut, compelling him to breed MC over and over again until she lays his eggs. Rinse repeat until his rut is over. How's that?

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬

— 𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐋𝐄𝐃 beneath his skin again.

Not the kind that sweat could cool, or water could soothe, or even pain could drown.

This heat came from somewhere deeper—older. It had lived in his marrow since birth, smoldering quiet and patient, waiting for the right season to ignite and consume him from the inside out.

It always started the same.

A flicker behind his ribs.

A dull throb in the back of his skull.

A tension in his chest, like some ancient chain was being pulled tight—one link at a time.

Then came the ache.

And the ache—gods help him—never fucking let up.

Now, it curled low in his belly—coiled, pulsing—like something inside him had begun to stir.

Something wrong.

Something ancient.

Something with teeth and claws and no fucking concept of mercy.

Sylus clenched his jaw and shifted against the cold stone wall, his shackled wrists dragging with a metallic scrape that scraped raw. The iron cuffs had scorched him the moment he locked them on—runes hissing to life with the sharp sting of burning flesh.

He hadn’t flinched.

Pain was easy.

Pain, he knew.

It was the need he couldn’t fucking stand.

His cock had been hard for forty hours. Maybe longer. He’d stopped counting somewhere between agony and obsession. It throbbed with every heartbeat—each pulse a cruel, relentless reminder of what he couldn’t have.

What he shouldn’t have.

Not when wanting meant claiming.

Not when claiming meant breaking her open and filling her until her body bowed beneath the beast clawing up his spine.

A guttural sound tore from his throat—half snarl, half sob. He dropped his head back against the stone wall and stayed there, breathing through clenched teeth, every muscle trembling from the effort of holding still.

He’d built this chamber with his own hands. Designed it not just as a tomb—but a prison. A sanctuary. The only place he trusted to hold him when the rut came raging.

Not because the chains would hold.

They wouldn’t.

Not forever.

But down here, buried beneath the world, there was no one to hurt but himself. No one for the dragon to scent. To claim. To ruin in the name of instinct.

No one like her.

Gods.

He hadn’t seen her in three days—and he could still fucking taste her.

Not literally.

Not yet.

But her scent clung to him like a sin he couldn’t wash off. Her laughter echoed in the hollow pit of his chest like a memory carved too deep. The shape of her lived beneath his skin—hips, lips, the delicate slope of her throat—and when he closed his eyes, she was there.

Always.

Fucking. There.

Kneeling between his legs.

Whimpering his name.

Begging him to let go.

He could see it.

Her hair a mess. Her lips swollen. Her legs trembling around him. Marked. Bitten. Bred.

The image slammed into him like a punch to the ribs. He growled and jerked forward, chains rattling violently as he doubled over, his cock throbbing so hard it hurt—leaking, aching, demanding.

The pain in his gut twisted sharp, laced with pressure, instinct, and the unshakable, soul-deep knowledge that—

She was meant to carry him.

She was his mate.

Not by choice.

Not even by fate.

By blood.

By biology.

By the old, feral magic running through his veins—twisting him into something not quite human.

Something older. Crueler. Hungrier.

The rut was sacred to dragons. That’s what the archives called it.

A biological imperative.

A rite of claiming.

A holy tradition woven in blood and instinct.

Sacred, his ass.

There was nothing holy about what he wanted to do to her.

Not when he knew—knew—what would happen the moment his skin touched hers.

He wouldn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

The first time would be brutal.

Fast.

Desperate.

The kind of fucking that left bruises shaped like his hands. His teeth. That filled her so deep she couldn’t walk. So hard she couldn’t think of anyone but him.

And then he’d do it again.

And again.

Until her belly swelled with his seed.

Until her voice gave out and her eyes glazed with surrender.

Until she looked at him like he was the only thing she’d ever worshipped.

Until she was ruined.

And even then, it wouldn’t be enough.

His rut wouldn’t stop until he knew—down to the final flicker of instinct—that she’d never walk away.

Not physically.

Not emotionally.

Not spiritually.

She wouldn’t just belong to him.

She’d be him.

Not a lover.

Not a partner.

A mate.

His.

Down to her blood.

Down to her bones.

Down to the place inside her that only he would ever touch again.

He shuddered and let his head fall between his knees, breath coming in shallow, broken gasps. Every inhale stoked the fire. Every exhale whispered her name like a curse he couldn’t shake.

He hated himself for it.

Hated the way his body betrayed him. Hated the way his mind crumbled at the mere thought of her—how she flickered through him like a ghost he couldn’t exorcise.

He should’ve told her weeks ago.

Should’ve warned her.

Should’ve shoved her away the first time she looked at him like he wasn’t a monster.

But she hadn’t looked away.

And gods help him—She still hadn’t.

And that terrified him more than the rut itself.

Because Sylus could survive the fire. He could survive the hunger, the pain, the madness.

But her?

She’d burn.

And he’d be the one to light the fucking match.

There came a point when pain stopped feeling like pain. He wasn’t sure when he crossed it—somewhere between the second nosebleed and the moment his claws shredded the inside of his own palm.

Now it was just static.

White noise behind his eyes. A low, bone-deep buzz that never stopped.

Sylus didn’t know how long he’d been down here. There was no light. Only heat. A trembling, relentless fever under his skin that refused to break.

His thoughts came fractured.

Blurred.

Sometimes, he remembered who he was. Other times, all he remembered was her.

She slipped through his mind in pieces—The slope of her shoulders when she turned away. The flicker of her pulse when she stood too close. The way she lingered after speaking… like she was waiting.

Waiting for him to say something more—

Something he didn’t know how to give without destroying it. Without destroying her.

She was gentleness wrapped in fire.

A miracle in mortal skin.

And his body was tearing itself apart just to reach her.

Sylus shifted against the wall and felt the slick drag of his own blood down his thigh—warm, wet, sticky.

It wasn’t hers.

Not yet.

But his rut didn’t know the difference. It just wanted.

It wanted her wet and open and trembling.

Wanted her split wide and sobbing beneath him, nails clawing at his shoulders as he poured himself into her again and again—until the beast finally stopped howling.

But she wasn’t here.

Not really.

Still, his mind conjured her like a fever dream he couldn’t wake from.

Sometimes she whispered his name. Sometimes she knelt in front of him, voice trembling, pupils blown wide, legs parted in offering.

Sometimes—gods—he could feel her fingers on his chest. Light. Lingering. Like she sensed what was happening to him even from miles away.

But the worst was her scent.

That delicate, devastating blend of clean skin and soft things.

She smelled like warmth.

Like home.

And now, that memory was tangled with blood and sweat and fire—and it was driving him fucking insane.

His hips jerked without warning, his cock aching—flushed dark, the head slick from hours of helpless arousal.

He’d stopped pretending.

Stopped trying to ignore the instinct when every part of him was already preparing for her.

For claiming.

For ruin.

A low growl tore from his throat as he yanked at the chains again—not to break free. He didn’t want freedom. He didn’t trust what he’d become beyond this wall.

He just needed something.

Friction. Resistance. A reason to stay tethered.

But all he felt was her.

Her thighs wrapped tight around his waist. Her voice breaking into that helpless little moan when he bottomed out. The way she’d arch for him—like her body was crafted for this. For him.

The sound of skin slapping skin.

The wet drag of her cunt sucking him in—milking him.

Demanding more.

Always more—

No.

His head slammed back against the wall with a sickening crack. Blood spilled over his lips—he’d bitten straight through them.

He didn’t care.

“Stop,” he rasped into the dark. “Stop showing me things that aren’t real.”

But the tomb stayed silent.

And his mind?

His mind wouldn’t shut up.

Now she was on top of him.

Riding him slow.

Cruel.

Like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Her fingers tangled in his hair. Her mouth brushed his ear, warm and sinful.

“I want to feel you lose control.”

He made a sound he didn’t recognize. A broken gasp. A choked cry. He curled in on himself, yanking at the cuffs until bone scraped against iron.

This was what the rut did.

It wasn’t just heat.

Wasn’t even lust anymore.

It was hunger.

Soul-deep.

All-consuming.

A compulsion so violent, sanity wasn’t just out of reach—It was extinct.

And it would only end one way.

With her under him. Screaming his name.

Covered in bruises. Flooded with seed. Marked by promises he’d never be able to take back.

She’d never walk the same.

She’d never be clean again.

She’d be his.

And some feral part of him—ancient, ugly, honest—rejoiced in it.

He was shaking now.

Every muscle locked.

Every breath too shallow to soothe.

His body strained to shift—scales rippling beneath skin, claws itching to break free—but he kept it buried.

Barely.

Just barely.

He wanted to weep.

Instead, he laughed.

A jagged, broken sound—splintered like bone. Echoing off stone like a death rattle.

This was what he was.

At his core.

Not a soldier. Not a protector. Not even a man.

A beast.

And if she walked through that door—if she made the mistake of touching him—

He’d take her.

Ruin her.

He would fucking take her.

And the worst part?

She’d let him.

He was lying on the floor when a shift happened.

Face pressed to cold stone. Breath shallow. Muscles locked tight from hours of holding back the monster gnawing at his insides.

The pulse in his cock throbbed in cruel rhythm with the one hammering behind his eyes. His throat was raw from all the things he hadn’t screamed.

He blinked—slow. Sluggish.

Something shifted.

Not light. No—light didn’t touch this place.

This was deeper.

Like the chamber exhaled. And in that breath, he felt it.

A trace.

So faint it could’ve been nothing.

So familiar it hurt.

Not heat. Not fire.

Something clean.

His fingers twitched.

Jaw clenched.

The scent was impossible. It didn’t belong here. It shouldn’t exist here.

But he knew it.

His body recognized it before his brain did—his hips shifted. His mouth parted. A low, helpless whimper dragged from his throat like confession.

No.

No, no, no.

His eyes snapped open.

The hallucinations were getting worse.

More vivid.

More cruel.

This one smelled like her skin after a storm. Like the smile she wore when she thought he wasn’t watching. Like the place behind her ear he dreamed of biting, licking—claiming.

He froze.

Eyes wide.

Chest barely rising.

Because hallucinations didn’t move.

And this one did.

Footsteps. Soft. Hesitant.

The kind made by someone who wasn’t afraid.

Yet.

His entire body went rigid.

The chains groaned.

He told himself it wasn’t real.

Couldn’t be.

She’d never make it past the outer wards—and if she had... gods, if she had—she wouldn’t be walking. She’d be running. Screaming.

Gone.

But the footsteps kept coming. Closer.

And then—

“...Sylus?”

His heart stopped.

That—

That wasn’t a hallucination.

He didn’t imagine it. He couldn’t have.

Her voice didn’t slither through his head like the others had. It cut.

Clean through the fog. Sharp. Trembling. Real.

Too fucking real.

He rolled onto his side, breath caught behind his ribs.

No.

No, she couldn’t be here.

Except—

There she was.

Standing just inside the threshold. Frozen mid-step, like even she had just realized what a mistake it was.

Hands hovering. Eyes wide. Barely breathing.

She looked like an angel—trapped in a cathedral built to worship monsters.

His monster.

His gaze dragged over her—slow, hungry—like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

Because it didn’t.

Not now. Not with her standing there, real and soft and so fucking close.

She hadn’t changed.

Not even a little.

But he had.

He’d rotted from the inside out.

Burned himself down to bone and built new flesh from fire and madness and her name.

And now she was here—and it was too much.

Too fast.

Too bright.

For a moment, they just stared at each other.

No words.

No breath.

Only ruin and recognition.

Then he turned his face away.

“Get out,” he rasped. His voice scraped like gravel. “You need to leave.”

She didn’t move.

She didn’t fucking move.

His chest convulsed.

And then—he felt it.

The moment his rut caught her scent.

It struck like lightning through bone.

The shift was instant. The fire inside him exploded, surging up his spine, locking his jaw, forcing his claws to extend with a sharp, sickening crack. His back arched against the wall. His cock—already hard—throbbed violently, leaking, twitching, aching.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Clenched his teeth so tight his molars groaned in protest.

“Don’t come closer.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a prayer.

Still, she came.

One step. Then another.

And with each one, the space between them unraveled—disappearing like it had never existed.

He could hear her breathing now. Could feel it in the air, trembling and human and hers.

It was her.

Not a hallucination.

Not a dream.

Not some cruel fantasy conjured by a brain boiled alive in rut.

She was here.

And the weight of that truth shattered something inside him.

He broke.

Not with a roar. Not with violence.

With silence.

Everything inside him folded inward—collapsed beneath the gravity of her presence.

The dragon stilled.

The fire raged... quieter.

Because she was real. And she was close. And he was no longer chained by stone—

Or rune.

Or duty.

Or guilt—

He was chained by her.

By the soul-ripping, terrifying truth that he wanted this.

Not just the rut. Not just the claiming.

Her.

He wanted to drag her to the floor and bury himself so deep inside her she forgot her own name. Wanted to make her scream, beg, break—until her voice replaced every sin etched into his soul.

He wanted to knot her.

Mark her.

Own her.

And he couldn’t.

Because he loved her.

And if he touched her now—he wouldn’t stop.

He’d never stop.

He wouldn’t just ruin her body.

He’d ruin everything.

She stepped closer.

Not boldly. Not recklessly. Not like someone who didn’t know fear—

But like someone who knew him.

And that made it worse.

Unbearable.

Sylus kept his gaze fixed on the floor, terrified that if he looked up—the dragon would see her.

And forget who it belonged to.

Forget the silence. The restraint. The bloodied palms and swallowed prayers.

Forget every line he’d carved into his soul to keep her safe.

Her footsteps echoed across the stone—soft at first. Then louder. Like even the walls had begun to listen.

He tasted copper.

His lips had split open again—reopened by the tension knotted in his jaw like wire.

She was close now.

Too close.

He could feel the air shift around her. Pressure folding inward. Like gravity had changed its allegiance. Like the chamber had always been waiting for her—to step inside it.

To fill it.

Like even the room knew she belonged here.

“Sylus,” she whispered.

Her voice wavered. Just barely.

He closed his eyes.

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” she said, gentle and unsure. “I know that.”

He didn’t answer. What else could he give her now but silence?

“But I couldn’t find you,” she continued. “No one could. You disappeared.”

Her breath hitched—soft, cracked.

“I thought… I thought something had happened to you.”

He almost laughed.

Something had happened to him.

She happened.

Every time she entered a room—every time she looked at him with those soft, searching eyes—something inside him shifted.

Shifted until it cracked.

Until it wasn’t just a feeling anymore—but a thing with wings and claws and a single, maddening purpose:

To take her.

To keep her.

To fuck her so deep into the stone that the world forgot her name and remembered only his.

He inhaled sharply through his nose. It burned like punishment.

“I didn’t mean to invade,” she added quickly, her voice fraying at the edges, soft as worn linen. “I just… I couldn’t stay away.”

Gods.

She meant it.

She hadn’t come here out of recklessness.

Or curiosity.

She came because she felt something pulling her. Because the string tying them together had started to fray—and she couldn’t bear the unraveling.

Because somewhere deep down, she knew—he was coming apart in this tomb.

And her absence was the blade.

Sylus’s shoulders trembled.

“I want to help you,” she said. “Please. Let me help you.”

No.

No—

“You can’t,” he croaked.

His voice wasn’t human anymore. It was a rasp of shredded control, every word chewed raw by the beast he kept caged inside.

She dropped to her knees in front of him.

He felt it like an earthquake under his ribs.

Too close.

Too willing.

“Sylus…” she breathed.

Eyes wide.

Lips parted.

She didn’t touch him. Not yet. But her fingers hovered—aching to reach, to comfort.

He flinched.

Not from pain.

Not from fear.

From the unbearable truth: If she so much as brushed his skin, the chains wouldn’t matter.

Nothing would.

He would tear free. He would ruin her.

And gods help him—

It would be glorious.

Her gaze swept over him. The blood at his wrists. The heat shimmering off his skin. The unnatural curve of his spine, strained by what fought to escape.

Her breath caught.

But she didn’t back away.

“I can’t leave you like this.”

“You don’t understand what this is,” he growled.

Every word dragged up from the pit of his stomach like they weighed a hundred pounds each.

She leaned closer.

He wanted to retreat—but there was nowhere to go.

“I know it’s your rut,” she said softly.

Every nerve in his body froze.

The word curled in the air like a blade unsheathed.

His eyes snapped to hers before he could stop himself.

Bad idea.

Fucking terrible idea.

Because she was crying.

Barely.

Not from fear.

From understanding. From wanting to understand.

And that wrecked him more than any scream ever could.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not safe. I’m not even a man anymore. I’m a weapon wrapped in flesh.”

“I don’t care.”

Her voice cracked.

And it cracked him.

A fractured exhale tore from his chest.

It felt like breaking open. Like he’d been holding his breath for centuries.

“I can’t control it,” he warned. “If I touch you, I’ll… I’ll do things I can’t undo.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

His head dropped forward, forehead nearly brushing her knee. Not a choice. Just gravity giving out.

His body trembled.

Not from heat.

Not from lust.

From the agony of being this close.

She reached for him.

Her hand hovered—just above his cheek. Not touching. Yet.

He wanted to lean in. He wanted to bite her wrist. He wanted to weep.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered.

He looked up.

And saw everything.

The softness.

The sorrow.

The impossible willingness.

It wasn’t bravado.

It was belief.

She believed in him. Still. After everything.

After seeing what this place had done to him. What the fire was making of him. What little was left.

She still chose him.

And that—that was the final nail.

His vision blurred. The cuffs began to crack.

The dragon inside him stopped pacing.

It leapt.

She touched him.

The lightest graze—fingers along his cheekbone. Barely pressure. Barely movement.

But it was enough to end everything.

Sylus didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The chains held. The runes etched into the iron glowed with warning—dim, pulsing red, reacting to the blood roaring through his veins.

His arms stayed locked behind him, metal biting into burned skin.

You’re not safe. You’re not fit to touch her.

But she didn’t care.

Her fingers lingered.

And he shattered.

Not loudly. Not in a way she could see.

But inside—where things broke clean and never healed right—he came apart.

Because after days of agony—

After blood soaking the stone—

After losing track of what was real—

She touched him like he was still a man.

Not a monster.

Not a weapon.

Just him.

A low, broken sound tore from his throat.

A plea.

The cuffs didn’t break. Not yet.

But the runes flickered.

A warning. Or a promise.

His jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

He wanted to turn into her palm. To bury his face in her skin and bite. Mark her. Claim her. Breathe her in until she drowned on it.

But he stayed still. Shackled. Shaking.

Her breath brushed his lips.

“Sylus,” she whispered—a breath shaped like mercy. “I’m here.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

The runes sparked and the iron groaned.

He breathed through his teeth.

Her scent—soft, warm, fatal—saturated the air.

The runes sparked and the iron groaned once more.

Still, he didn’t move.

She leaned in closer.

Her forehead rested against his.

No pressure.

Just presence.

He felt her breath on his mouth.

It didn’t comfort him.

It damned him.

The rut surged beneath his skin like molten metal. Ripping through nerves. Boiling bone.

His hips twitched. His cock throbbed—violently. Dripping. Desperate.

“Sylus,” she said again.

Softer this time.

Not a plea.

A vow.

“Let it go…”

He turned his face into her palm and exhaled—a full-body shudder rolling through him like surrender.

“I can’t,” he whispered.

“You can.”

The final rune sputtered.

His right cuff cracked.

The sound was so quiet she didn’t notice. But he did.

He felt it like a fault line splitting open beneath a city—small. Deadly. Final.

And still—he didn’t move.

Because he knew what came next.

If the chains gave—there’d be no stopping it. No dignity. No gentle restraint.

Only instinct. Only fire. Only her beneath him—breaking. Begging. Blissed out of her mind.

She leaned in. Pressed her chest to his. Folded her legs around him.

And the heat of her body sank into his like gasoline to a live flame.

That was when the left cuff snapped.

No light.

No flash.

Just—a break.

Quiet.

Lethal.

His hand fell free.

He didn’t use it. Not yet.

He held it still—like a condemned man savoring one final breath before the executioner’s blade.

She didn’t notice.

She was too close.

Too focused on his face—eyes wide, full of something between terror and tenderness.

And in that moment, Sylus knew—he couldn’t let her go.

Not even if it ruined them.

Not even if it wrecked her.

Not even if the man inside him was already gone—swallowed whole by the thing that wanted to fuck her until she forgot her name and begged to wear his mark forever.

His free hand moved.

Slow.

Shaking.

Like he was reaching for divinity.

He didn’t grab.

Didn’t pull.

He just lifted that trembling, bloodied hand—and let it hover beside her cheek.

She turned her face into it. Let his fingers brush her skin.

And when she did—when she leaned into his ruin like she wanted to belong to it—his last thread of control snapped.

He surged forward.

His mouth crashed into hers—hard, hungry, desperate.

His whole body ignited with the need to taste her.

To feel her.

To consume her.

The last cuff shattered behind him—but freedom meant nothing now.

He didn’t need freedom.

He needed her.

And he’d never stop.

He didn’t remember moving.

One second, he was kissing her—frenzied, messy, too much teeth and not enough air—

And the next, she was on her back beneath him.

Hair fanned over cold stone like a crown of fire. Mouth red and kiss-bruised. Chest rising and falling like she couldn’t breathe.

And her legs—

Spread.

Just enough to welcome him in.

And gods help him—He fit there.

He hovered above her, panting like an animal, hands planted beside her head. His whole body trembled with restraint—the last shred of it pulled tight around his ribs like barbed wire.

His hips surged forward—instinctual.

His cock dragged against her clothed core—hot, throbbing—and the friction nearly made him sob.

Her eyes met his.

She nodded.

Once.

Slow.

And that—that was the end.

No more hesitation.

No more chains.

No more mercy.

He tore her clothes open with both hands—not undressing.

Destroying.

Fabric shredded beneath his fingers. Sleeves split. Her top peeled away in ruins.

She gasped—and the sound hit him like lightning to the spine.

The dragon inside him didn’t purr.

It roared.

He dropped to his knees between her thighs.

Yanked her underwear down with shaking hands—snarling when the lace clung to her skin like defiance—and threw the scrap across the chamber like it offended him.

Then he looked down—

And gods.

There she was.

Bare. Glistening. Open for him.

The sound that tore from his chest was so low, so guttural—it made the stone beneath them seem to vibrate.

“Sylus—”

She said his name like she’d never say it again.

He didn’t answer.

He grabbed her thighs—

Tight.

Possessive.

Claws barely held in check.

And he dragged her into his lap.

Like she was nothing but gravity’s favorite offering.

His cock brushed against her folds—

Hot.

Leaking.

So thick it looked almost inhuman—the ridge swollen from too much denial,the base already beginning to swell—a promise of the knot to come.

He didn’t line up. He didn’t tease. He just thrust.

Hard.

Deep.

Final.

He buried himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke.

And her scream—

Her scream—

Was fucking divine.

Her walls clamped down around him like her body had been built to break for him.

Tight. Wet.Hotter than fire.

And the second he bottomed out—something inside him howled.

His head dropped to her shoulder, fangs bared at her throat, and his hips—they moved.

Not rhythmically.

Not gently.

They claimed.

Grinding.

Dragging.

Devouring.

Each thrust punched a moan out of her—her nails raking down his back like she didn’t know whether to hold him close or tear herself free.

He didn’t give her a choice.

He slammed into her again.

And again.

Hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. Fast enough to erase thought. Deep enough to brand the memory of him into her soul.

“You were made for this,” he growled.

His voice was wrecked—shredded and low, carved out of heat and hunger. Each word forced between thrusts like a vow.

“For me.”

Thrust.

“For my cock.”

Thrust.

“For my knot.”

His fingers dug into her shoulders, claws just barely restrained.

“Say it,” he snarled.

He dragged his cock out—slow, brutal—until only the tip remained. Then slammed back in with a wet slap that echoed off the walls.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Sylus—fuck—I’m yours!”

His hips stuttered.

Her cunt clenched around him so hard he saw stars.

But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

The dragon demanded more.

He flipped her—one moment she was under him, the next she was on her knees. Face pressed to the stone. Ass arched high. Thighs trembling.

And gods—

She offered herself.

Like instinct had taken over. Like her body remembered what it had been made to do.

He slammed into her—so hard they both cried out.

Her hips jolted forward. Her hands scrabbled for grip.

There was no pretending now.

This wasn’t soft.

This wasn’t sweet.

This was breeding.

He fucked her like the world was ending—like the only thing that mattered was driving so deep she forgot how to walk.

His knot began to swell.

She felt it.

He knew she did—

The way she choked on a cry. The way her body arched back into him, desperate to take all of it.

“Don’t fight it,” he growled into her ear—voice reverent, destroyed. “Let me tie you. Let me fill you.”

“Please—” she whimpered.

He sank in to the base—

And locked.

The knot caught.

And she screamed.

Her whole body convulsed—cunt clenching, pulsing, milking him for everything he had.

And gods, he gave it to her.

He came so hard he saw white.

His vision went black. His roar shattered the silence—thunder in a tomb of stone and sin.

His cock throbbed violently, pulsing rope after rope of heat into her until she was full.

But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

He kept pouring into her—

Until her belly was taut.

Until her back arched from the sheer force of it.

Until her body went limp.

She whimpered beneath him—trembling. Slick. Painted in sweat and bite marks and the sound of her own ruin.

He held her there.

Locked.

Claimed.

His.

She was shaking beneath him.

Sweat clung to her thighs. Her arms had collapsed. Her palms slid uselessly across cold stone. Her cheek rested against the floor. Lips parted. Eyes glassy.

She looked wrecked.

And gods—

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

But Sylus wasn’t finished.

Not by a fucking long shot.

His knot was still locked deep inside her—still pulsing, still throbbing with the aftershocks of his first release.

And his cock?

Still thick. Still twitching. Already hardening again—inside her.

The dragon didn’t rest.

The rut didn’t cool.

It escalated.

He leaned over her—chest pressed to her trembling back, mouth dragging across the slick heat of her neck.

His fangs grazed her shoulder.

Not biting. Not yet.

But there.

Always there.

A promise. A threat. A vow.

“You’re not done,” he growled—voice low and broken, rasping against the shell of her ear. “Don’t you dare be done.”

A whimper escaped her—half-protest,half-plea.

She was exhausted. Her thighs trembled from strain. But when he rolled his hips—grinding his knot deeper, cock twitching inside her—

She gasped.

Like he’d lit her on fire.

And gods, she squeezed him.

Tight. Reflexive.

Like her body already knew—knew to cling. Knew to keep.

He moaned into her skin.

“Look at you,” he breathed, thrusting shallowly—as deep as the knot would allow. “Already gripping me like you don’t want to let go.”

“Sylus…” she whimpered.

One trembling hand reached back—fingers brushing his hip—barely holding on.

It wasn’t enough.

He pulled out slowly.

Painfully.

The knot dragged free with a wet pop—and both of them groaned.

The moment he slipped out, cum spilled down her thighs in thick, messy drips.

He watched it.

Watched it slide down her skin like proof.

Proof she was his.

She tried to shift—maybe to roll over, maybe to catch her breath—but Sylus growled. Wrapped an arm around her waist and dragged her up to her knees again.

“Not yet,” he muttered. Breathless. Wrecked. “Don’t you dare close those legs.”

She obeyed. Whether from instinct or surrender, he didn’t care.

He just needed to be inside her again.

But this time—he didn’t slam into her.

This time—he knelt behind her.

Spread her open with both hands—thumbs parting her slick folds, so he could see.

So he could worship.

Every ruined inch of her—dripping, flushed, swollen from taking every inch of him.

She was panting.

He leaned in. Pressed a kiss between her thighs.

Just one.

Then his tongue followed.

A full, filthy lick—from her entrance to her clit.

Her whole body jolted.

She cried out—

Loud.

Raw.

And he groaned into her heat.

“Sweet fucking gods,” he rasped, gripping her hips tighter. “You taste like heaven after sin.”

And then—

he ate her.

Like a man starved.

Like her pleasure was the only thing that could cool the fire still devouring him from within.

His tongue circled her clit—

Relentless.

Lips closing around it to suck. While two fingers thrust deep—curled exactly right. Precise. Devoted.

He found that spot—the one that made her hips jerk, her voice break.

And he didn’t stop.

She was sobbing now.

Shaking.

Gasping.

Trying to pull away—

He didn’t let her.

“Stay there,” he growled. “Take it.”

“I—I can’t—” she whimpered.

“Yes, you can.”

And she did.

Her back arched—thighs trembling violently—and then she broke.

Clenching around his fingers, sobbing through a climax that sounded like a prayer wrapped in punishment.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t even slow down.

He kept his mouth on her—dragging out her orgasm until she was twitching, babbling, eyes rolling back.

Only then did he pull away.

Only then did he lift her—gently, reverently—

And press her down onto her back.

She looked dazed.

Hair wild. Lips bruised. Chest rising in frantic, uneven bursts.

Sylus hovered over her—panting, his cock already hard again.

Flushed.

Slick.

Leaking across her stomach.

“You’re gonna take me again,” he told her.

It wasn’t a question.

Her legs opened.

It was instinct.

He lined up. Thrust in—one smooth, brutal stroke.

Buried to the hilt.

He groaned—low, broken, animal.

She gasped—half in shock,half in greedy need.

And gods—

She was so wet.

So fucking ready.

Her cunt swallowed him like it missed him—like the brief moments he hadn’t been inside her were somehow unnatural.

And this time?

This time he fucked her.

Not slow.

Not sweet.

Brutal.

Deep.

Obsessive.

He held her legs wide, drilled into her, watched her fall apart beneath him.

Her moans became cries.

Her hands gripped his arms like he was the only thing keeping her from floating away.

“You’re mine,” he snarled, fucking harder. “Do you hear me?”

She nodded frantically, gasping—

“Y-Yes—yes—yours—”

His lips curled into something dark. Something sacred.

“I’m gonna knot you again,” he growled. “Gonna fuck you so full you forget who you were before me.”

Her eyes rolled back.

He bent low, kissed her mouth—bit her lower lip—and fucked her harder. Faster.

His knot swelled again—thick and demanding—pressing against her entrance with every brutal thrust.

And when it caught—

When it locked—

She screamed.

And he came.

Again.

Harder than before.

Hot, pulsing waves of release spilled into her.

Filling her.

Stretching her.

Until her belly lifted from the pressure—until her cunt clenched down like it never wanted to let him go.

She sobbed beneath him.

Not in pain.

In ecstasy.

And Sylus—

He roared.

Head thrown back. Eyes glowing. Hands gripping her like she was the only thing anchoring him to existence.

And the dragon inside him—the beast that had burned and waited and hungered—it sang.

She was limp beneath him.

Skin slick. Flushed. Trembling.

Her thighs had stopped shaking—not from relief, but from exhaustion.

Her voice was wrecked. Her eyes—glassy. Her lips—parted in a soft, ruined sigh that made his cock twitch inside her.

Still locked. Still pulsing. Still not enough.

Even after two full rounds—

Even after he’d emptied himself so deep it should’ve broken them both—

His rut didn’t ease.

The fire still raged.

Hotter. Hungrier. Holier.

He watched her body twitch with aftershocks—and something inside him shifted.

Something sacred.

Something old.

A primal instinct unfolded in his chest like wings.

He hadn’t just claimed her.

He’d begun the claiming.

And he’d do it again.

And again.

Until her body bloomed with his legacy.

Until her womb swelled with the future their blood demanded.

Until she was full of his fire-born clutch.

His hand dragged slowly down her stomach—fingers tracing the gentle swell from the sheer amount of cum stuffed inside her.

“You feel that?” he whispered.

She blinked slowly—wrecked.

But her body answered for her—clenching softly, involuntarily.

He moaned.

Fangs bared.

“You’re holding me so tight,” he breathed. “Even now. Like your body knows what it’s for.”

He leaned down—teeth grazing the curve of her breast.

And this time?

He didn’t graze.

He bit.

Hard.

Deep.

Enough to leave a mark that would never fade.

Her back arched under him—a gasp breaking from her throat.

Not pain.

Not exactly.

It was all too tangled now—pain, pleasure, possession.

Her body didn’t know the difference anymore.

He suckled her breast—tongue circling, lips sealing over her nipple.

And his hips began to move.

Slow, shallow thrusts—grinding his knot inside her,stretching her open all over again.

Her fingers tangled in his hair.

And she moaned.

Gods.

She moaned.

Even ruined.

Even drenched in his cum.

Even trembling with overstimulation—

She wanted more.

And so did he.

631 notes · View notes

laddelulu30 · 4 months ago

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Thank you to everyone who got me to 250 likes!

Woop! Woop! You guys are amazing!!! Thank you so much for all the love!!!

#250 likes #tumblr milestone #thank you

5 notes · View notes

laddelulu30 · 4 months ago

Text

Grey Shirt Ovulation

tags: Breeding kink, multiple orgasms, mirror sex,

Pairings: POC Non-MC/Reader x Caleb

A/N: So.. This is dedicated to a fellow Tumblr whose prompt I found and immediately jumped at the idea. I know I have other WIPs that I’m already working on. But I honestly couldn’t resist. This is for you @minaaa444. Thank you for the stimulation…. I mean motivation. You came up with the idea and my debauched mind did the rest. I hope I did you proud. Likes, reposts, and comments are very appreciated. Because I have a praise kink. So, if you liked it, tell me I did a good job, that I was a good girl. And even if you didn’t like it, tell me anyway. It helps me learn what to do and what not to do.

also tagging: @ainsley-official @marvichi @fuckin0-0anime @harrys-sunflower-bakery

@unintentionalseductress @jinwoosbabyboo @aeyumicore @lyn31 @zaynes-wifey @someprettyname @uyai1101-lads

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You had just sent in a request to have the next four days off. Which had taken an additional three days before Team Leader Jenna could approve it.

“Congrats Hunter, your four day leave has been approved. Should I be concerned why my most dedicated and talented Deepspace Hunter has requested time off?” she asks.

“Nothing serious, I promise,” you laugh, giving her an easy smile, “You have nothing to worry about. I’ll return to full duty as soon as my requested days up.”

“Alright,” she says, but you can tell by her expression that she doesn’t quite believe you, but she doesn’t press.

You take your things from your work locker then make your way home.

Standing in your living room, feeling the stillness in the air,

you start to feel restless.

Without a thought… or a plan for that matter. You take a trip to Skyhaven.

Almost as if you had been called there, you go to Caleb’s place. You have a key, and you know the code, so you don’t think to call or text him to let him know that you’re

So… you just walk in.

Not that Caleb would’ve minded. He likes having you in his space. But with your conflicting schedules, seeing each other became more of a pipe dream than a possible reality.

Until at this moment.

Closing the door and locking it behind you, you take a few steps inside then stop.

Looking around, you felt the same burning need to do…. something. You weren’t sure what, but you’d figure it out.

Touching everything fleetingly, like a gentle caress. It almost seemed like you were visiting him for the very first time, and you were curious about everything in sight.

But it wasn’t your first time here. And it was still early, nearly midday.

You didn’t know what to do with yourself. You had never been home around this time, not working or the very least on a mission.

So.. this was all new territory for you.

After a few more minutes of aimless idling, touching random

What to do? you thought to yourself.

things, you decide to cook something for yourself.

You make yourself a small pot of braised pork belly over rice. Which turns out to feed at least three more people.

You snort, mocking yourself for poor size control but then praise your cooking.

You’ve gotten better. Cooking with Caleb has been upping your cooking skills.

After polishing off your bowl, you clean up what you used to cook, then set the pot to really low heat and put the lid on it. You wash dishes then dry them.

Then you decide to soak in the bath… until you remember.

You didn’t bring anything with you.

But you’re already here. And there was no way you were gonna head home when there was a sliver of a chance that Caleb already has what you needed in his place.

And since Caleb kept his place so immaculate. Orderly. OCD type orderly. You were sure he had something you could use… and wear.

You really did act like an impulsive teenager coming all the way to Skyhaven without some semblance of a plan.

Taking a chance, you checkout his bathroom anyway. And you’re surprised when you find your favorite oils, bathing milk, body wash, shampoo & conditioner, and body lotion tucked underneath his cabinet in the bathroom.

You want to question it, but at this moment, you’re thankful more than anything.

He even had your strawberry cheesecake body scrub that you liked.

A man that listened and remembered. Was such a turn on. But you push the thought away, pouring the vanilla bathing milk in the hot water as it filled the tub.

When you got it where you wanted it, you turned the water off and got naked, sinking into the water. An appreciative moan echoes off the walls of the bathroom.

The water felt amazing.

You soak in the water for an hour before bathing and getting out. You clean the tub then wrap a towel around your thick, curvy figure, hair pulled up from a scrunchie that had been in Caleb’s cabinet.

A scrunchie you hadn’t realized you’d left, but he had held on to.

You go into his bedroom, curiously rifling through his drawers with one hand. And you discover that in one of the drawers… is a new pack of underwear. Lace. Your size.

You open them but they smell like fabric softener.

“He must’ve washed them and then returned them to their original package…” you muse aloud, eyes drawn to a pair of red lace boy shorts.

So… You put them on then allow the towel to drop, looking for one of his shirts you could wear. Your eyes stop on a grey shirt with the logo of the flying academy Caleb had gone to before going to work with the DAA.

You put the shirt up to your nose, inhaling it. The shirt is clean, but smells like him. Like cinnamon and apples. Crisp. And mouthwatering.

The scrunchie out of your hair. Your dark red hair falls down your back in a cascade of damp waves, caressing your lower back.

Mine. Your mind claims and so you put it on, taking

You look in the mirror, trying to admire your reflection. Your eyes take in your appearance. Thick plushy thighs. Smooth chocolate skin. Petite frame. Hazel green eyes.

To Caleb, you looked like a Deity fallen to Philos. A temptation he wouldn’t resist.

But to you..

You move away from the mirror, picking up after yourself so that you don’t make a mess or leave one behind.

Besides, you want to surprise him. If that’s possible.

You leave the room, going into his other bedroom, curious to see what’s in there.

It’s the guest room you had used once before but now, during your absence… was unrecognizable. He had remodeled it to fit your tastes.. Should you have wished to rest in a separate room.

“He’s so unbelievably sweet, it would give someone a tooth ache, or a cavity,” you laugh to yourself.

You have another thought. One darker.. more sinful.

“I bet he looks sexy in that uniform,” you murmur to yourself, fingers inching to touch. Him. Yourself. Anything to make the fire go away.

You look around, checking the clock on the wall for the time.

2:38 p.m.

It’s still early enough. Maybe you could… and maybe he’d be working and you didn’t have to risk him catching you rubbing one out in his shirt… and the underwear he bought for you.

You had to admit that the mere thought was sounding more enticing by the second.

Without hesitating for another second, you close the door to the guest room, locking it behind you.

You lay on the bed, observing that it also smelled like Caleb.

Had he slept here as well when he had his own bedroom? you wonder, the thought a whisper in the back of your mind.

Your mind hadn’t lingered on the thought for long.Your body had more… pressing urges.

You bring the hem of his shirt to your face and held the material between your teeth. Inhaling his scent, your body comes alive once more.

Urging. Craving. Hungry.

Tentively, you roll your nipples between your fingers with one hand and your needy, swollen clit is rubbed with the other.

You keep your moans and whimpers as quiet as you can, but your pussy has other ideas. So engrossed with satisfying your growing and insistent lust, that you don’t notice the front door unlock.

You also don’t notice the front door open and closing.

Caleb gets home early, feeling frustrated, an itch he couldn’t ignore. He had been feeling irritable all day, and he figured going home to shower and shamelessly stroke his aching cock to your name would help ease his mood.

Only… when he got home, he tossed his uniform jacket and hat on the arm of the couch then stilled.

Someone was in his home. He checked his bedroom and noticed that the thing he’d left for you, bought for you had been moved. Used.

Snatching off his shirt and kicking off his boots so that only his pants remained. He hastily pulled open the belt and opened the zipper of his pants.

He calls your name.

When there’s no response, he decides to hunt for you. His hunger for you growing with every step.

He yearned to taste you, to have his face nestled between your velvety thighs like soft, fleshy pillows.

He called your name again, and again there was no answer.

Had she come to take a shower then left again? he wondered for only a second. Then saw your pile of clothes that you had worn there in the hamper. So, she was either naked somewhere in the loft or she had worn my clothes to go out.

Either possibility made him impossibly harder. The thought of you wearing his clothes, his scent on your skin set off a primal hunger he had been trying to keep buried. His throat went dry and his thoughts grew muddy.

It became a need to find you.

His steps became more desperate as he nearly passed the guest room. Immediately noticing the irregularity of the door being closed.

He went to twist the knob. Locked. And his mind went absolutely feral but his demeanor didn’t change.

“Princess?” he said, and there was a sound.

He didn’t know what the sound came from, but now he knew for sure you were in the room. Could smell strawberries through the door.

Then he heard it. The sweetest, neediest moan he’d ever heard you make.

What were you doing? His mind pressed with the desperate need to get to you. To see why you would be making that sound, and why it wasn’t because of him.

“Princess, what are you doing in there?” he asked, his voice breathless from restraint, using his Evol to unlock the door.

He was, however, not prepared for the sight that lay before him. His knees nearly gave out.

You. In his shirt. Pleasuring yourself. Two fingers, knuckles deep in your pussy. Eyes closed, consumed by your own need and pleasure, unaware of anything happening around you.

The sounds. Gods. The sounds your pussy was making. It made him hungry. Hungrier than he had grown trying to take things slow with you.

But it seemed… slow hadn’t been doing either of you any favors.

Slowly, so that he doesn’t startle you, he padded barefoot to the bed. Ever so softly did he touch your thigh.

His voice was thick with need. Barely restrained self control. “Princess, is that… my grey shirt?”

Your thigh muscles tensed at the light touch, then relaxed. Your eyes snapping open. Pupils blown and cloudy with lust. And when he asked the question, you answer with a whining, “Yes.”

He almost moaned like a fucking hormonal teenager but managed not to make a sound.

That tone. That whine nearly caused his self control to splinter into nothing. He leaned between your thighs, gently running his nose along the inner part of it. Inhaling the scent of you. Strawberries

His voice was rough, soft and raspy, almost like a growl, “Do you… need help, little bird?”

“Yes,” came your reply, still as needy as before, the hand on your nipple fell away, reaching for him.

And that was all the permission he needed. With his stomach pressed into the bed, he moved his face closer to the heaven between your thighs.

You were so wet. And you smelled so good. It made him dizzy. But he moved slowly.

He wrapped his fingers around your generous hips, thumbs rubbing into your skin before he pressed into it, pulling you closer to him, slowly pulling your fingers away.

Your calves settled on his shoulders and he swallowed, barely able to control himself. But he needed to. Didn’t want to scare you. Didn’t want you to recede back into your reserved shell.

Not when this is the result of what happens when you let your desires take hold of you.

“How long.. had you been waiting for me, princess?” he rasps, gentle. Encouraging.

“I.. got here midday..” you admit, melting under the darkening galaxy of his purple and dusty pink gaze.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he asked, peppering the inside of your thigh with gentle kisses.

“I.. wanted to.. surprise you..” a raspy pant.

“For this?” he smirked, chuckling. It was to cover up the pathetic moan that almost escaped his lips.

“N-no. But then.. I smelled your shirt.. and I don’t know what came over me,” you admit, “But my fingers aren’t enough anymore.”

Caleb freezes. Doesn’t breathe.

“Please… I need you,” you whimper.

And the control he had held back snapped like a rubber band. It called forth the hunger that had burned within him that had grown progressively more intense.

But in your lustful state, you didn’t see it. The way the look in his eyes changed, the way his muscles tensed and moved beneath the skin on his back.

He rubbed his nose against your clit like he was trying to coat his face with your slick, you squeak from the sensation. And with a rumble in his chest, he takes a long and slow swipe of his tongue to your dripping cunt.

He moaned… fucking whimpered at the taste of you.

Then… he’s devouring you like you were a gift he’d received in the desert. An Oasis to his dry tongue and parched throat.

Fingers pressing deeper into your skin, pressing into the underside of your thighs. He pulls you tighter against his face.

Oxygen the least important thing to him at the moment.

He worshipped your pussy like it was a drugging need. Shameless. Loud. He licked and sucked, moaning against your wet folds.

And you whined, mewling at the attention his ravenous mouth slaked on you. He changed his speed, his angle on you, desperate to pull more of those cute sounds from you.

Deliberate now, he made you climax five times on his tongue before pulling away. Only for a few seconds.

Not bothering to push his pants all the way down, he simply pulls his throbbing cock from his pants.

Enthralled by your trembling body, he returned between your thighs. His fingers hooked under your knees, pushing them back toward you.

He places his hard length over your folds, moving slowly. He moaned as your weeping cunt wets the underside of his cock.

You press your fingers into his lower torso, whimpering.

Overstimulated. But still oh so wet and needy. Trembling.

He groans, gently grasping those fingers and bringing them up to his lips, placing gentle fervent kisses on your fingertips.

“Shh… it’s okay, princess, I’ve got you,” he whispers, moving over your glistening lips, wetting his cock further with your slick.

“Caleb,” you pant, voice calling his name, exhausted from the rapid fire, consecutive orgasms he had wrung from you earlier.

But he hadn’t had enough you. Never. He was just getting started.

“Hm? What is it, baby?” he practically croons, almost teasing.

“I can’t…” you start.

But you don’t get the chance to finish. He slowly, oh so slowly, pushes inside you. Eyes fluttering shut as a guttural groan leaves his lips, head falling back.

You groan just as he does, blending into one voice, one sound.

“You… feel so good,” he moans, leaning down to whisper in your ear, arms wrapping around your shoulders.

Your fingers dig into his lower back, legs tightening around his waist.

He lets out a breathless laugh. “You’re squeezing me so tightly like you’re… fuck.. afraid I’ll leave. I’m not.. (shaky gasp) going anywhere, baby.”

“Caleb..” you whine, arching.

"Shh…” his teeth nip your neck, gently sinking into the skin, “I’ve got you.”

His pace is slow, like he’s savoring the feeling of you, pulling one arm away from your neck to slowly trail up and down your thigh. His nail gently raking your skin, a shiver traveling through your body.

He gives your neck a lick and a claiming bite and your legs tighten around him, another orgasm tearing through you viscously. Unforgiving

He hisses, holding back his own, voice breathless, “Fuck, baby…” He doesn’t wait for your orgasm to pass, he continues to slide in and out of your quivering walls. Slowly. Deliberately.

It’s maddening pace but you’re drunk on the pleasure of it. The squelching and the feeling of absolute euphoria consume you, the sounds an echo through the bedroom.

“I… missed you…” you blurt out, a keening whisper.

Caleb stops, pulling back to look at your face. But the pout on your lips begs him not to stop. So he doesn’t.

“Oh?” he questions, breathless, arching a brow, his eyes glued to where your bodies met.

“Y-yes,” you reply with a broken whine, “I had… been trying to keep my distance… so that I didn’t seem …needy or clingy. Monopolizing your time.”

A ghost of a smile on his lips, “Princess, I would’ve loved for you to do that… to want to spend your time with me. Wanting me… I thought… we were taking it slow, because… you needed time to adjust.”

“No… I wanted… wanted,” another moan rips through you,

Cutting through what you were going to say.

“Baby.. you’re so sensitive right now. Is it because we haven’t… or is it… something else?” he groans as if he doesn’t know.

Like he doesn’t track your period or track how many times you’re eating a day. Like he doesn’t check what you eat and monitor how it affects your body.

But you know he does. You’re just not sure if he knows you know. But fine.. you’d play along. It was more fun anyway. Watching his reactions when you said out-of-pocket things and brushing them off as if they were nothing.

But there would be no brushing this off. Not when he was dick deep in your pussy. Evidence of your increased arousal both auditory and visual.

“I… think… I’m ovulating,” you admit, watching his face with droopy eyes.

So many orgasms, your body trembling, but it was evident that you needed more. More… something.

You watch his face shift, feel his body tremble. A hard tremor racing through him.

Ovulating? Yeah, he fucking knew. If the tracking app didn’t tell him, he would’ve known regardless. Could tell by the way you smell that you were ovulating. You had always smelled sweet. But during your cycle where you were ovulating, you smelled like forbidden fruit. Delectable.

You had kept your distance during those months, but he wondered what had changed.

And as much as it killed him, he asked, “Do you want me to stop?”

Faster than you’d registered in your mind, your body moved. Your fingers wrapping tightly around the base of his cock. Stilling him with the rest of his length buried inside you.

“If you pull out, I swear I will drive a knife deep into your abdomen,” you threaten, hardly recognizing your own voice.

He gasps, gaze locked with yours. Not by fear but by intense lust. A violent tremor traveled through him at your threat.

It had aroused him so intensely that he was mere seconds from plunging as deep as he could go and coating your drenched walls with every drop of his load and still going back for a second one.

He grunted with the effort of holding back.

“G-got it. I… (pant) got it, princess. I’m not going to stop… but if you… don’t let go… (whisper) I’m gonna cum,” his voice is strained, raspy. He’s holding out, but not for much long.

That whimper is what seals it. Emboldening you. Like a whisper or gentle stroke of fingers in your thoughts, you want him to. Want him inside, consequences be damned.

And you’re not sure if it’s because of the sound he made or because you had voiced your suspicion, making it real.

Were you ovulating? Or had the lack of sex made you absolutely feral and uninhibited.

Whatever the cause. Whatever the reason, a decision was made. And it wasn’t the one you would’ve normally made.

“You need to cum, hm?” your voice raspy, almost purring as your fingers loosened their grip on Caleb’s cock and slowly traveled to grasp the velvety sac of his balls, rubbing, gently caressing.

“Go on. Cum for me, Colonel,” you whispered, smirking, holding his gaze. Relishing in watching his eyes widen in shock.

Then he grunted, “P-princess.. don’t.. please.”

He trembled again. There was that whimper again.

“My sexy Colonel. Cum for me. Cum inside me. Your princess commands it,” you whisper, a slow drawl, heat thick in your voice and in your darkened eyes.

He wasn’t sure what had changed. What had caused the change. But whatever it was, was his undoing. His body trembled and with the sexiest whimper you’d heard him make, he came. Deep. Muscles tightening.

His hips doing little jerks as he released every drop of his seed into your waiting cunt, coating your molten and shivering walls thickly.

And it felt so good.

But it wasn’t enough.

Before he had a chance to recover, you pulled him to you and rolled you both over. You now straddling his waist, his cock so deliciously deep. A snug fit.

That was more like it.

“B-baby, w-wait..” but you couldn’t. Between his broken whimper, his begging, and the burning need in your veins. You were lost. Consumed.

You rolled your hips once, testing the new angle.

You had never been on top before. It felt good. Made you feel powerful. Desired.

He gasped beneath you, moaning, his fingers digging into your hips. Whether to pull you closer or push you away, you weren’t sure. But you didn’t really care. A need, all consuming and hot welled up inside you and you obeyed it. Mindless.

He groaned hoarsely as you began a slow teasing rhythm of rocking your hips, he was overstimulated. But this was long overdue, and you would apologize later.

Maybe.

“B-baby…” he whimpered again, gasping, groaning, fingers digging as his hips thrust upward into you.

Through the foggy haze, you heard his voice and you slow blink, looking down at him.

“Hm?” you croon.

“I’m… I need…” he was panting, breathless.

You brace your hands on his chest, lifting up slowly and rocking back down just as slow. You don’t slow down. You listen as he moans, gasping, struggling to breathe.

The sight, the sound is beyond delicious.

“Come on, baby, tell me. What do you need,” you smirk, enjoying the reverse of your roles.

You could get used to this. But with your shyness always at the forefront. You doubted there would ever be a chance like this again.

You lean down, your lips trailing slowly along his jaw. His throat. You inhaled the scent of his skin as you went, and your lust flared hotter. Burned brighter.

Your teeth caught the lobe of his ear and nipped it, your lips placing a teasing but gentle kiss just below his ear just before whispering, “Tell momma what you need.”

And suddenly he found his strength, pulling from your for a mere second before you found yourself laying on your side, facing the window.

And a full view mounted mirror.

But you hardly notice. Giggling, “Aww, what’s wrong, baby? Did I say something that got you all wet behind the ears?”

There’s a teasing lilt in your tone. You knew what you were doing. And you enjoyed watching him react.

Just as quickly as he had flipped you to your side, he was behind you, gripping your thigh. He lifted it high, his own thigh bent behind your other one flat on the bed. Tracing. Caging. Preparation for more to come.

“Oh, something is wet alright. I wanted to be gentle, princess. To savor this for us both. But it seems… based on your behavior, you don’t want gentle, do you?” his voice takes a dark edge.

And you were sopping wet from it.

He lifts your leg, suspended in the air, you are defenseless. Unable to do anything. Subjected to whatever course of action he wanted to take.

His own hips roll, his cock snapping into you once more.

Crabbing your chin firmly with his hand, his chest pressed to your back, his fingers skittered along your skin. Wrapped gently and firmly over your throat, a possessive touch. Claiming.

Then his lips were on the back of your neck, teasing. Tasting.

“I got something I think we both will enjoy. Look around the room, princess. Let me know if you find it,” he whispers against your skin. A purr. A promise.

“But…” You start.

“Use your eyes, princess. I know you’ve got good eyes. You may have already seen it. And didn’t realize you did,” he hummed, lips still kissing the back of your neck. His hips still plunging deep and slow into your greedy wetness. The sounds mind-numbing, adding to the pleasure.

It was becoming hard to focus again.

“Come on, my pretty bird. Use those beautiful eyes and tell me what you see,” he rasps, voice breathy in your ear.

So with effort, you open your eyes, trying to look around. You gasp and moan as he continues the slow deliberate pace of his hips. Your cunt still squishy and messy, coated with his cum from earlier. Slick. Slippery. Sopping wet.

You look around the room, trying to find what he’s talking about. Then you find it.

The mirror.

How had he managed to find that size? And how had he been able to mount it on the wall? It was large, angled from a direction where anyone from the bed could see their reflection. And at this angle, you could see everything.

Your core clenched tightly in response.

Caleb hissed at the new sensation. “Damn. You’re still so wet and tight.” Then he smirks, “Looks like you found it. Given how you clamped down on me, I guess you like it, hm?”

You groan, head falling back against again, ready to fall apart again. You whine, feeling the familiar pressure of another orgasm mounting impossibly fast.

“Shh. Don't look away, beautiful. Eyes on your reflection,” he hushes gently, he takes his handholding your thigh moves to your hand, grasping it.Then guides your hand to where his had been.

His now free hand loops to the front, snaking around your waist, trailing down between your thighs. His middle finger rubs lazy circles on your swollen clit, voice still soft and low, “Let go, baby. As many times as you need to. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

“But what about you?” you ask, voice breathless and raspy.

“If you are ovulating as you say, I probably should’ve put on a condom,” he whispers back, lazy circles on your clit, driving you near to madness.

“I don’t care.” you gasp.

“Baby…” he grits out, “You don’t know…”

“I do and I don’t care. Fuck me. Cum inside me. Breed me. I don’t care. I just need you inside me. All of you. Every drop. However you’ll give it to me.” you gasp, desperate, burning.

He groans, whimpering, “Fuck, princess. Okay, if that’s what you want.”

And his pace changes. Hard. Deep. Unrelenting. His new pace sets fire to your body, and before you realize it, you’re at the edge of another orgasm. Then you’re falling.

You cry out your release. Your body stiffening, trembling. Burning. Stars bursting.

But he doesn’t let up, doesn’t slow down. He keeps going, plundering your quivering and spasming cunt like a man on a mission.

“There you go. That’s my pretty girl. Look at you. Falling apart so good for me. This pretty pussy, so needy isn’t she?” he coos, teeth grazing your neck as he keeps plunging repeatedly in and out of your hot, squelching walls.

His praises spark something else, awaken something else. A pressure. A coil you didn’t recognize mounting your orgasm before the previous climax ended, snapping harshly.

His release catches up with him soon after with a whining, chanting, whimper, “Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Baby…fuuuck.”

And suddenly, you’re falling again. This time with a scream. This time with a gush. A flooding wetness coating your thighs and his. Your body trembles harder than it’s ever has. Your pussy clamps down so tightly, Caleb lets out a choked sob.

With a final thrust, he stills, cumming inside your waiting cunt, plugging your cervix, filling your womb to the brim and then some.

His hips do a few little jerks, giving him time to breathe. Then he slowly pulls out before slamming back inside.

“I hope you got some more left in you. Because you’ve started something and you better see it to the end,” he says, pulling out slowly then snapping forward once more.

New pace now, fast and searching, as he peppers kisses on the back of your shoulder.

“Let’s see how far I can stretch this pretty pussy. And if I can put a baby in you. Don’t go to sleep on me, baby. We’re not done yet. I wanna hear you scream as many times as I make you cum.” His voice dark with promise then it dips to a whisper, “Soar for me, my pretty bird. Sing for me.”

*＊✿❀　❀✿＊*

Dividen: @cafekitsune Caleb banner: yours truly.

#love and deepspace smut #lnds smut #lads smut #Caleb smut #Caleb x non-mc #lads Caleb #love and deepspace caleb #lnds fanfic #Caleb breeding kink #ovulation #poc non mc #If you don't like it #don't read it.#No hating here #only good vibes #Spotify

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laddelulu30 · 4 months ago

Text

Because it made my stomach do things.

Honeymoon

Summary

Tucked away in a snowy retreat, your honeymoon with Zayne begins not with rest, but with laughter, lingering touches, and the slow unraveling of everything you’d been waiting for.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Continuation from this fluff 👀

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader CW: Smut, shameless smut actually, married couple, first night, not their first time, multiple sex position, multiple sex place, oral sex, creampie, teasing, banter, body worship.

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The snow crunches softly beneath your boots as you step out of the car, the chill brushing your skin even through your coat. You tug it tighter—not just from the cold. Zayne’s right behind you, and somehow, his presence makes even the winter night feel still and calm.

The cabin is tucked into the trees, lights glowing faintly through frosted windows. Smoke curls lazily from the chimney. It looks like it was pulled from some quiet dream, and for a second you just stare.

Zayne rests a hand on your lower back. “Too cold to linger, darling,” he murmurs, then leans in a little closer. “Unless you’re hoping to give our hosts a show.”

You snort, elbowing him gently as you head for the front door. “Says the one who packs three scarves like we’re summiting a mountain.”

“You’re the one with silk under fleece,” he says calmly.

You stumble on the last step.

You definitely didn’t tell him about the lingerie.

The suite inside is warm, quiet. There’s a flickering fire already lit in the stone hearth, casting a golden glow across the polished wood floor and the thick, dark rugs. Your luggage is here too—someone must’ve dropped it off while you were still at the reception. Everything’s as it should be, every detail taken care of.

You slide your coat off slowly, fingers brushing over the fastenings beneath your sweater—where travel layers hide something far more delicate. You’re still wearing soft travel pants and a cozy knit sweater, but underneath... you’re ready.

Zayne’s moved to check something by the fireplace, shrugging out of his jacket and rolling his sleeves with slow, deliberate care. When he turns back, his gaze flickers down your form—and pauses, like he can see right through the layers.

“You look warm,” he says, voice mild, but his eyes are anything but.

You smile, heart kicking up just a little. “Mm. Cozy.”

He steps toward you, stopping close. “Comfortable?”

“Getting there.”

His hand brushes your hip. “How long do you plan to stay dressed like that?”

“That depends,” you murmur, tilting your chin up. “How long do you plan to keep looking at me like that without doing anything?”

There’s a flicker in his expression—something soft, something dangerous.

And he steps closer.

His fingers slide beneath the hem of your sweater—slow, testing—and when you don’t stop him, he lifts it higher, revealing the thin lace strap beneath. His breath catches, just a little.

“You were planning this,” he says, low.

“Obviously.”

“You didn’t think I’d notice?”

“I hoped you would.” You arch a brow at him, the boldness only half-played. “Though I wasn’t expecting you to comment on it in the snow.”

“You were fidgeting,” he murmurs, inching the fabric up more. “It gave you away.”

You let him lift the sweater the rest of the way. His touch is gentle, reverent even, but his eyes—his eyes are already devouring you.

The lingerie is delicate, a soft ivory that mirrors your wedding dress from earlier—like you never quite let the ceremony end—trimmed with faint gold shimmer that catches the firelight. He looks at you like you’re something unearthly. Something he can’t believe belongs to him.

He lifts a hand and brushes his knuckles along the line of your bra. “You wore this the whole evening?”

“Mmhmm.”

A beat.

“You’re insufferable.”

You smile, stepping back just enough to start undoing the drawstring of your pants. “And you’re slow.”

That gets him moving.

He’s on you in the next step, his hands replacing yours as he finishes pulling the pants down—slowly, deliberately. You feel the way his knuckles skim your thighs as he slides them off, the coolness of his breath as he lowers himself to his knees.

And he stays there.

Zayne doesn’t speak—not right away. He just looks. At you, like you’re art—posed in lace and gold, glowing in the firelight. His hands come to rest at the backs of your thighs, and for a second, he doesn’t move at all. Just breathes you in.

Then, softly:

“I married a menace.”

You laugh. “And you still said I do.”

He kisses your hip in answer.

And then he rises again, slowly, wrapping his arms around your waist, lifting you with the same quiet grace he always carries—and yet somehow, now, it feels entirely different. Like the whole world has narrowed down to this: his arms around you, your bare skin against his chest, the rustle of lace and breath and heat.

Instinctively, you loop your arms around his neck, heart stuttering.

“You’re carrying me?” you murmur, caught off guard by how natural it feels.

Zayne hums, calm and matter-of-fact. “Wouldn’t be right not to.”

The bed dips beneath your back as he lowers you gently onto the sheets. The firelight catches the shimmer in your lingerie again, and when his eyes trail over your body this time, it’s slower. Focused. He doesn’t move for a long moment—just takes you in, like he’s memorizing everything from the curve of your waist to the way the lace clings to your chest.

His gaze lingers there, and then—

“…You wore something like this before,” he murmurs. “Didn’t you?”

Your lips twitch into a small smile. “Might’ve crossed your mind a few times?”

His fingers brush over the edge of the lace, ghosting the outline of your breast without touching too directly. “The one with the built-in opening.”

You hum. “Mhm.”

He looks up at you again, slower this time. “You picked something similar on purpose.”

“Well,” you say lightly, dragging your nail along his forearm where he’s leaning over you, “you didn’t seem to mind it last time. Thought I’d wear something just as easy to work with.”

Zayne’s expression shifts—faintly strained at the edges, like he’s holding back too much at once. And then he finally slips a finger beneath the lace, pulling it down—not even bothering to take it off. Just enough to bare your breasts to the open air. Just enough to ruin you with how carefully he’s watching.

His gaze drops, darkening as he exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate.

“I like this one even more.”

His hands come up to cradle the weight of your chest, fingers splaying as his thumbs drag lightly over your nipples. They’re already stiff from the chill and anticipation, and his touch is maddeningly delicate—just enough pressure to tease, not satisfy.

And then his head dips.

His mouth is cool when it closes over your breast, the soft sharpness of it dragging a gasp straight from your throat. His tongue flicks against your nipple first, almost lazy, then circles it with slow, measured care. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t press harder. He just lingers, tasting you like he’s learning something from every movement.

One hand remains on your other breast, thumb brushing steady circles over the sensitive peak while he sucks gently, steadily, on the one in his mouth. His tongue swirls again—slow and wet—and your body jolts, hips shifting without your permission.

You arch toward him, breath catching. “Zayne—”

He doesn’t answer. Just moves to the other side with maddening control. His mouth closes around your other nipple just as slowly, just as gently, and you feel the wet drag of his tongue before he pulls back to nip at the soft skin just beneath. The sharpness makes you flinch—but he soothes the sting instantly, tongue flattening over the spot before trailing up again, dragging heat in his wake.

He returns to your nipple with a hum—quiet, pleased—and takes it between his lips again, sucking until your toes curl.

Then his fingers come back, cruel in their contrast. One hand pinches lightly, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers until it swells, oversensitive and aching. The other hand cups you, thumb rubbing in slow, purposeful circles. Your breath stutters, your thighs shifting under the weight of his mouth—but his focus never wavers.

“I’ve barely touched you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing across your skin as he moves from one breast to the other, dragging his mouth messily across your chest, “and you’re already shaking.”

“I—It’s sensitive—” you breathe, voice already fraying.

“I know,” he says, and his tone is soft, dangerously pleased. He kisses your breast again, slower this time, like drawing breath from you. “You always are. But tonight…”

He pulls back just far enough to watch your reaction as he pinches again, just a bit firmer this time—measured, intentional. Your body twitches, hips rising, and a shiver rolls through you.

“…I want to see how far I can take you.”

And he does.

Alternates between lips and tongue, hand and mouth, just enough to keep you desperate—and never enough to let you settle.

He kisses lower first, returning to your breasts with wet, open-mouthed attention. One nipple disappears into his mouth while his fingers roll the other. You jolt when he pinches, a broken moan spilling out, and he groans softly around you like he feels it too. His tongue flicks quick, teasing strokes—then slows again, dragging in a broad, flat circle that makes your breath stutter.

Then he shifts, mouth lifting from your chest, trailing coolness to the center of your body.

He kisses your collarbone. Your throat. The underside of your jaw.

His hand never leaves your chest.

It keeps moving, fingertips grazing over your flushed skin, thumb stroking your nipple in tight, rhythmic circles while he finds the hollow of your throat and lingers there with his lips. You feel his breath against your skin, cool and steady, just before his mouth finds yours in a kiss that feels almost cruel with how sweet it is.

You moan into it, helpless and breathless, hips shifting under him, thighs pressing together as your body begs for more friction. But he just kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue sliding past your lips in a way that makes you dizzy.

Your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.

And while his mouth claims yours, both hands move on your breasts again—palming them, squeezing just enough to keep you panting. One hand pinches, sharper this time, and your whole body jerks. He swallows the sound you make and drags his lips away from yours just to murmur, “That’s it,” against your mouth.

Then he kisses lower again. Not rushed. Almost like he’s indulging himself.

Down your throat.

Back to your chest.

He sucks hard the moment he reaches you again, and your back lifts sharply from the bed.

You cry out—raw, startled—because it’s too much now, and he doesn’t stop. He licks over the swollen peak in broad strokes, easing it briefly, but then his hand closes around the other and starts all over again—pinching, rolling, coaxing every last tremor from your body.

He breaks away from your breast just to kiss you again, like he can’t decide what he wants most.

And it’s that—that—that ruins you.

The way he keeps switching—cool mouth, sharp hands, unrelenting rhythm. The way he doesn’t let up. The way he gives you everything except what you’re squirming for.

You’re moaning openly now, voice cracking, body shaking under the weight of his mouth and touch. Your hands in his hair tighten. Your thighs tremble, hips twitching with no rhythm, and he stays exactly where he is—kissing your chest again, sucking until your skin feels like it might bruise, his hand tweaking your nipple just a little too hard.

And it hits you before you even realize it.

Release hits you with a gasp—sharp, unsteady—your back arching high off the bed as he sucks hard one final time, sealing it in, locking it deep. Your whole body pulses with it, shudders rolling through you, and he just…keeps going, gentle now. Tongue soothing, lips soft. Like he’s drawing it out, helping you ride the wave until you melt against the sheets.

He doesn’t stop right away. Lets the aftershocks roll through you while his hand strokes your side, grounding. Gentle. Worshipful.

When you finally open your eyes again, he’s still watching you.

“My wife,” Zayne murmurs, voice low and reverent—like he’s saying something holy.

The word hits you deeper than you expect. Like it sinks into your skin and nests in your chest, warming everything from the inside. It makes you feel wanted, claimed, but more than that—loved. All of you. In every possible way.

You don’t even have time to reply before he leans down and kisses you—soft at first, lips slow against yours, then deeper, his tongue sweeping over yours like he’s drinking you in. His mouth trails from there, down your jaw, along the slope of your neck. He kisses you like he��s charting a path, each press of his lips deliberate, slow, each breath he draws puffing coolness against your skin.

He doesn’t stop. Your collarbone, then the top of your chest. He kisses around the edge of the lace he pushed aside earlier, brushing his nose against the line where fabric meets bare skin. But instead of lingering there, he keeps going—down, lower, his mouth brushing the soft curve of your stomach still underneath the lace, the dip of your navel, then even lower, until he settles between your legs.

His hands curl under your thighs, gently lifting and parting them. He kisses the inside of one, then the other—slow, open-mouthed kisses that sting slightly from the coolness of his breath. His tongue flicks a sensitive spot near your knee, and you twitch, breath catching.

When his eyes meet yours again, they’re dark with hunger, intense and unblinking.

He trails lower. His lips brush down the inside of your thigh, cool and deliberate, like he’s memorizing every inch. He pauses to mouth at the skin just beside the edge of the sheer opening, letting his breath fan against the wet heat of your folds without touching. His nose skims over the fabric, inhaling deeply. You feel it everywhere.

“Zayne—” you manage, already breathless, but he doesn’t answer.

Instead, he dips down.

The first lick is slow. From the very bottom of your slit all the way up, his tongue presses flat, dragging against you without mercy. He stops just shy of your clit, close enough that your hips twitch upward on instinct.

Then he does it again.

And again.

You suck in a sharp breath, fingers threading into his hair as he repeats the motion—painfully controlled, always avoiding the one spot you ache for. His hands grip your thighs tighter when you shift, holding you steady as he licks you open with maddening precision.

“You just came,” he murmurs against you. “So isn’t me going slow helpful?”

You exhale, legs trembling around him. You’re still sensitive—every drag of his tongue sends sparks through your spine—but that doesn’t dull the heat building again. If anything, it sharpens it.

“Y-you call this helping?” you choke out, hips twitching despite yourself.

He doesn’t answer. Just flattens his tongue against your slit once more, firmer this time—unapologetic.

Your whole body jolts.

A gasp rips from you as your hands fly to his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself, but his mouth only presses closer—hot, wet, and relentless, exactly like the pulse deep in your core. Your thighs twitch against his grip, already too close again and nowhere near satisfied.

When he finally gives your clit a passing flick, you cry out, only for him to retreat again, teasing the edge of it with barely-there touches, as if by accident. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s dragging it out on purpose.

Your back arches helplessly, thighs trembling and clenching around his shoulders, but he doesn’t stop. His mouth keeps working you open—slow, thorough, wicked. His fingers return to your breasts, pinching lightly at your nipples, rolling them in time with the maddening pace of his tongue.

It’s too much.

The heat, the attention, the way he gives and withholds all at once—it’s dizzying. Your breath comes in short, broken gasps. Your hips twitch, trying to chase his mouth, but he keeps you pinned easily, mouth dragging another slow stroke right past where you want him most.

“Zayne—” you breathe, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging harder this time. “Do I—god—do I get my turn now?”

It comes out shaky, pleading, already fraying at the edges. You don’t even know if you’re asking to touch him or for him to finally let you come again—maybe both. Either way, you’re falling apart, and he hasn’t even let up.

Zayne hums against you, thoughtful but unbothered, his tongue still working. “Later,” he says, voice vibrating straight through your skin. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

And with that, he parts the fabric opening even further, thumbs slipping beneath the lace to hold you open for him.

The vibration of his voice as he speaks again is too much. It makes your stomach tense, your hips roll upward. You don’t even get to tease him back—because his tongue slides inside you next, wet and hot and slow.

A startled moan escapes your throat. Your legs tremble in his grip, but he’s not letting you close them. One hand glides up and down your thigh in calming motions while the other presses lightly against the top of your leg, holding you open just the way he wants.

And then—oh fuck—his thumb flicks your clit. A quick, knowing swipe that leaves you gasping. He circles it slowly after, matching the pace of his tongue. You’re squirming under him now, moaning his name again and again, but his grip never loosens.

You can’t move. Can’t breathe. All you can do is feel.

His mouth leaves you only for a second, and then his fingers slide into you—two of them, slow, stretching you with unbearable patience. The drag of his knuckles has your toes curling.

There’s no break. He shifts lower on the bed tucking one of his legs beneath yours, spreading you wider. The new angle makes the slide of his fingers deeper, fuller, and his other hand returns to your chest, thumb brushing over your nipple again.

“Seriously?” you groan, voice caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh.

Zayne tilts his head, feigning innocence—but his eyes are dark, lips slick and curled in quiet amusement.

“Something wrong?” he murmurs, like he’s not deliberately driving you insane. His voice is hoarse now, raw with arousal, and his gaze flickers from your chest to your face like he’s committing every reaction to memory.

You’re about to answer—say something—but he adds another finger, and your hips jerk before he presses a hand to your stomach, pinning you down.

“Zayne—”

“Hm?” He doesn’t even pretend to stop. His thumb finds your clit again and circles, slow and precise.

Your breath stutters. You don’t know if you’re frustrated or overwhelmed. Probably both. He leans up again, latches onto your nipple without warning, and you hiss from the sharp edge of sensation. He sucks, then releases with a wet pop before kissing up to your mouth again.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and back, pulling him closer. He’s still fingering you, slowly, and you take your chance—grind your hips up just enough to feel the solid heat of his cock pressed to your stomach.

He groans low, pulling back from the kiss, eyes flashing with need.

“Does it feel good?” he murmurs, even as his fingers keep working inside you.

Your breath hitches. You tilt your head to let him kiss your neck again. “Feels good…”

Before you gently guide his face up so you can really see him.

“But I want to make you feel good too.”

He pauses, eyes flicking over your face. Then he kisses your lips again. Once. Twice. A third time—slower, softer.

“People do say happy wife, happy life,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You snort, shaking your head, biting your lip to hide your smile. “Exactly. So let me return the favor.”

You nip at his lower lip before trailing your hand down—slow, deliberate. Pulling his fingers from you with a moan. He doesn’t stop you. When your fingers close over the thick outline of his cock, he groans, the sound rumbling from his chest as he lets you push him back onto the bed.

He follows easily, lips curving as you guide him down.

You shift up, straddling his hips, and tug at the hem of his sweater. “Way too many clothes.”

He lifts his arms obligingly, and you drag the fabric up—slow, teasing. It lifts over his stomach, then his chest, then off completely. You toss it aside.

“Much better already,” you murmur, eyes roaming over him.

Your hands move lower. You strip his pants next, then his boxers, baring him entirely. His cock springs free, flushed and hard, already glistening at the tip.

Your mouth goes dry. You lick your lips without realizing it.

He watches you the entire time. Like he wants to see exactly what you’re going to do.

You trail your fingers from the base of his length to the tip, slow and teasing. He shudders beneath you, his jaw tightening just slightly. Still, his eyes never leave yours.

You grip him at the base, slow and sure, and drag your hand upward in a slick stroke. The way his breath hitches—how his abs tighten just slightly beneath your thigh—sends a thrill straight through you. He’s so hard, heavy and hot in your hand, and you feel a jolt of satisfaction when you brush your thumb across the head and his hips twitch upward.

"You're enjoying this," you murmur, fingers working a little faster now, tightening your grip on the down stroke.

Zayne’s eyes stay locked on yours, dark with hunger. “Of course. I have a gorgeous wife sitting on top of me, making me feel like this. What’s not to enjoy?”

You smile, leaning down to kiss his chest, your strokes still smooth and steady. You press your lips to the center of his sternum, then lower, trailing kisses down until you're hovering just above his cock. You exhale purposefully, watching him twitch in response. Your tongue flicks out, giving the head a teasing lick, and Zayne's hand slides into your hair instantly, not pushing, just holding.

But just as you’re about to take him into your mouth—just as your lips brush the tip—

“Up here,” he murmurs, voice a little rougher now. “And turn around.”

You blink. “What?”

His thumb brushes behind your ear, coaxing you gently back up. “I want your thighs around my head,” he says simply, eyes gleaming. “Turn. Face down.”

You stare at him for a beat, then raise a brow. “This is my turn.”

Zayne smiles, lazy and knowing. “Are you saying you can’t focus on sucking me off if I’m also eating you out, darling?”

This smug bastard.

You huff. The second the words leave his mouth, you feel the heat flare in your stomach—and your pride flaring right along with it.

“Oh really,” you mutter, already shifting your position.

Zayne doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The way he watches you move—like he’s already won—says it all.

You crawl up, straddling his chest before slowly turning yourself around. You adjust your knees on either side of his ribs, the faint graze of your skin over his chest making him hum low in his throat. Now you’re facing his cock again, but this time you feel his hands gripping your thighs, guiding your folds down to his mouth. His breath still cool, between your legs, and your own stutters just from the anticipation.

Then it begins.

You lower your mouth onto him, just the tip at first—wet, warm, your tongue circling slowly around the head. Beneath you, a rough sound slips from him. The sound vibrates against your skin, and then his mouth is on you too—tongue dragging a slow line up your slit before dipping in and curling upward.

You gasp around him, choking slightly, but you recover quickly. You slide more of him into your mouth, your hand stroking what you can’t take yet, and suck harder.

Zayne groans again. This time it’s hoarse, breathless. His hips lift slightly into your mouth, but his hands are steady on your thighs, spreading you wider.

He dives in deeper now, licking you open with long, practiced strokes. His tongue parts your folds, tracing every inch before focusing on your clit—short flicks at first, then slow circles that make your thighs tremble. He doesn’t rush. He’s savoring. Enjoying every reaction you give him.

You try to keep your rhythm, try to stay focused—but your own moans are getting harder to swallow.

You lower yourself further on his cock, feeling the stretch in your jaw, and the weight of him on your tongue makes your core clench, aching for more.. You hum around him instinctively, and Zayne lets out a ragged breath, deeper this time, the sound vibrating straight into your core.

Then his tongue thrusts into you—slow, deliberate, in rhythm with his hands pushing your thighs slowly, making your hip drop down as you gasp in shock, before he grips your hips, holding you in place.

Your legs tighten uncontrollably. Your hips roll against his face without meaning to, and your moan turns into something breathless, wet around his cock.

You can’t focus anymore. Not fully.

Your pace falters as he starts to suck your clit—hard—and your arms shake around him, breast fully flush against his skin. Your mouth leaves his cock for a second, panting, your cheek pressing to his thigh.

“Zayne—fuck—”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even pause. He just licks deeper, faster, tongue flicking cruelly over your clit, and your entire body shudders.

You try to go back to sucking him off, but the second you take him in again, he drags his tongue over that sensitive spot just beneath your clit—and you whimper, your hips grinding down helplessly.

He's doing this on purpose.

Of course he is.

You fall apart slowly, losing that edge of competition bit by bit. Your jaw slackens, your strokes uneven now, more instinct than focus. Your fingers tremble as they wrap around him again, but your body—your body isn’t yours anymore. It’s his. It’s reacting to him.

Because Zayne is still feasting on you like a man starved. Like tasting you is a privilege. Like he wants to bury himself in your body, through his tongue if nothing else.

You whimper again, unable to stop yourself, your hips beginning to stutter.

You try—you really try—to keep stroking him, licking him, to not let your body collapse entirely from the heat winding tighter in your belly. Your hand pumps his cock steadily, slick with your spit, and you give him a few more messy licks, mouth trembling around him. Every time he twitches in your grasp, it pushes you to keep going. To match him, if only a little.

But Zayne doesn’t let up. Not for a second.

His hands grip your hips, anchoring you in place while his tongue works you mercilessly—flicking and curling, dragging across your clit again and again. He knows your body too well. Knows exactly how to keep you on the edge, how to push you right past it.

“Z-Zayne—fuck, I’m—” your voice breaks around the words, muffled by his cock resting heavy on your tongue.

And then it hits.

You come hard.

Your thighs quake around his head, and you cry out around his cock, the sound vibrating through your throat. Your hips grind instinctively against his mouth, riding out every wave as his tongue keeps moving, keeps coaxing, even as your body clenches and shudders above him.

But your hand doesn’t stop either. More instinct than anything now.

Even while your body spirals through orgasm, you keep your hand on him, still pumping his cock in shaky, determined strokes. Your lips part again, dragging your tongue along the underside of his length as best you can. It’s messy. Desperate. A cry breaks from your lips freely against his skin, humming around him as the aftershocks pulse through you.

Zayne groans into you in return—low and rough, a sound of pure satisfaction.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even pause to catch his breath. He just holds you tighter, mouth sealed to you like he’s drinking you down, licking and sucking through every twitch of your orgasm. The wet sounds between your legs only get louder, filthier, and your entire body feels flushed, dizzy, wrung out in the best way.

You collapse forward, still breathing heavily, face against his thigh, lips brushing the base of his cock as your fingers keep stroking him slow, tender now. Worshipful. You’re too spent to do more, but you want to give him everything. Even like this.

He finally slows, tongue giving you one last languid lick before he gently kisses the inside of your thigh. One of his hands rubs soothing circles against your hip.

“…That’s two,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You groan tiredly against him. “Not the counting again.”

Zayne’s chuckle is quiet, his breath cool against your sensitive skin. “I’ll count it in my head then.”

You shift, still catching your breath, then glance down at his cock, still flushed and hard and glistening. You wrap your hand around him again with a weak smile.

“Still my turn, you know.”

He hums, fingertips skimming your thigh. “Mm. No one stopping you, wife.”

Your lips twitch at the word. You’ve been hearing it a lot today, but it still sends another ripple through your chest, even with your body still boneless.

You lift yourself slowly, dragging your lips up his cock in a languid, open-mouthed kiss before pulling back entirely. Zayne’s breath hitches as you shift to crawl off him, but you don’t go far—just enough to turn and straddle him, placing your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath your palms.

His eyes trail over you, from the sweat-slick curve of your body to the lace clinging to your hips, barely concealing anything now.

“You planning to sit on me like that and not ride me?” he asks, voice husky but teasing.

You lean down, lips ghosting over his, your breath brushing his skin. “Trying to decide if you deserve it.” Even though you both know it that you’re just trying to catch your breath.

His lips curve grows, but there's something else in his gaze too—something warmer, more undone. “Wife,” he says again, quieter this time, like the word means more than a title. Like it’s a promise.

Your heart trips. Your thighs tighten around him.

You shift your hips, dragging your soaked folds over the length of his cock without taking him in yet. Just letting him feel how ready you are. How wet he’s made you. His head tips back at the contact, a low groan curling from his throat as his hands come up to rest on your waist—but he doesn’t guide you. Doesn’t push.

He’s letting you lead.

He always does, when it matters.

You lift yourself slightly and reach between your bodies, lining him up with your entrance. You’re still sensitive—aching in the best way—but the stretch is familiar, hot and welcome as you start to sink down on him.

Zayne lets out a sharp breath, his fingers pressing a little harder into your skin.

You moan softly, bottoming out with a slow roll of your hips. “Feel good?”

His eyes flutter open. “Always.” He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from your face, his thumb grazing your cheek. “You’re incredible.”

You lean into his touch for just a second before bracing your hands on his chest again, lifting your hips just a little and then rocking back down. Slow. Deep. Making sure he feels every inch.

Zayne groan again, low and reverent, his jaw clenching as you keep your pace deliberate. He’s watching you—always watching you—with that same look from earlier. Like he can’t believe this is real. That you are his.

You roll your hips again, adjusting your angle until the pressure hits just right. You gasp, tightening around him. His fingers twitch on your waist in response.

“You like that?” he murmurs.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah. But I’m doing this for you.”

“Mm,” he hums, clearly amused. “Then take what you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

You grin, leaning down to kiss him—slow, deep, lingering. And as your hips begin to move again, you moan into his mouth, giving him everything, just like you promised.

Zayne’s breath hitches, though not from your hips this time—his hand slides up your arm, fingers brushing your wrist before finding your left hand. He laces his fingers through yours, then lifts it slowly to his mouth.

You glance down at him, dazed and flushed, as his lips press to your knuckles. Then lower. To your ring finger. To the delicate band circling it. His gaze never leaves yours as he kisses your ring, making your gaze shift to the matching one on his own hand where it rests against your waist.

The gesture makes your chest tighten all over again. You clench around him without meaning to, and his breath stutters.

His other hand comes up to cup your breast, thumbing over your nipple, still swollen from earlier, the touch sends another spark through you. The touch sends another spark through you. You grind down a little harder, your motions still slow but more intentional now—precise. Like you know how close he is. Like you’re guiding him there, just as he guided you.

“Still doing this for me?” he murmurs, voice low, strained.

You smile through your panting. “Mhm. Every second.”

And you prove it. You grind down again, this time tightening around him deliberately, purposefully. His groan is muffled this time, jaw tightening as he grips your hand harder.

You do it again.

This time, Zayne’s rhythm falters.

His breath hitches—sharp, barely audible. The hand on your breast tightens slightly, fingers splaying like he’s trying to ground himself, and his other stays laced with yours, knuckles white with tension. It’s the only part of him that doesn’t move—everything else starts to unravel.

His hips jerk upward, a single, desperate thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.

Then again.

And again—sharp, needy movements, like he’s chasing something just out of reach. His control is fraying, the way it always does when he’s too far gone to be quiet about it. You can feel it in every inch of him—the trembling in his thighs, the shaky exhale, the low, broken groan he bites back.

You whisper his name, low and coaxing, squeezing his hand in yours like you’re holding him together.

He groans again, deeper this time, almost pained, like your voice is what finally tips him over the edge. His hips stutter beneath you, muscles tight and shaking as he pushes as deep as he can go and stays there—buried in you, throbbing.

Then he breaks.

He comes with a soft, strangled breath of your name, his cock twitching inside you, spilling deep, and the warmth of it makes you gasp—makes you clench around him instinctively. It fills you, thick and hot, until there’s too much to hold and some of it leaks out, slick between your bodies.

But you don’t stop. You keep moving—slow now, careful—grinding gently, coaxing him through the last waves. His hand stays tight in yours until, finally, the tension starts to ease. His grip softens. His body sags beneath you like the last of the strain has drained from his muscles.

Only then does Zayne pull you down, slow and wordless. His hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you until your forehead presses to his. He kisses you—firm, lingering, like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of your mouth. No teasing. No smug remarks.

Just slow, open-mouthed kisses. Deep and reverent.

His other hand slips from your breast to cradle your waist, holding you there—against him, around him, like he never wants to let go.

Zayne doesn’t stop kissing you, even after his breathing evens out. His lips are slower now, gentler. Like he could spend the rest of the night right here, tasting your mouth between sighs.

You murmur into the next kiss, boneless against him. Still joined. Still full of him.

Eventually, he draws back from the kiss with a soft exhale, his forehead resting against yours.

“…We should clean you up,” he says, voice hoarse but affectionate.

You huff a sleepy, reluctant sound, brushing your nose against his. “Later.”

He smiles faintly, thumb brushing your jaw. “You’ll fall asleep like this.”

You hum again, pretending to think. “And?”

Zayne laughs softly, then shifts—effortlessly lifting you, one arm cradling your back while the other supports your thighs. You make a quiet noise of protest, wrapping your arms around his neck, but you don’t complain when he carries you toward the bathroom. His cock slips out of you as he walks, and you shudder at the sensation, at the warmth leaking down your thigh.

He notices.

“Messy,” he murmurs, amusement curling beneath the word.

You swat weakly at his shoulder. “Your fault.”

“I didn’t hear any complaints,” he says, brushing a kiss against your temple before nudging the bathroom door open.

The lights are soft—he must’ve dimmed them earlier—but the marble tiles still catch the gold of the overhead glow. He sets you down gently on the edge of the tub, then reaches for the taps, turning them just enough for steam to begin curling into the air. The tub starts to fill slowly, a low hum echoing in the quiet.

You sit there watching him—his bare back, the relaxed curve of his shoulders. There’s a little flush at the tips of his ears now, probably from earlier, and his hair is slightly mussed. He looks younger like this. Softer. Yours.

His gaze shifts as he turns back to you, and this time it lingers.

You’re still wearing the lingerie—barely. The lace clings to you damply, stretched and askew, doing nothing now to hide how thoroughly he’s ruined you.

Zayne kneels in front of you, hands on your knees. He leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“Let me take this off,” he says, fingertips ghosting over the waistband.

You lift your hips obediently, letting him peel the lace down your legs. He moves slowly, reverently. Like it’s not just clothing he’s removing—but layers.

His eyes trail over you as he slips the ruined lingerie aside. And even though he’s already seen you, touched you, tasted you—you feel bare in a different way now. Exposed. Worshipped.

When the bath is full enough, he turns off the taps. He helps you rinse first then helps you in the tub. The water is warm and welcoming, and you sigh as you sink into it. Zayne slides in behind you, pulling you gently between his legs, your back resting against his chest.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, breathing in the steam and the clean scent of him.

His arms wrap around you beneath the water. One hand brushes over your thigh, then between them—careful, soothing. Cleaning. But there’s no mistaking the heat behind his touch, the way his fingers trail just a little slower over your still-sensitive folds. The way his mouth brushes the shell of your ear.

“We’re supposed to be cleaning,” you murmur, barely holding back a smile.

“We are,” he says, utterly unconvincing.

Then his hand moves again, this time with unmistakable intent—stroking, parting, exploring you all over again.

You squirm slightly, heat coiling low in your stomach despite how thoroughly he already wrung you out. “You’re insatiable.”

Zayne’s voice is soft against the back of your neck. “I’m your husband. It’s expected.”

You twist in his arms, water sloshing softly around you both as you reach up to kiss him again. This one’s slower, deeper, lazy in a way that says you could spend hours like this—just lips and warmth and skin.

Zayne hums against your mouth, one hand stroking languid circles along your thigh beneath the water. His cock nudges your lower back as you shift closer, and you feel him twitch at the contact.

“You’re hard again,” you murmur, smiling against his lips.

He kisses you once more before replying, tone low and dry, “I’m in the bath with my naked wife.”

You snort, nipping gently at his jaw. “Flimsy excuse.”

Zayne leans in, brushing his mouth over your cheek, your ear, then lower—his lips pressing a slow kiss to the back of your neck. The same spot he always goes for. Always finds. Like instinct.

You shiver.

“You keep kissing me there,” you whisper, breath hitching.

He hums. “That's why you're put it there right.”

You tilt your head without thinking, offering him more. He doesn’t bite, just brushes his lips there again, slow and lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of it all over again.

The heat in the water is nothing compared to the way your body responds to him. Even after everything, you’re already aching again.

You shift, grinding back slightly, letting him feel you. “You wanna keep playing, husband?”

Zayne's breath hitches against your neck.

Then his hand slides around your waist, gripping firmly as he pulls you up with him. Water drips from your skin as he rises, carrying you again—not all the way this time, just helping you out of the tub before following behind.

You blink, still breathless, but before you can ask where he’s going, he tugs you gently by the wrist toward the wide bathroom mirror above the sink.

“What—”

“Turn around,” he says softly, stepping up behind you.

Your pulse stutters. You do as he says, standing there fully bare, flushed and dripping, your body slick from the bath. His reflection meets yours in the glass—wet hair, sharp jaw, the faintest flush on his cheeks. But it’s his eyes that catch you.

Hungry. Intense. Yours.

You watch as his hands slide along your waist, traveling up to cup your breasts, thumbing over your nipples, still sensitive from earlier. You gasp, arching slightly into his touch.

Then he leans in, mouth brushing that same spot again—your tattoo, still damp from the water.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice barely audible, reverent. “Look at you.”

You bite your lip, eyes flickering down to the mirror, catching sight of yourself—skin flushed, legs pressed together, body trembling already under his touch. Zayne’s cock presses firmly against the small of your back, thick and eager.

“My gorgeous wife,” he says again, kissing along the back of your neck, trailing lower. “All mine.”

You moan softly, thighs clenching. “In front of the mirror? Really?”

He chuckles low against your skin. “You’re the one who looks like a dream in it. You need to see yourself properly.”

Then he nudges your legs apart gently with his knee, bending you slightly at the waist, his hand firm on your hip as he lines himself up behind you.

The moment he sinks in, both of you groan—deep and sharp. Your hands brace against the cool counter, head falling forward, while Zayne leans into your back, bottoming out with a slow grind of his hips.

The mirror reflects all of it. Your parted lips. The way your body stretches to take him. The way Zayne’s eyes darken as he watches the way you react to every thrust.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice low and teasing as he rolls his hips again, deeper this time. “Look how good you take me.”

You whimper, keeping your eyes locked with his in the mirror, lips parted. “Zayne—”

His hand slides up your spine, then tangles in your damp hair, not pulling—just holding you there, keeping your gaze locked with his. The next thrust is harder, making your legs tremble.

“You going to fall apart again for me?” he asks, breath cool—even after all this time—against your ear, lips trailing across your shoulder. “Like this?”

You nod helplessly, moaning as he picks up pace, cock slamming into you with a rhythm that feels almost punishing—but it’s not. It’s perfect. His grip is firm but never rough, unless you ask him to. His voice is teasing but always full of praise.

And he never stops looking at you. At your face, your body, the way your skin shakes with each thrust.

At the way you take him so well.

The sounds filling the bathroom are obscene—wet, rhythmic, breathless. Your skin slaps against his with each thrust, your moans rising every time he drives into you from behind, each movement angled just right to make your knees threaten to buckle.

Zayne’s hand traces up your stomach, smooth as ever, deliberate, until it finds your chest again. He cups one breast gently, thumbing over the sensitive peak, and you sob softly at the sensation. The mirror shows everything—how flushed your skin is, how your lips part with each sound, how Zayne keeps watching you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.

Then his other hand slides lower.

He doesn’t touch you there—not directly. Instead, he wraps his fingers around your wrist and brings your hand between your legs.

“Touch yourself for me,” he murmurs against your shoulder. “You know how. Just like that.”

Your breath catches.

But your fingers obey, slipping between your folds, already slick from the bath and everything else. The added pressure draws a choked moan from your lips as your fingers circle your clit, and you instinctively clench around him in response.

Zayne groans low, the sound nearly breaking into a growl. “That’s it,” he whispers, voice rough with restraint. “You feel what you’re doing to me?”

You nod frantically, still moving your fingers, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. Your legs shake beneath you, pleasure mounting again way too fast.

A shudder rolls through you when his cool breath brushes the back of your neck. “You’re perfect. Every part of you.” Another thrust, harder this time. “Look at you, love. How beautiful you are when you’re about to come.”

You whimper, eyes locked with his in the mirror. His gaze doesn’t waver—he watches everything. The way your body trembles. The way your mouth falls open. The way your fingers work yourself while he keeps filling you over and over again.

And the words keep coming. Quiet. Deep. Meant only for you.

“You take me so well.”

“You’re made for this.”

“My gorgeous wife—”

Your climax crashes into you before you can speak, your body seizing around him, you brace one arm against the mirror, your forearm pressing to your lips as your cry escapes—muffled and broken—while your other hand keeps circling your clit, chasing every last pulse of pleasure that shakes through your core. You grind back against him desperately, still trembling through it, as Zayne slows—but doesn’t stop.

He holds you steady through it all, hand firm on your waist as he lets you ride out every wave, your body clenching around his cock, drawing him in deeper and deeper.

Only when your legs nearly give out does he finally pull you up against his chest, lifting you just enough to keep you steady.

Your chest heaves. Your fingers fall away from yourself, spent. And Zayne—still hard, still deep inside—presses a kiss to your jaw as he wraps both arms around you from behind.

His voice hums low against your ear. “Still with me?”

You nod faintly, the barest smile playing at your lips. “Barely.”

He chuckles, breath cool against your skin.

But he doesn’t let go.

And you don’t get a warning for what happens next.

One second you’re still catching your breath in his arms, trembling from your last orgasm, and the next you’re being turned. Zayne shifts you gently but purposefully, and before you can even find your balance, your back meets the warm tile of the bathroom wall.

The contrast makes you gasp.

“Zayne—”

“Shh.” His voice is soft, low, too steady for someone who’s still buried inside you. “I’ve got you.”

Your legs are too weak to argue, but they part easily as he lifts you, hands firm beneath your thighs, holding your full weight against the wall as he slides into you again.

You moan—helpless, full—and into him, fingers sinking into his hair, like holding him might steady the world. Every inch of you throbs, still raw from the last high, but you can’t stop. Won’t stop. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Not when he feels this good.

His hips begin to move again, slow but deep, pushing into you with careful precision. His breath catches when you clench around him, and then he leans in—mouth finding your jaw, then your throat, and lower still.

His tongue flicks against your breast before his lips close around your nipple, drawing it between his teeth. You cry out, head tipping back against the wall, your body arching to meet his mouth.

“Zayne—please—”

He groans around you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. His pace quickens.

You hold onto him tighter, legs trembling around his waist, your body curling forward as the pleasure builds again—burning and blooming, one wave on top of the next. You press your face into the crook of his neck, too overwhelmed to think.

Until your eyes flick open—

And you see it.

The mirror. The same one that had been in front of you moments ago is now behind him, angled just enough for you to catch your reflection.

And his.

You can see everything—your back arched, your breast being sucked by his mouth, your thighs spread wide around him as he thrusts up into you. The way your body bounces with every thrust, how he holds you like you weigh nothing. The way you cling to him like you’ll fall apart if he lets go.

Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out.

Zayne doesn’t miss it.

He shifts slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder, and even though he can’t see what you’re seeing, he doesn’t need to. His lips curve against your skin in a knowing smirk.

“Oh?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. “Finally noticing the view?”

You whimper, burying your face against him—but your hips still move with his. And it’s too late. You can’t unsee it now.

Zayne chuckles, nudging your head aside so he can kiss your throat again. “You look beautiful, love. Every time I move, you tighten around me like you’re about to come again. Watching yourself fall apart?”

You nod shakily, your voice barely audible. “It’s—too much.”

“Mmm.” He presses deeper, harder, making you cry out again. “Don’t look away.”

His thrusts grow more urgent, more focused, slamming into you with unrelenting force. The slap of skin on skin echoes with your soft cries, your moans, his heavy breaths. His mouth never stops moving—your neck, your collarbone, your breast again, reverent and hungry. One of his hands slides to your lower back, angling you to meet each thrust perfectly, while the other still holds your thigh, tight, grounded.

You’re unraveling. Fast.

And he’s still watching your every reaction like it’s the only thing that matters.

Your back thuds gently against the wall with every thrust. Your body’s slick with sweat and water, still unsteady from everything he’s already taken from you—but Zayne gives you no room to recover. Not when you’re moaning like this. Not when your nails are dragging down his back. Not when your eyes keep flicking to the mirror behind him like you’re hypnotized.

He thrusts harder.

You cry out, clenching around him instinctively, and that makes him groan—deep, guttural—like he’s losing control.

“Can feel you it,” he pants, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re so tight… I won’t last long like this.”

You’re not sure you will either.

Every part of you is buzzing—overstimulated and starving at once. Your legs shake around him, arms still wrapped around his neck as if anchoring yourself there could slow the inevitable.

He shifts again, hips angling upward, and you nearly sob as the pressure slams perfectly into your sweet spot. Over and over. Each thrust tearing another breathless moan from your throat.

“Zayne—Zayne, I—” You can’t even form the words.

He doesn’t need you to.

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing circles just firm enough, just fast enough to send your head spinning.

“That’s it,” he whispers, still watching the way your body moves for him in the mirror. “Let go, wife. Show me how beautiful you are like this.”

You fall.

Your entire body locks up, then shudders violently as your orgasm crashes through you—hot, blinding, endless. You cling to him, crying out into his neck, pulsing around his cock in endless waves.

Zayne groans, his hips jerking as your body tightens around him again and again. His fingers dig into your thighs as he loses rhythm, thrusts growing erratic.

And then he breaks.

He presses deep—so deep—and spills into you with a strangled groan, face buried in your neck, his entire body trembling as he empties himself inside you for the second time tonight. You feel the heat of it, the way he fills you so full it almost aches, but you don’t move. You just cling to him, letting him hold your weight as your bodies twitch and tremble against one another.

Neither of you speak for a long moment.

There’s only the sound of breathing. Water dripping. The soft press of Zayne’s lips against your skin—your shoulder, your neck, your collarbone. Over and over, like he’s grounding himself in you.

Finally, you breathe, voice faint. “That’s four.”

Zayne huffs a soft laugh into your skin, still pressed deep inside you. “You were keeping count after all.”

You smile, weak but pleased. “Someone has to. You said you’d do it in your head, remember?”

His lips brush your shoulder, his voice quieter now. “I did.” He lifts his head, looking at you with eyes still dark and glassy. “I’m not counting. I’m remembering.”

That makes your chest ache. In a good way.

He kisses you then—slow, thorough, adoring—before slowly letting your legs down, careful to keep you steady. You wince slightly as he slips out of you, his hands already soothing, steadying your hips as he gently helps you stand.

You sway. He catches you.

“Come on,” he murmurs, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. “Let’s actually clean up this time.”

You nod, eyes half-lidded, leaning into his chest as he guides you back toward the tub—arms around you like you’re something breakable now.

And even if your legs still tremble, you feel safe. Cared for. Loved.

The bathwater has cooled slightly, but it’s still warm enough to soothe your aching limbs. Zayne cradles you against his chest, letting your body rest against his.

For a while, neither of you say anything. The silence is comfortable, your heart still racing—but slower now, quieter.

His fingers trail gently along your arm underwater, then drift to the bottle of body wash at the side of the tub. He pours a little into his palm, working it into a gentle lather before he begins to wash you—slow strokes over your shoulders, down your arms, then across your chest with a feather light touch.

You sigh, leaning your head back against him.

“You’re spoiling me,” you murmur sleepily.

“Good.” His voice is soft, lips brushing the top of your damp hair. “That’s what honeymoons are for.”

He doesn’t rush. When he finishes with you, he nudges you forward a little, rinsing your back with careful, thorough strokes. And then your fingers find his hand and guide it to the cloth instead.

“My turn,” you say, a little smug.

Zayne lets you wash him without protest, even tilting his head when you lather gently under his jaw, pressing a kiss there as you finish.

Eventually, he shifts behind you, one hand resting lightly on your hip. “Come on. You’ll fall asleep in here if we stay too long.”

You nod reluctantly, letting him rise first before he helps you up too, both of you a little unsteady on your feet. He grabs the towels hanging on the wall and wraps one around your body first, then takes another for himself.

It’s only once you’re both out of the tub that the air hits you—cool and a little sharp after the warmth—and you instinctively step closer to him again.

Zayne catches you without hesitation, rubbing your back through the towel. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, and the sight of him wrapped in nothing but a towel, eyes soft and a little glazed, does something funny to your chest.

He catches you staring.

“What?” he asks, amused.

You shake your head with a small smile. “Nothing. Just… you look good like this.”

He tilts his head. “Like this?”

“Messy,” you clarify, reaching up to brush a strand of damp hair from his forehead. “Like you’ve been ruined.”

Zayne huffs a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling. “That would imply I didn’t enjoy every second.”

You grin, but it softens as he brushes his knuckles along your cheek, the gesture almost absentminded in its tenderness. He presses a kiss to your forehead, then nudges your towel-wrapped form toward the door.

“Let’s dry off properly,” he murmurs. “Before you catch a cold.”

You follow him out of the bathroom, feet padding across the cool floor. The room is dim and warm, the soft rustle of towels and quiet footsteps the only sounds as you both move around each other with easy familiarity.

Zayne disappears into the wardrobe for a second to grab fresh clothes, then pauses when he sees you tugging at your towel. He crosses the room to grab the hair dryer from the vanity.

“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the plush stool.

You arch a brow. “Planning to pamper me again?”

“Of course.” His answer is immediate, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He plugs in the dryer, fingers gently guiding you down to sit. “Turn around.”

You do. The towel is still wrapped around your chest, your skin warm and damp beneath it. You hear the click of the dryer, feel the first warm gust of air hit your shoulders.

Zayne starts unhurried, running the dryer in even passes through your hair, careful not to pull. His fingers follow after, combing through the strands with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

“I always forget how soft it is,” he murmurs eventually, more to himself than to you. “Even when it’s damp.”

You smile faintly, closing your eyes at the praise. “You do spend a lot of time with your hands in it.”

His hands pause for just a second, then resume. “Only because it’s yours,” he says simply. “I like touching anything that belongs to you. And now mine too.”

You feel a warmth crawl up your neck at that, even though you’re still wrapped in towels and raw from pleasure. There’s no smugness in his voice, just quiet certainty.

“Possessive,” you murmur, barely audible over the hum of the dryer.

Zayne leans in just a little, not missing a beat. “And yet you keep letting me.”

You turn your head just enough to catch the amused curve of his mouth.

“Touché,” you mutter.

You close your eyes, leaning slightly into his touch as he continues. There’s something absurdly intimate about the moment—more than sex, more than the teasing. It’s the quiet care, the way his fingers never tug too hard, the way he smooths every section before moving on.

When he finishes your hair, he switches off the dryer, setting it aside with a soft clunk.

“Your turn,” you offer, glancing over your shoulder.

He hums. “I’ll manage.”

But you’re already standing, reaching for the dryer again. “Nope. You pampered me. I’m pampering you.”

Zayne raises a brow but sits without protest, and you can see the faint smile pulling at his mouth as you plug the dryer back in and angle it toward him.

His hair is shorter, but thick—and still damp at the roots. You start gently, fingers raking through while the warm air blows over him. His eyes close after a moment, lashes resting against his cheekbones, posture loose and trusting beneath your hands.

“You’re going to fall asleep,” you murmur, amused.

He exhales through his nose. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

You grin and keep going, making sure to get them all dry properly before crouching a little to press a kiss to the top of his head.

“There,” you say, satisfied. “Now we won’t wake up shivering.”

Zayne rises, towel slipping a little on his hips. He ignores it, stepping closer until his arms slip around your waist again. “Smart and gorgeous,” he murmurs, dipping his head to kiss you. “My perfect wife.”

You flush at the praise, hands curling at his back. There’s no urgency now, no teasing—just warmth. “You won’t get any sweet even if you keep flattering me,” you murmur, but the way your fingers clutch at him gives you away.

He chuckles before leaning in again, slower this time, lips brushing yours like he can’t help himself. “Worth a try.”

You laugh softly, the sound muffled between kisses, your body already molding into his without a second thought. He doesn’t press further, just holds you there for a moment, letting the quiet settle between your breaths. He lets his lips linger at your temple before pulling back slightly, eyes still soft.

“Stay here,” he says, brushing his thumb along your hip. “You need water.”

Before you can argue, he’s already turning away—grabbing the fresh pajamas he took before and tugging them on before disappearing into the kitchen. You put the pajamas on as well and sit on the edge of the bed, watching the soft golden light spill through the doorway from the other room.

When he returns, he’s holding two glasses, condensation already forming at the sides.

“You’re not sneaking me electrolytes, are you?” you tease as you take yours.

“Would you blame me if I did?” he replies, handing it over. “You could barely make it to the tub.”

You narrow your eyes at him over the rim of your glass but drink anyway. It’s just water. Cold, refreshing, grounding.

He finishes his own quickly, sets the glass aside, and takes the empty one from your hands. His fingers linger for a moment as they brush against yours, gentle and cool.

Then he straightens and reaches for your hand again—not pulling, just offering.

“Come lie down,” he says, voice softer now.

You let him guide you without a word, fingers curling into his as he leads you back toward the bed. The mattress dips beneath your combined weight, sheets cool against your skin. He settles behind you, one arm slipping around your waist, the other tucking beneath your pillow.

You shift until your back meets his chest, until your legs find his and your breath slows to match the rise and fall of his.

His lips brush the back of your shoulder. “Comfortable?”

You hum in response, fingers playing absently with his. “You’re warm.”

“I’m not,” he murmurs with a faint smile against your skin. “You just run hot.”

“Still counts,” you whisper, already drowsy.

Zayne chuckles, the sound low and sleepy. He nudges his nose lightly against the back of your neck, then lets the silence return—slow, quiet, familiar.

You can feel it in the way he holds you: not just closeness, but safety. The kind of peace that settles in your chest, wrapping around your bones and telling you that you’re home.

His thumb brushes slow circles against your hip. Not to coax. Not to tease. Just… to remind you he’s still here.

And when your breathing evens out, when your thoughts finally go quiet, you feel him press one last kiss to your shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispers—too soft for the room, but just loud enough for your heart. You murmur your reply to him as sleep finally drags you under.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning light slips quietly through the curtains, softened by snow outside the windows. It’s gentle, casting soft gold across the sheets when Zayne stirs first.

He shifts slightly behind you, the arm around your waist tightening just a little as he breathes you in—then pulls you closer, snug against his chest.

You murmur something incoherent, blinking slow and groggy as the shift tugs you from sleep. Your hand finds his, fingers lacing through his automatically.

“Just waking up?” you ask, voice scratchy from sleep but warm.

He hums against the back of your neck, not bothering with words yet. Instead, he presses a kiss there—lazy and unhurried. Then another. And another, soft and slow along your skin like he has no plans to stop. His arm stays tight around your waist, holding you still while his lips drift lower, then up again.

You smile, sleep-muddled but content, and shift slightly beneath the covers, turning in his arms until you’re facing him. His hair’s a little tousled, his eyes still heavy-lidded, but his gaze finds yours without hesitation.

He brushes your cheek with the back of his fingers. “Sore?”

You snort, trying not to laugh too loud into the morning quiet. “Definitely. Can’t feel between my legs,” you say with a grin, “but I’d do it again.”

Zayne smiles faintly, kisses your temple. “Me too,” he murmurs—then presses a soft kiss to your lips before tucking his head beneath your chin, resting against your chest like it’s his favorite place in the world.

Your fingers drift into his hair, brushing lightly. “I guess we’re staying in,” you say, soft laugh trailing beneath your words.

He doesn’t answer—just lets out a breath and relaxes fully against you, both of you slowly drifting back into sleep with limbs tangled, hearts steady.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t know how much time passes before Zayne wakes again. The bed shifts behind you, and his warmth starts to pull away.

You groan, reaching out blindly to grab his wrist. “Nooo. Stay. Warm.”

“I’ll be back,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he leans in, kissing the top of your head, lips brushing yours next in quiet distraction while he slips from the bed.

You sink back into the blankets, watching as he disappears out the door of your cozy suite bedroom.

When he returns, it’s with two mugs and a tray balanced in his arms. The smell hits first—toast, eggs, fruit, something sweet—and your stomach growls in betrayal.

“I was gonna bring this to bed quietly,” Zayne says, shutting the door behind him with his foot, “but it turns out the floorboards in this cabin have opinions.”

You laugh as he settles onto the edge of the mattress, setting the tray between you. “Brunch in bed? You’re making it very hard to ever leave.”

“I know. Strategic,” he says, completely deadpan, before handing you your mug.

The food is simple but perfect—tasting better just because you’re sharing it like this. Tucked into soft sheets, limbs brushing, the cold outside kept at bay by warmth and easy smiles.

You stretch, wiggling your toes beneath the blankets. “I actually planned for us to go skiing today, you know.”

Zayne raises an eyebrow at you mid-bite, amused. “You planned for that?”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, sipping your drink. “Thought we’d wake up early, hit the slopes, pretend we’re athletic.”

“You know we never ski on the first day.” His voice is dry, teasing. He sets his cup down, tone casual but unmistakably pointed. “History suggests our first day on trips like this tends to be… less cardio, more recovery.”

You try to hide your grin behind your mug. “I’m not hearing any complaints.”

“None,” he agrees easily. “Though I am hearing ‘can’t feel between my legs.’”

You huff a laugh, reaching to pinch his side—only for him to catch your hand and kiss your fingers.

Eventually, the tray is cleared and set aside, and the two of you shuffle out of bed—blankets wrapped around your shoulders as you migrate to the living room. The fireplace crackles to life not long after, casting golden light across the space. Outside the wide windows, snow falls in soft, thick flakes, muffling the world in quiet.

You curl up together on the couch. A book rests in your lap, half-forgotten, as Zayne’s arm settles around your back. Even with the coolness of his body pressed to your side, it still feels warm beneath the layers—grounding, familiar. A movie plays softly in the background, more ambient than anything, something to fill the silence you don’t mind sharing.

Your hand rests against his knee, thumb brushing absent circles, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head in return.

No rush. No expectations.

Just the slow, steady rhythm of a day spent exactly where you belong.

Laughter between kisses.

Quiet touches.

Just the two of you—husband and wife.

Together.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes

I could find an excuse, like how this story been on my ass for a few days, and I keep adding stuff into it, but damn you! I like it! 😂 Either way, I hope y'all enjoy it as well, thank you if you reading this until here 🫶🏻 A bit weird saying that under smut but we're all civil people here 😂 just joking, love y'all!

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laddelulu30 · 4 months ago

Text

Reposting to come back like an addicted psycho. Sorry. Ovulation is bad this year.

━━ HELLO

.ᐟ✧ hello! you can call me lex, lexy or lexie! 23, she/her, isfp, capricorn, european. kitty girl mom. student and dancer in my free time. smut/fluff fic writer (although new). living for angst and slowburn.

.ᐟ✧ what can you find on here? me absolutely losing my mind over love and deepspace mostly. i currently experiment with writing, and yes, i love suffering. so my fics are centered mostly on slowburn or angst, mixed with smut and some fluff.

my main is zayne but i am circling around sylus, rafayel and caleb lately. xavier isn't forgotten, either, but i mostly focus on the others.

.ᐟ✧ 18+ only. minors please do not interact.

━━ NAVIGATION

Ⅰ. rules Ⅱ. masterlist Ⅲ. twitter | x Ⅳ. ao3

.ᐟ✧ currently i do not take requests, but you may drop them here, and i may take some if i get inspired.

.ᐟ✧ messages are open but it may take a while before i respond, so please, keep that in mind!

━━ NOW PLAYING

.ᐟ✧ it was always you (and us) - zayne and caleb - fluff, smut and a little bit of angst - currently 23.4k words - WIP - ao3

.ᐟ✧ gravity instincts - caleb - smut - 7.7k - ao3

.ᐟ✧ the bond remembers - rafayel - angst, a little fluff, smut - 16.8k - ao3

.ᐟ✧ hung like a masterpiece - rafayel - smut - 22.3k - ao3

━━ MORE

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

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laddelulu30 · 4 months ago

Note

Hey!!! Sneaking in to wish you a Happy Birthday'm soooo sorry this is so late but Happy Birthday!!! [life got super crazy there and I totally meant to deliver this lil note sooner!] I hope you ad a great day and have been having many more!!! I'm loving the scheme of your blog btw!!! Thank you for just being you and everything you contribute, I know it's done free of charge and it's always such quality when you write ☺

Oh my goodness! Thank you so much!! You totally made my day. Trust me, I know all about when life gets busy or starts kicking you when you least expect it. But I so appreciate your Birthday Wishes!! I do my best when I write as a means to escape my own hectic life, so if someone else can enjoy the little world I weave together. It fills me with such joy and I hope you'll stick around as my stories progress and I create more works. 😋🥂🤩

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laddelulu30 · 4 months ago

Text

Reposting so I can keep and revisit when I need to and if there are any updates. Hope you don't mind?

Love and Deepspace Fic Recs Masterlist

Pt 2

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

Also, be nice. If you can't leave any nice words on mine or anyone's posts, you have the option to not say it at all. The content we provide on this platform is for FREE; you don't get to stomp over that because of your unsolicited, rude opinions. Any discourse over my posts immediately gets a block.

Sylus

@comatosebunny09

current obsessions: serve and protect carpe noctem not quite human off the grid

@shaiyasstuff

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

@leighsartworks216

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

@abyssyby where the light touches

@ittybittyfanblog Error 404

@yukithestar sylus with non-mc reader

@borkunlimited Take Your Time, Miss Deer

@dijayeah

current obsessions: Ma Meilleure Ennemie the locked room protocol

@chubby-bun-bun

current obsessions: heavy is the crown untitled

@novthirty out of bounds

@thechaoticarchivist The Choices We Make

@subliminalwish A Blooming Predicament

@surly-sara In which Sylus... The Holiday Party

@terriblesoup

current obsessions: A hand to hold Where the light lingers

@skaiylus Throttle and Trust

@frissonmei to be known

@always-just-red Monster

@sylustful Hands

@syluxs

current obsessions: a moment of boldness shower for two

@ellealyssum put it all to rest

@salemrph Let the World Burn

@sleepy-little-stars child of hades

@humanjarvis my happy is your happy

@orphicmusings nothing's going to hurt you, baby

@strwberri-milk Last Friday Night

@tojicide About You

@poisonf0rest so beg for forgiveness

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

@peachylynnie blackjack

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

@lunaekalenda sweetie, i might die

@aleksatia Sylus — Five Years Later

@loveaurdeepression desi!reader x sylus

@catcze

current obsessions: new year, good morning My dragon

@catbolt

current obsessions: late night swim "sweetheart" nightmare

Zayne

@syneilesis Impact Factor

@odoraful Snowfield Park

@rumeras Coming Home

@qiyuearning girldad! Zayne

@luvzayne 1:02am

@illou-sainte cuddly wife, happy life

@dearieshima blue

@shaiyasstuff

current obsessions: librarian!Zayne pit-a-pat

Xavier

@shaiyasstuff glass half full

@bunbunnies another universe

Rafayel

@shaiyasstuff fate

@deusfoundry rafayel waxing poetic about you in lemurian

Caleb

@plutotheplum dog tags

@reilemon Powdered Gold

@pinecavity

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

@humanjarvis

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

@yukinohiko consumption of love

@hellinistical 11:14

@mapofsouthdakota come back

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

@dark-dawn rites for a dying planet

Luke & Kieran

@abyssyby off guard on duty

@into-deepspace shiny feathers

@yapperingtinaa Twins Vinyl Record

Poly LADS (and other rare pairings)

@astracora

current obsessions: Turning Point A Mandated Holiday Break

@iraot The Art of Submission

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

@hyperfixationhobo punch

@leighsartworks216

Current obsessions: Recliner Loving Life

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laddelulu30 · 4 months ago

Text

So, my new drawing tablet came in! I haven't drawn anything in years. So, wish me luck at starting at the beginning for digital art with the goal to drawing my own images! I'm super excited and incredibly nervous!

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laddelulu30 · 4 months ago

Text

Reposting because I don't need another reason to read smut even though I'm ovulating. Lie. I'll read it again anyway😝😋

green-eyed and creampied

just the, now, FIVE love and deepspace men being possessive and jealous!

━ ✧.˖ PAIRING: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel, caleb (separate) x female reader (afab)

━ .ᐟ✧ GENRE: smut, porn with little to no plot

━ ✧.˖ TOTAL WORD COUNT: 6.1k

━ .ᐟ✧ GENERAL CONTENT WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, jealous behavior, possessive behavior, LOTS of filthy dirty talk, sub!reader, dom!sylus, dom!zayne, dom!xavier, dom!rafayel, don!caleb, pet names, unprotected sex, never pulling out, banter, individual content warnings below with their respective fics

━ ✧.˖ LINKS: ao3

━ .ᐟ✧ A/N: haiiii guys it’s been a while since i wrote for all the guys. now FIVEEEEE guys, call it a burger joint.. .. sorry this is a day late. i know i’ve done a jealous fic before but i wanted to kinda do it again when they’re not drunk + include caleb.

caleb will still get his jealous and drunk fic tho! i’m also working on some stuff for caleb still. if ur a caleb girly u will eat

enjoy friends <3

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

sylus 秦彻

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,213

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, slight voyeurism, mentions of xavier, mating press, sylus on top, furniture breaks, lots of loud sex, sylus makes reader scream, praising

In the time you’d known Sylus, you’ve had to replace your mattress frame exactly three times.

It had gotten to the point where you refused to let him stay over. Not that that mattered, as you found yourself staying at his base—his home—far more than your own.

But for whatever reason, Sylus had asked to stay at your apartment tonight—insisting that the base was unsuitable to sleep at tonight. Some unconvincing excuse about renovations. You were suspicious, but he wore you down.

And so you found yourself being absolutely fucked into your mattress, thinking about how you’d need to buy yet another frame tomorrow, when this one inevitably shattered.

“Syluus,” you moan breathlessly, “S-Slow—mmngh—slow down. Bed’s going to break.” You wince when you hear it creak, knocking against your bedroom wall.

“You don’t want that, dove,” Sylus purrs, “She doesn’t want that.” He rolls his hips harder, squeezing the plush of your ass so hard that he leaves indents in the shape of his fingers.

“You know I can’t deny her, not when she wraps around me so fucking perfectly,” he groans, hiking your thigh up against his hip so he can angle deeper.

“You’re impossible. W-What’s gotten into you?” you force the words out, your nails clawing into the thick ropes of muscles of his shoulders, whimpering when he purposely drags his pelvis against your clit.

Sylus kisses your forehead, the tender gesture nearly enough to make you forget that he was knee deep in your guts trying to imprint his name into you.

“I haven’t seen you in a week. You’ve been so busy saving the world from Wanderers,” Sylus says simply, his voice calm and steady as if he wasn’t buried inside of you.

Your lips curl, and you tease, “You missed me?”

Sylus scoffs, his rhythm slowing for a brief moment, “Yes, terribly so. I’m not afraid to admit that.”

Your heart skips a beat, looking away shyly. But Sylus brings your face back to his, his grip on your chin gentle.

“What, getting shy on me now, little bird?” Sylus chuckles, almost condescendingly.

”That partner of yours gets to see this beautiful face more than I do. Don’t look away,” Sylus murmurs, eyes trained on your lips. He drags his pelvis intentionally along you, the coarse hair along the base of his cock working literal magic against your sensitive bud.

It’s not enough for you to miss the whiny undertone in his words though.

“You mean Xavier?”

Sylus’s pace falters, but he smirks still, raising an eyebrow at you, “Tch, you should only be thinking of me right now.”

”Y-You’re the one who—o-oh god—brought him up!” you say incredulously, finding the strength to gently smack his solid marbled chest. He catches your wrist before you can make content, bringing your fingertips up to his lips.

He nips at your hand in warning, his pace growing more forceful, as if telling you to watch yourself. His increased vigor makes your bed knock more violently against the wall, your eyes widening in fear.

”Sy, the neighbors are going to hear,” you whisper, knowing he wont listen to you anyway. He’d been forever trying to convince you to move in with him anyways.

“Hm, right. They will.”

You’re about to question his cryptic words when Sylus hoists your legs up, folding you in half. At this angle, he can quite literally hammer into you with an entirely renewed enthusiasm, reaching parts of you that he knew were your absolute weaknesses.

Your eyes roll back with a pleasured squeal, crying his name repeatedly.

Sylus smirks, praising you, your own name sounding like honey as it dripped off his tongue.

“That’s it, my love,” he coos, “Think you can get louder for me?”

You physically can’t respond, eyes squeezed shut as Sylus drives into your g-spot repeatedly and unrelentingly. He’s big enough where the head of his cock brushes against your cervix, a pleasure mixed with just the slightest pain that makes you delirious.

“Sy-lus,” you moan brokenly, unable to stop from practically screaming, “So deep—can’t…”

”You’re doing perfect,” he praises, whispering your name in a way that makes your stomach coil tightly, on the verge of exploding.

“Sh-shit. All you have to do is focus on screaming my name, hm? I’ll take care of the rest.”

You whine at the thought of your neighbors hearing you, knowing first hand just how thin the walls were. Biting the inside of your cheek, you do your best to keep your sounds down.

And of course Sylus notices instantly. But instead of scolding you, he only fucks you harder–physically pulling the sounds out of you. The screams of ecstasy that he wants.

Screams that would undoubtedly be heard across the walls. And the ceiling,

“Just like that,” Sylus grunts, his crimson eyes nearly glowing with approval, “Think he can hear you, sweetheart?”

Your eyes, previously screwed shut in sheer pleasure, fly open as you register the implication of his words—his actions.

Sylus seems to anticipate your reaction, simultaneously bringing his lips over your nipple and his thumb to your clit—rendering you a wordless, squealing mess.

You can’t see the way Sylus smirks against your breast with a dangerous satisfaction, his ruby eyes glowing with adoration and possession.

“He might get to see you every day, but I’m the only one who gets to see you like this. So drunk off my cock that you can’t even open your eyes.”

His thumb moves faster, in perfect tandem with his claiming thrusts.

”He might get to hear them, but these screams are for me, and only me. Right, my love?”

You find yourself nodding obediently, willing to do anything to get him to shut up and give you the orgasm he’s holding just out of your reach.

”Syluuus,” you plead shamelessly, words slurring, “F-Feels s’goood. Please!” Any attempt at being quiet had long been abandoned, your brain clouded only with thoughts of Sylus and the filthy mating press he had you folded into.

Sylus was a man of fierce passion, but this was entirely different. His beautiful eyes held a swirl of dangerous emotions, nearly as intense as the vigor in which his body pounding down into yours. Your nearing climax rings in your ears, blocking out the sounds of your mattress frame snapping, his thrusts masking the feeling of the wood smashing into the ground.

He revels in your cries of pure ecstasy, satisfaction blooming in his chest as you grow louder with every thrust towards your release. Sylus’s vermillion eyes flicker to the ceiling of the bedroom, intrusive thoughts clouding his own building pleasure.

It’d be easier if he lived next to you as opposed to the unit atop yours.

With his lips at your neck, his thick body presses down onto you, angling himself deeper. As he brings your body to unprecedented heights, he whispers into the shell of your ear, voice husky and rough.

”Can feel how close you are” he groans, your cunt attempting to wring his cock absolutely dry, “Want him to hear you cum for me?”

You whine, weakly shaking your head ‘no.’ Sylus only grins, his hips snapping into the plush of your thighs.

”That’s too bad, kitten. Your dear partner is going to have to hear it anyway.”

xavier 沈星回

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,165

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, dark!xavier, mentions of sylus, standing sex, mentions of voyeurism, mentions of cum marking, hitting it from the back, sex against the window, slight choking

“You’ve been at the N109 Zone a lot this week.”

You can hardly comprehend Xavier’s words over the sheer intensity at which he’s driving himself into you, as if trying to carve you perfectly into the shape of him.

“Wh-What?” you pant, your voice pathetically shaky as your palms desperately steady yourself against the window he has you pressed against.

The city lights twinkle beneath you, and you find yourself grateful that you’re more than ten floors up. Because the way Xavier had your naked body pressed into the cool glass pane, his chin digging into your shoulder as his hips snapped harshly into your ass?

If you were on a lower floor, anyone outside would undoubtedly see everything.

But you’re starting to think that’s exactly what he wants.

“The N109 Zone. You’ve been there almost every day this last week,” Xavier says, his words simple but his tone almost threatening. Not enough to scare you, but just enough to have your toes curling in excitement.

“And?” is all you manage, your back arching against his abdomen when he presses you deeper into the window. In response, Xavier’s thrusts slow to a near stop, his hand gently wrapping around the base of your throat. You whine in protest, desperately rolling your own hips backward against him, chasing the pleasure

His tender fingers stroke the sides of your neck, so softly and adoringly. It gives you whiplash when you see how dark his eyes have gotten, almost sinister.

Gripping you gently, he pulls you toward him by your neck until your head rests on his shoulder and you can really see the intensity of his shadowy azure eyes.

“Have you been working with the Onichynus leader?” he asks, his thrusts unbearably slow and shallow.

“Sylus?”

At that, Xavier snaps, his grip tightening and his pace quickening. Except it’s much more violent this time around–enough to have your body pounding into the glass and your head swimming with delirious ecstasy.

The sound of another man’s name on your tongue while his cock was nestled against your g-spot? That fueled Xavier with a jealousy that bordered on insanity.

“You did that on purpose,” he grunts unhappily against your ear. It’s nearly impossible to hear him over the sound of his pelvis pounding into your ass, the wet slaps resounding throughout the room.

“Mnngh…W-What did I do?” you ask, struggling to speak.

Xavier’s breath is heavy against your shoulder, his fingers abandoning your neck and instead cupping your jaw, turning your face towards him, so he can really look at you.

Wordlessly, he pulls your face to his, taking your lips into his–bruisingly and possessively. As his tongue claims every inch of your mouth, his cock does the same, filling you out so completely that you find it difficult to breathe.

“Do I need to be rougher?” Xavier grunts as he reluctantly pulls away from you, his lips shiny and cheeks flushed red. You squeak when his hand roughly cups your breast, kneading just how he knew you liked, but just a tad bit harder to make you scream.

“Do I need to remind you just how much you need me?”

He punctuates his words with a pointed thrust, his cockhead stroking roughly against your most sensitive spots.

“How much you need this?”

The intensity and passion in which Xavier takes you against the window is enough to render you a wordless, moaning mess. The glass is nice and cool against your burning skin, fogging up as Xavier presses you deeper into it.

He maneuvers your chin so that you’re facing the reflection again. He kisses your shoulder, deceptively tender, as he murmurs your name. The push and pull between tenderness and roughness confuses your brain, only making your body more receptive, more pliant, to him.

“Oh god—Xavier!” you moan unabashedly, your forehead falling forward to lean against the window. Xavier smiles, thoroughly pleased at the sound of his name leaving your beautiful lips.

But he was a greedy man and he wanted more.

“Look at me,” he commands gently, saying your name with so much conviction and possession that you're wracked with a violent shiver. He tilts your chin up again, so that you come face to face with him in the reflection, the city lights outside blurring. His fingers are soft against your skin, his grip demanding.

Xavier’s glassy cerulean eyes bore into yours through the reflection, misted with a dark and raw possession that you’d been seeing more and more of lately as Xavier opened his heart to you. A look that made your instincts tingle with the need to escape.

And yet your body only tightens with excitement, sucking Xavier further into you, wanting him harder–deeper.

But it’s still so effortlessly Xavier–pure and soft. It made your heart clench with adoration while your core tightened with desperation.

His intense eyes burn into your naked form, fingers forcing you to watch him, as he speaks again, “The next time you go to the N109 Zone, I’m coming too.”

You’re about to protest but Xavier cuts you off, “I know you’re perfectly capable. That’s not why.” His words come out shaky and soft as you get painfully tighter, inexplicably turned on by his possessive nature.

“If you’re going to be walking around the N109 zone with him, you’re going to do it with my cum dripping down your thighs.”

You gasp, your stomach tightening at his filthy–completely serious–words. Xavier smiles into the mirrored window that’s now fogging up with your combined torrid breaths.

“Do you like the sound of that? It feels like you do, angel.”

Xavier glances at you again, looking absolutely ethereal with the city lights twinkling behind his reflection. But he’s starting to look just as disheveled as you, his blonde hair strewn messily, his pale cheeks dusted pink, beads of sweat trailing down his muscles.

As you get distracted in the way his burning cock literally reshapes your gummy walls around him, Xavier grabs a gentle fistful of your hair, forcing you to level with him.

“Tell me you want it, please.”

His commanding words are tinged with just an inkling of insecurity, his blue eyes nearly begging with yours through the damp glass.

You push yourself off the glass, leaning back against him, knees buckling when he gets deeper.

Xavier wraps a secure arm around your chest, holding you effortlessly in place. In this position, he buries his face into your shoulder, his eyes still peeking over, trained on you.

Laying your head back against him, you cradle the back of his head with your hand. Maintaining eye contact, you somehow find the coherence to appease him, knowing he’d go insane without your reassurance, no matter how ridiculous what he was asking was.

“W-Wan’ it Xav,” you moan through the force of his thrusts, “Anything you give me, anything you want.

Xavier noticeably falters, his breaths becoming alarmingly ragged, azure eyes darkening to a deep navy instead.

“Then, let’s start right now.”

zayne 黎深

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,120

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, marking + hickeys, improper evol use, dry humping, mentions of caleb, zayne on top, praising

Zayne wasn’t a jealous man.

At least that’s what you’d thought—what he’d made you and everyone who knew him believe.

He was wildly successful in his career, self-assured in himself, and secure in your relationship.

And yet, the way he was sucking bruises into every inch of your burning skin, with the clear intent to mark and claim–where everyone could see, said otherwise.

“Zayne—!” you cry out as he bites a particularly mind-numbing hickey into your collar, his skilled tongue soothing the sensitive skin as his teeth graze against the forming bruise.

“Hm?” is all he murmurs. But he doesn’t let you continue or clarify, because the next thing you know, he’s rolling his bare erection against your moist slit, purposely letting his own leaking tip rub against your throbbing bundle of nerves.

With your eyes squeezed shut in burning anticipation, you can’t see him, but you can hear the faint smirk in his voice.

“What is it, sweetheart?” his lips are suddenly at the skin under your ear, pressing soft kisses into the spot he plans to mark you next.

“You know what,” you whine, “Not so high up.” Even you can hear how half-hearted your plea is. You loved the rare occasion Zayne made it known exactly what he did to his favorite hunter, his most crucial patient, behind closed doors.

But you’d gotten so familiar with Zayne’s straight-edged professionalism that you were used to him leaving signs of himself on your body that only you’d be able to see. Areas that only the two of you would know he’d been. Where his lips had been.

“And why is that?” he chuckles, letting his lips ghost along your pulse, as if warning you what was to come if you didn’t plead your case.

You gasp when he grabs the base of his cock, purposely letting himself brush against your soaked entrance, but not letting himself enter–much to your dismay.

“H-Have to go to—ngh—go to Skyhaven tomorrow,” you whimper, “Meeting with Caleb and the F-Fleet to discuss Wanderer activity.”

Zayne pauses at your words, his entire body tensing ever so slightly as he presses himself forcefully into you, his muscles twitching against you.

Ah.

He collects himself instantly, his teeth nipping at your pulse in warning.

“Oh?” he says, as if he didn’t already know you’d be seeing Caleb tomorrow, likely having gotten your mission schedule from the Association. Doctors often had access to the files of all Hunters that were under their care.

“Even more reason to send you off with a few gifts for the Colonel.”

If his jealous possession didn’t turn you on so damn thoroughly you might’ve rolled your eyes and teased him. Tease him that he’d said the childhood rivalry between him and Caleb was one-sided. That he’d said he was above that petty jealousy.

But with Zayne’s cock wedged so tortuously between your legs, a burning path of love bites trailing from your neck to your breasts, his warm breath at your ear–you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything but moan for more.

“You sound beautiful,” Zayne whispers thickly into your ear, before his lips descend and latch onto the soft skin above your nipple, “So perfect like this. Spread out for me, begging for more.”

He pulls away, a string of saliva connecting from his lips to your heaving chest, his mouth pulling into a faint smirk at the pretty little marks he’s left all over your soft skin. The sense of satisfaction he feels from watching your quivering form, chanting his name like a prayer. The satisfaction he got from knowing that he’d be the only one to see you like this, feel you like this. Now and forever.

The satisfaction from knowing that anyone who saw you would see exactly how thoroughly you belonged to him.

He shifts to give himself better access to you. To the spot between your legs that was reserved only for him.

Zayne positions himself, his tip at your aching entrance, his body coming down to hover over you, his face inches from yours. His eyes bore into yours, the gold flecks shining as he takes in your flushed features. His magnificent woman.

His fingers trace your jaw, carving an icy path down every beautiful mark, every searing claim. You yelp at the feeling of his Evol laced fingertips, body arching at the hypersensitivity of his frosty digits. But Zayne only presses you back down into the mattress.

“Tell me, love,” he whispers, his voice husky and gravelly with need, “Who’s the only one who gets to see you like this?”

Feeling rebellious, you refuse, “I’m not feeding into this ridiculous del–” You’re cut off by your own scream as Zayne’s fingertips close over your nipple, using his Evol to make his skin colder than it normally was. He repeats his demand, saying your name so tenderly–a stark contrast to his unforgiving touch that your body yearned for.

“Tell me.”

“Y-You!” you squeal as Zayne rolls your sensitive tip in his skillful torturous fingers.

“Who’s the only one who gets to hear you make these perfect little noises?” This time he punctuates his question by bringing his frozen fingers to your clit, pressing down, simultaneously holding your body down as it arches.

“Anngh–you. Only you! P-Please–!” you beg, not able to take the hypersensitivity, but not wanting him to pull away.

“So good for me,” Zayne murmurs, pressing his cock into you, just barely stretching you out, “And only me, right beautiful?”

Your eyes widen at the feeling of just his thick tip inside you. Your body arches, trying to receive more of him. He gently pushes you back down, his palm flat against your stomach.

You whine at his blatant denial, using your legs to try to trap his body against yours, pulling him closer so he had no choice but to push deeper.

“Oh g-god, yes!”

But Zayne remains steadfast, his strong muscled body unmoving. Instead, he gently grips your chin, bringing your eyes up to his.

“Say my name.”

Zayne thrusts shallowly, forcefully pulling the words from your lips and making you spill exactly what he wanted to hear.

“Nnngh–only yours, Zayne!” His name rolls off your tongue like music, earning you a low growl of approval from the man just barely inside you.

As if to reward you, he pushes himself fully inside of you, all the way to the hilt. He falls onto his elbows, rolling his hips with a passionate intensity that has you calling his name–over and over. With a torrid groan of your name, he desperately presses another blossoming bruise into your pulse. Right where everyone could see it.

“That’s right sweetheart. And everyone will know it.”

rafayel 祁煜

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,190

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, marking, spanking, kinda mentions of voyerism, raf on top but from the back, messy make out

You were a relatively flexible person.

By no means did you have the range of a gymnast or a professional dancer, but all things considered, you were decently limber for the average woman—dabbling in the occasional yoga and pilates.

But that did little to prepare you for the arch Rafayel was forcing you into, his hand gently gripping your hair for leverage, the other pushing you down lower.

He’d purposely put his massive ornate gold-rimmed mirror in front of his bed, forcing you to watch as he mounted you savagely from behind, his hips desperate to paint pretty flowering bruises into the plush of your ass.

Rafayel normally punished you with the silent treatment, or overt sass. But now?

He was punishing you with his insatiable body.

“You better not do that again,” the purple-haired artist groans from behind you, his voice much more demanding than you normally ever heard from him. His hips snap into you, your combined arousal dripping down the back of your thighs.

You can only moan back, every nerve end in your body burning with the pleasure delivered from Rafayel’s thick length inside of you, rendering you unable to think or speak clearly.

Unsatisfied with your lack of response, Rafayel tugs gently at your hair, forcing you to level with him in the reflection in the mirror. He looks devastatingly handsome, his purple wavy hair tousled, like he’d run his hair through it several times. His soft, blemish free, skin a beautiful shade of coral. The sapphire in his eyes eclipses the soft pinkish corals, as he gives into primitive instinct, making them nearly entirely blue.

“Tell me you won’t do that again.”

You whine, even in your cock-drunk state, you know exactly what he wants you to say.

Rafayel was just wrapping up a guest lecture circuit for the local universities, particularly their fine arts departments. He’d asked you to be his “assistant” to the last one, claiming he needed his precious bodyguard there if any of the students tried to kidnap him for ransom.

During a portrait exploration exercise, a student had asked you to model for his sketch. It seemed innocent enough, and you didn’t want to make Rafayel look bad by denying a student’s genuine request–being his guest on campus.

And apparently Rafayel did not like that.

“Raf–!” you rasp, doing your best to speak through the torrent of passionate thrusts, your broken voice barely audible over the lewd sounds of his skin slapping against yours.

“S-Slow down,” you whimper, unable to speak coherently, answer his demand, if he was fucking you this passionately.

“That’s not what I asked for, pretty girl,” Rafayel murmurs, his own voice nearly broken over how perfect your gummy walls convulse around him.

You squeal when he presses his palm harder down on the small over your back, making your ass arch even higher for him.

“You’re in no position to be making demands,” he pants, the hand in your hair abandoning your head to grab a fistful of your soft ass. He kneads it tenderly, eliciting a cry of pleasure from you, before releasing it.

Thwack!

Your eyes widen, a squeal erupting from your lips as Rafayel’s hand comes down to meet your rear in a harsh spank.

“Come on, baby,” he groans your name, halfway between a growl and a whine.

“W-Was jus’ a portrait sketch,” you reason, catching his heated gaze in the mirror. His perfectly arched eyebrow raises at you.

“You think I care?” Rafayel mutters, smacking your ass again, only this time it’s softer. Not punishing, but rather claiming. With the sole intent to mark you up. His.

“Unngh–you asked me t’come!” you slur, your entire body jolting with the force of his body pounding against yours.

“Yeah, to be my pretty little TA,” Rafayel protests, “Not someone else’s fucking inspiration!”

He slumps over you, forcing you deeper, his chest lightly pressed against your upper back, his lips pressed into your shoulder, nipping gently.

“Ngh–knew I should’ve kept you under my podium,” he grumbles, only half joking.

You give him a pointed look in the mirror, your face covered in sweaty strands of hair. Rafayel props himself above you with one arm, the other tenderly sweeping your hair out of your face. So he can see you properly.

You were his. Only his.

Even if it was just some unsuspecting university student.

Rafayel grabs your chin, turning your face so he can kiss you. You crane your neck towards him, letting him capture your lips aggressively, possessively.

It’s anything but a gentle tender kiss, but rather a dark claiming one. One where his tongue explores every inch of you, his teeth nipping your lips, swallowing your exquisite cries of pleasure.

When he pulls away, a string of saliva connects you to him. His fingers still gripping your chin, he turns you back to the mirror.

“You’re my muse. No one else gets to use you, innocent sketch or not.”

You nod submissively, inexplicably turned on by his jealous and possessive demeanor. Rafayel smiles at you through the reflection, a heated promise in his bi-colored eyes.

“Fuck—just like that, need to memorize every inch of you like this,” he moans, stroking your hair unbearably gently. As if he wasn’t rutting into you so viciously that his entire bed shook, the expensive wood legs of the frame scraping against the silk rug.

“You—mmmf—always say that,” you tease him, “Surprised you haven’t—ngh—haven’t created an entire map yet.”

Rafayel gives you an unamused look, his bottom lip jutting out in that adorable Rafayel grimace.

”A map? No,” he lowers himself back to your shoulder, letting his warm breath tickle your neck. He leans his head against yours, his hips rolling like the tides of the ocean. Except maybe during a tsunami.

He laughs when you nearly collapse, his angry tip hitting your g-spot. He catches you, hooking his arm under your stomach before you can lose that beautiful arch.

“Raf—!” you moan, “Can’t…Can’t take much more.”

“Easy, cutie,” he kisses your ear, slowing his movements much to your dismay. It stifles your impending orgasm, making you whine in frustration.

“D-Don’t tease Rafayel!”

He lets out a breathy laugh, giving you a single languid thrust before slowing again.

“Well I can’t have you tapping out juuuust yet,” he smiles into your neck, taking a deep inhale of your pheromones, the left side of his chest burns as your scent clouds his brain.

“I need more time, if I’m going to commit this image to memory,” he whispers predatorily into your ear, directing your face back to the massive mirror. The image reflected is so unbearably lewd.

Rafayel’s muscles ripple as he quite literally mounts you. You look so filthily undone beneath him, your skin flushed and shining with sweat, lips swollen and slick.

”Going to make a mural of you, exactly like this,” Rafayel grins wickedly, delighted by the way your eyes widen with horror, before rolling back into themselves. “Cheeks flushed, perfect ass up, hair disheveled…All for me.”

He gives you another gentle spank, your poor cheek reddened and marked.

“Think that will inspire him?”

caleb 夏以昼

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,417

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, slight improper evol use, mentions of zayne, against the wall sex, kinda leash use, caleb puts his dogtag in reader’s mouth, hickeys, brat taming

Against the setting sun, Caleb’s silver dog tag casts dancing flashes of light on the wall of his bedroom. Sunsets in Skyhaven have always been so much more magnificent. The floor to ceiling windows allow the waning sun to paint the entire room in a brilliant orange glow, the light bouncing off the necklace he never took off.

The necklace that was now swinging wildly against your own naked chest with the force of Caleb’s desperate, forceful movements.

”C-Caleb, o-oh god,” you cry, nails digging painfully into him, an angry trail of red welts already littering his muscled back. He hisses at the sting, but it only makes him more feral, his pelvis slamming so violently into yours that the wall behind you nearly tremors with his raw strength.

“Yeah? Finally being sensible, princess? Ready to be a good girl for me?” Caleb grins, his words lacking any real bite, balancing you in one hand as he moves your hair to one shoulder.

You whine in indignation, knowing exactly what brought about his sudden attitude.

A certain raven haired surgeon you both knew all too well.

It would be adorable if it wasn’t making him so damn animalistic right now. But who were you kidding—you loved it. Loved him like this.

“Y-You were in important Fleet briefings all day,” you pant through the moans, his cock spearing up into you as he holds you firmly to the wall.

He presses ravenous kisses to your jaw, his fist balling as it propped himself against the wall. “And? All you have to do is ask and I’ll have someone stand in for me.”

“You’re the Colonel–mmngh–you can’t just drop your duties every time I n-need someone to pick me up!”

“Fuck– so damn tight,” Caleb groans, leaning his forehead against yours as he ruts into you savagely, “and who says I can’t?”

There’s a childish and challenging lilt to his gravelly voice, squeezing your ass with his right hand, leaving flourishing bruises behind. If that arm couldn’t feel you, it’d sure as hell leave reminders he was there.

Your eyes roll back, from the pleasure or Caleb’s ridiculousness, you’re unsure.

“It was right next to the hospital,” you whine, squealing when Caleb takes your nipple into his mouth, rolling it gently between his teeth, “Mmngh–Zayne was a-already there!”

Caleb’s rhythm doesn’t falter for a second at the sound of that name rolling off your tongue. In fact, it seems to only make him more determined. More feral.

He holds your jaw in his fingers, his violet eyes glowing with a cautionary sparkle. The cool metal of his dog tag rattles against your bodies, pressed together and slick with sweat.

“I would’ve been there too. If you called me,” he murmurs petulantly, his face transforming into that classic wet-puppy face that Caleb so expertly used to get his way with you.

But the contrast of his adorable face to his downright filthy thrusts helps you stay clear-minded against his charms. Well, as clear-minded as you could be when he was being like this.

“Caleb, you’re being unrea—oh god!” you whimper, his fingers meanly pinching your clit, purposely trying to make you lose your train of thought, “U-Unreasonable!”

He pulls your chin to him, enveloping you in a feverish kiss, no doubt trying to get you to give in to his jealous little whims. When he pulls away, he tilts your chin up to look into the burning galaxy in his irises.

“You’re my girl. Call me next time, okay baby?” His tone, commanding–nearly a growl, betrays his deceptively sweet words.

You continue trying to reason with him, clawing desperately at the thick ropes of muscles in his back, “You w-were in Skyhaven! Would’ve been—angghh—been waiting for hours!”

Caleb presses warning kisses into your neck, his teeth nipping hard enough to leave marks. He takes one of your hands into his, intertwining your fingers slowly.

”Personal aircraft. Did you forget? Even after you rode me that one t–”

You whine in embarrassment, cutting him off with a poignant roll of your hips, “Ngh–Caleb! Y-You can't possibly fly a whole ass plane to Linkon every time Zayne tries to–”

Caleb interrupts your words with a growl, hips slowing down tortuously. His fingers wrap gently around your neck, his head tilted as he stares down at you.

“Really? You’re going to keep saying his name when you’re crying out for me? For this?”

To punctuate his lightly veiled threat, he ruts particularly viciously, your entire body sliding up the wall. He presses against you so tightly that you shudder, the cool metal of his necklace like ice against your singed skin. His hand brushes along your naval, where he can feel his cock hammering in and out. He presses down, eliciting a beautiful scream from you.

“God, you’re such a brat today,” he growls heatedly in your ear, his hand abandoning your stomach, threading with your fingers again. He raises your joined palms above your head, pushing them into the wall, giving him a bit more leverage as he tries to use his cock to make you forget anyone’s name but his.

Particularly that of your beloved doctor.

“I’m the brat?!” you say incredulously. He cuts you off, hammering until you can nearly feel him in your throat, but you don’t stop, “Y-You’re the brat! Still letting Zayne get under y–mmmf!”

Irritated at your unending talk of Zayne, his dog tag still swinging annoyingly with the force of his thrusts, Caleb cuts you off again. Using one hand to balance you, his free fingers place the tag of his bouncing silver necklace in between your lips. The cool metal brushes against your tongue and you whine as he squeezes your jaw, making it difficult to release it.

“Only name I want to hear from you is mine,” he murmurs, voice deceptively soft. He smirks when your eyes roll back, his tag still between your pouty lips. Something about the sight of you, his claim in your mouth, your eyes nearly white with the sheer force of pleasure only he can give you? It sends him dangerously close to losing all control.

Caleb’s fist slams into the wall next to your head, gasping out a string of expletives, his hips stuttering with the overwhelming emotions he feels when he looks at you. Taking a deep breath, he tries to collect himself, not quite ready to give you your release. His fist softens, stroking the chain of the necklace as it dangles from your mouth toward his chest.

“You gonna be good?” he coos your name, his smooth, heated voice doing little to betray how dangerously close he is to coming undone into your impossibly tight heat.

You give him a rebellious glare, your eyes saying no. You were this close to being cock drunk and giving in to enabling his possessive behavior, but you did your damned best to hold onto your pride.

Caleb chuckles darkly, freeing your chin which lets you drop the metal tag from between your teeth. He catches it in his fingertips, stroking the damp steel, his wordlessness feeling almost sinister.

You yelp when your neck is yanked towards him, close enough that you can feel his threatening breath against your lips, a dangerous glint in his eyebrow-shadowed eyes.

At first you think it’s his Evol, both his hands still occupied–one gripping the dog tag and the other gripping your ass. But at the slight sting at your nape, you realize you’d completely missed him slipping the gifted necklace over your neck. That he probably with his Evol.

And now he was using it like a leash, pulling you toward him like he owned you.

You gasp when he tilts his head, still gripping the necklace gently, your back slamming into the wall as he fucked into you with renewed vigor. He inhales your choked breath as his own, wanting to consume you entirely.

With his Evol, he holds you flush against the wall, using one hand to guide you with the pull of the silver jewelry, the other cupping your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw.

“I hope you don’t have any more plans this weekend. Especially not with Zayne.”

His hand slides from your jaw to your neck again, squeezing in a way that has not only your throat constricting but also your cunt, in pure thrill.

“We’re going to be here until the only name you remember is mine. Now be a good girl and be quiet, yeah?”

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

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