xavisbff

[xavisbff]

i know theyre not black obviously but imagining the lads guys strolling 🫩 caleb as a que mannnnn

[xavisbff]

CALEB - Friends don't do this

Warnings: mutual masturbation, porn, closet sex, rough sex, first time together, desperate thrusting, overstimulation, hand over mouth, biting, semi-public sex, stifled moans, creampie, aftershocks, dazed clinging, emotionally intense.

genre: smut

You and Caleb have always been open with each other.It was part of the reason your friendship worked — that weird, shameless kind of bond where nothing was off-limits. He could talk to you about anything. You could say things that would’ve made other people flinch, and he’d just laugh, head tipped back, telling you that your brain was his favorite place in the world.

here were no rules. Just you, and him, and the strange little rhythm you’d fallen into over the years. Late-night hangouts, casual sleepovers, the occasional too-long hug when one of you needed something unspoken. No lines ever crossed, but plenty blurred.

So when he asked you to come over that night — casual, chill, just to hang — you didn’t think twice.

You showed up in your usual post-shower state: oversized hoodie, bare legs, the kind of soft cotton underwear that felt like home. His place was warm, clean in a way that said he’d tried to impress you without saying it out loud.

He opened the door, hair messy, smile crooked. “You’re late.”

“You’re lucky I came at all.” You say in your usual sassy tone.

He stuck his tongue out. “You always come when I ask.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping in.

Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the quiet intimacy of the night. But somehow, two episodes into whatever trashy dating show you’d landed on, something shifted.

“Do you mind,” Caleb said, reaching lazily for his MacBook, “if I put something else on?”

You shrugged. “Sure.”

You thought he was going to play some lame ass action movie but no. you didn’t expect him to open his browser and pull up porn.

"you disgusting little shit" you say with disgusted facial expression causing Cable to laugh.

“Don’t worry,” he said, like this was totally normal. “I’m not gonna jerk off. Just… I don’t know. I like having it on sometimes.”

You stared at him. “With me right here?” “That’s the point.” you keep staring at him and openly judging him.

“I can’t enjoy it when I’m alone,” he said with a small shrug. “It’s not hot unless someone else is in the room. I’m not gonna do anything unless you want me to. I just… I don’t know. It feels less sad this way.”

You stared at him, mouth opening, then closing. "Caleb...that is not normal." He grinned, eyes bright with mischief. “You say that like I’m trying to be normal.” Your instinct was to say no. To laugh it off. To tell him he was fucking insane and grab your shoes. But you didn’t. Instead, you sighed, shaking your head, and muttered, “Fine. But you’re not allowed to make this weird." “I never make anything weird.” “That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.” He winked. “And yet… you’re still here.” You roll your eyes and lean your head back. what the hell were you still doing here.

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The video was loud. That was the first problem. The moans were high and breathy and clearly real — not the fake, over-the-top stuff that was easy to ignore.

the second problem was Caleb himself.

He didn’t just watch it. He felt it. Breathing in these slow, shallow hitches. Sinking back into the pillows like he was alone, even though you were right there.

You weren't just watching the screen. You were watching him.

His mouth was slightly open. His chest rose and fell under the soft black tee he’d half-tucked into those stupid grey sweatpants — the ones you’d teased him about a thousand times for being too dangerous. and the he fucking moved. Just a shift of the hips at first. Then his hand — long fingers twitching — rested near his thigh. A rub. Absentminded at first. Then another. Slower. Firmer.

Your stomach dipped. He groaned, soft and low. His head tilted back. And that sound — fuck, that sound — sent a pulse straight between your legs.

You tried to ignore it. You tried so hard. But your body was already reacting before your brain could process what was happening. Your thighs pressed together. You adjusted your hoodie. You stopped breathing entirely when his eyes flicked toward you and then dropped — low, slow, hungry.

“You good?” he asked, voice hoarse. You nodded too quickly. “Fine.”He smiled — a little too knowingly — and exhaled. “Fuck, she sounds like you.” You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The girl. On the video.” His voice was dreamy, almost dazed. “She moans like you.” you stared at him "wait..how do you even know what I sound like you creep?" He looked at you then, eyes dark and shining. “You think I’ve never heard you?” Your skin started to heat up and your cheeks flushed "What the fuck Caleb"

“I wasn’t trying to. But you always leave your door cracked. And sometimes I’d just be passing by and then… you’d make this sound. Like you didn’t know how to stop yourself.”

You opened your mouth to say something — anything — but then he moaned again. This time because of you. He was hard now. Very visibly hard.

“God,” he whispered. “Why is this so much hotter with you here?”

you rub your temples, trying to calm yourself down but it was no use "Caleb..I swear.."

Your body was buzzing. Your underwear damp. And every inch of space between you suddenly felt razor-thin, unbearable.

“Touch yourself,” he said, almost breathless.

your eyes went wide and you look at him "Excuse me..? Caleb you can't just say that..!"

He leaned in, voice low. “Please. I need it,” he said, groaning again as he pressed into his palm. “And I don’t want to be the only one.” His eyes flicked to your legs. “You’re turned on.” “I’m not—” “You are.” His voice was firmer now. “I can see it. The way your thighs are clenched. The way you’re breathing.” You looked away. He reached out, gently brushing your knee. “Look at me.” You did. “I swear,” he said, “I’ll stop if you tell me to. But if you want this even a little… just stay.” You exhaled. Shaky. Unsure. Wet. And you stayed. Neither of you said anything for a long moment.

The porn still played softly in the background, but it was just noise now — the tension in the room had turned so dense it pressed in on your skin like heat, like breath. Caleb dragged his bottom lip between his teeth and exhaled slowly through his nose. His hand hadn’t left his lap. You were still watching him. And he was watching you watching him. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked, voice hoarse. Your chest tightened. “No.” That was all he needed.

He shifted closer, just barely, and let out a sound — low, needy — as he rolled his hips against his palm. The motion was subtle, but it jolted through you like lightning. He rubbed again, slow, firm, a deliberate drag of pressure down the thick line in his sweatpants. Your thighs clenched instinctively. You were soaked. You could feel it — the press of cotton against slick skin, the fluttering ache that had been growing steadily in your core from the moment he started moaning.

He looked drunk off it. His mouth was open, panting softly. His eyes flicked over your face, down your body, then back to your eyes.“Touch yourself,” he said again, quieter this time. “I want to see what you look like when you’re needy.” You let out a breath that trembled. Your hand moved before your mind could stop it — sliding under the hem of your hoodie, then beneath the waistband of your underwear. Caleb’s eyes followed every inch.

“Oh my god” he whispered. Your fingers dipped into yourself. Soaked. Your breath hitched hard.

Caleb groaned — loud, ragged — and dropped his head back against the headboard, his hand now gripping the full length of his cock over his sweats. The bulge was thick and heavy, straining the fabric. “Fuck, you’re touching yourself,” he rasped. “I can’t believe you’re actually…”

You moaned — quietly, shakily — and he snapped his eyes open. “Say something,” he begged. “Tell me what you feel like.” “I’m so wet,” you whispered, eyes closing. “I’ve never been this wet just from watching someone.”

That made him gasp.

“God—fuck—” He shoved his sweatpants down just enough to free himself, and suddenly you couldn’t look away. He was long, flushed red at the tip, already glistening with pre-cum. You whimpered. His eyes fluttered shut at the sound.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he muttered. “You know that? Just—so fucking pretty when you touch yourself like that. Show me more.”

You moved your fingers again, slow and deliberate, spreading the slickness and brushing over your clit. Your hips arched subtly into the motion, breath stuttering.

Caleb watched like a man starved.

“I want to taste you,” he said suddenly, voice broken. “Fuck—I want my face between your legs so bad.” Your whole body shuddered.

He jerked himself once, twice — not fast, but hard. Focused. Like he was trying to memorize the way it felt while staring at you. You moaned again, louder this time. Embarrassed at how fast your body was unraveling.

“I’ve thought about this before,” he confessed, still stroking. “Not like this exactly. But… you. Under me. Wet and panting. Saying my name.” You bit your lip, fingers moving faster now. “I didn’t think we’d ever—” "Me neither,” he whispered. “But now I don’t even want to stop.” The air was charged, burning. You were close. So close it was making your knees tremble.

Caleb leaned in again, his free hand brushing against your thigh as if asking for permission. You didn’t stop him. His lips were inches from your ear when he whispered, “Let me help.” You paused. Swallowed. He watched you — tense, hopeful, ruined — until you nodded. And then… the shift happened.

Caleb slipped his hand down, fingers brushing yours under the band of your underwear. You gasped, but didn’t pull away. He cupped you gently, middle finger sliding through the mess you’d made.

“Oh my fucking god,” he whispered. “You’re soaked.” Your head dropped against his shoulder. “You made me like this,” you breathed.“Yeah?” he said, voice shaking. “You like watching me stroke my cock for you?” You whimpered again. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

He slid his finger in, slow and deep, while still stroking himself with the other hand. You cried out, biting down on your hoodie sleeve as he moved inside you, curling slightly.

“Come for me,” he said, lips against your temple. “Please. I want to see you fall apart.” It didn’t take long. Your body clenched tight, the pressure building sharp and sudden until it broke — heat flooding you from the inside out, your voice catching as you gasped and ground against his hand.

Caleb let out a desperate groan and came right after you, hot and heavy against his stomach, chest rising in ragged breaths as his hips jerked through the last few strokes.

You both collapsed sideways into the pillows, breathing hard, sweaty, trembling.For a moment, it was quiet. And Then— “That was…” you began, voice wrecked. “I know.” He laughed, still panting. “I know.”

You turned your head to look at him. His hair was a mess. His lips were red. His eyes were soft now — not teasing, not smug. Just open.“That didn’t feel casual,” you whispered. His gaze dropped to your mouth.“No,” he said. “It didn’t.” You didn’t know what would come next.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The worst part wasn’t what happened between you. It was the silence after.The way everything between you and Caleb felt louder because no one was talking about it.

You’d spent the last three nights pretending that orgasm hadn’t happened. That your fingers hadn’t tangled with his. That he hadn’t whispered I want to taste you while stroking himself, eyes on your mouth. You didn’t talk about it. You couldn’t. But the tension between you? You may as well have been shouting.

He sat closer now. Looked longer. He didn’t tease like he used to — not playfully, not harmlessly. Now every glance had heat. Every brush of skin felt intentional.

So when Gideon shouted across the living room, “Let’s play hide and seek — losers get a punishment dare,” you already knew something was going to go wrong.

Because you and Caleb couldn’t be trusted anymore. You didn’t even plan to hide in the closet. You were laughing, breathless, the count ticking down — Ten! Nine! Eight! — and you darted around a corner in the hallway looking for literally anywhere to disappear. The closet door was cracked open. You pushed in and—“Shit—!” A hand reached out to yank you the rest of the way in.

Caleb.

He shoved the door closed behind you both, muffling your gasp, then exhaled hard against your ear.

You were chest to chest. Pressed flush to him. The closet was barely the size of a broom closet — coats brushing your cheeks, the smell of old cedar, the wood beneath your bare feet cool from the tile.

“Seriously?” you whispered, half-giggling. “You’re here?” “You ran into me,” he hissed. “Be quiet—” Footsteps passed in the hallway. The sound of someone shouting: “Not in the bathroom!” You both stilled. And then you started laughing.

Quiet, breathy little giggles that made your shoulders shake. His hands were on your hips now, steadying you, his face so close you could feel his mouth twitch into a smile.

“Shhh,” he whispered, amused. “You’re gonna get us caught.” “It’s your fault,” you whispered back. “Yeah?” His breath ghosted your cheek. “Pretty sure it’s yours.”

Your back hit the wall as you shifted to give him room. But there was no room. Nowhere to go.His thigh brushed up between yours. Your knee bent just slightly. And that’s when you felt it. The slow, unmistakable press of something hard against your hip.

You froze.

Caleb did, too. “Caleb—?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. His breath had turned shallow, his forehead dropping forward slightly to rest against the wall beside your head.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I can’t help it.”His voice was low. Strained. Honest. You swallowed.

It didn’t feel like a joke. It didn’t even feel like a dare. It just… was. Real. Present. Pressed right up against you.

The memory of that night came rushing back — the way he gasped when you moaned, the wet sound of your bodies moving in sync, the look in his eyes when he touched you like it meant something.

And now you were here.

Too close. Too warm. Your short dress had ridden up when he pulled you in, and your bare legs were brushing his sweatpants with every shaky inhale.

You should’ve moved away. You didn’t. Instead, you whispered, “This is dangerous.”

He nodded. Barely. “I know.”

Your hands were on his chest, fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt. His hands still sat heavy on your hips. Neither of you were breathing quite right.

And then—you shifted.

Just the smallest movement. An unconscious roll of your hips as you tried to balance.

And Caleb let out the quietest, shattered groan. Your stomach dropped. “Don’t do that,” he whispered.

“Do what?” But your voice was thinner now.

“That.”

You did it again. Just to be sure. The press of your core against him was slow, experimental — your thin underwear the only barrier between your body and the thick, hard line of his cock beneath his sweats. He whined. Low, soft, desperate. His forehead dropped to your shoulder. You felt him tremble.

“You can’t grind on me like that,” he breathed. “You were already hard.” “And now you’re already wet.” The words punched the breath out of your lungs.

You didn’t say anything — couldn’t — and instead let yourself roll against him again, slowly this time, hips rocking once more into his. His mouth dropped open. You felt it brush your skin.

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he groaned.

The coats swayed faintly beside you as he gently pressed you back into the wall, his hands tightening at your waist, thumbs brushing under the edge of your dress. You gasped quietly as he rocked up into you, the friction too good, too familiar.

“I think about it every night,” he whispered, like it hurt. “The way you sound when you come. How soft you were. How hot your hand felt over mine.” You were burning.

Your body responded before your mind did — rocking again, your arms slipping up around his neck to muffle a soft, stuttering moan into his shoulder. He cursed under his breath. Then he stilled. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t. Instead, you leaned in — your lips brushing his, breath against breath, heart in your throat. And that’s when the closet door creaked.

“Anyone in here?” someone called.

You and Caleb froze.Your mouth hovered over his. Neither of you moved. Neither of you dared. The door didn’t open. Footsteps passed. And the second you were alone again, Caleb exhaled.You were still catching your breath when you heard it. The soft click of the inside lock. Caleb had turned the tiny latch on the closet door — sealing you both inside. Your eyes darted to his, wide, breathless, heart kicking.

“What are you doing—?”

But he was already shifting you, gentle but firm.

Turning you in the dark, pressing your front to the wall of the closet, your palms flat against the wood paneling, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. His voice came at your ear, low and wrecked. “I can’t pretend anymore.” His hands slid up your thighs — slow, reverent, shaking slightly — fingers brushing the hem of your dress, pushing it higher until it was bunched around your hips. You gasped when you felt it — the warm weight of his cock, thick and flushed, freed from his sweats and nestled right in the crease of your thighs. Hot, hard skin against the damp cotton of your panties.

“Caleb—” You tried to say something. Anything. But then he rocked forward. And your mind blanked.

The first thrust wasn’t deep, wasn’t precise — just a desperate press of his cock between your thighs, dragging the thick head right along your clothed pussy. You whimpered. Your knees nearly buckled.His breath left him in a shaky hiss. “Holy fuck—” You didn’t realize you were moving until you were rocking back against him — instinctive, helpless — meeting every slow rut of his hips with the arch of your spine. The friction was perfect. Each thrust of his cock between your thighs rubbed right against your clit through the soaked fabric. It felt filthy. Overwhelming. Like a fever dream you didn’t dare wake up from. And then his mouth was on your neck. Hot, open, wet kisses down your jaw, your pulse, his tongue tasting your skin like he’d wanted to for years. His hands grabbed your hips, greedy now, pulling you tighter against him with every roll of his body.

You were panting, trembling, moaning softly into the wall with every pass of his cock between your slick thighs. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, voice unraveling, “you feel so—shit—so soft.” You turned your head, breath shallow, eyes finding his in the dark.

“Caleb,” you whispered. His mouth crashed into yours before the word could fully leave you. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate.

Tongue and teeth, lips parted, mouths gasping against each other like this kiss had been trapped between you for years. Like he was starving for it. Like you’d never survive it. You grabbed at his hair. He groaned into your mouth. His hand slid up your front, fingers curling under the fabric of your dress, and suddenly he was palming your breast — rough, hungry, his thumb brushing your nipple through the lace of your bra. You arched into his hand. He bit your lip. You whined, trembling, your voice cracking. “I need you.”

He froze.

Your words hung in the air — too raw, too loud, too real.Then he growled, deep in his chest. And his hand moved Down your stomach. Past the waistband of your underwear. Two fingers slid through your soaked slit and came away dripping. He hissed, whispering something under his breath you couldn’t catch. Then he hooked his fingers under your thong — pulled it aside. The head of his cock, hot and heavy, slipping between your folds. Your knees nearly gave out.“Are you sure?” he breathed. “Fuck—tell me.” You didn’t hesitate.“Yes. Please—” He didn’t wait another second. He gripped your hip, braced a hand on the wall beside your head, and with a single smooth thrust, sank into you. You gasped — loud and broken. He groaned like it hurt. Like he’d been dreaming of this for too fucking long. You could barely breathe. He filled you so completely you felt split open. Every inch of him slid deep, hot and thick, your body clenching around him like it had been aching for this—like it knew him.

Caleb stayed still at first.

Forehead to your shoulder, panting, hand tight on your hip like he was trying to ground himself. “Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”You whined — a low, raw sound — hips rolling back into him, your fingers scraping the wall for anything to hold on to. That was all it took. His restraint snapped. His hips drew back. And then he started fucking you. It wasn’t slow anymore.It wasn’t careful.

It was frantic, overwhelming, wet — the obscene slap of skin-on-skin muffled only slightly by the coats around you, your slick dripping down the inside of your thighs with each thrust. You tried to be quiet. You really did.

But every time his cock drove into you, you couldn’t stop the moans — breathy and soft at first, then high and frantic as his pace picked up. And when a louder gasp escaped your mouth— His hand clamped over it. Large, warm, shaking fingers curled across your lips, muffling the helpless sounds spilling from you as he pounded into you from behind.You whimpered into his palm. His voice broke right beside your ear. “I’m sorry, baby—I need you quiet—can’t let them hear—” You nodded. Barely. But your body was shaking. Your walls fluttering around him. And Caleb knew you were close.

So he got mean. Rougher.

He slammed into you harder, his cock dragging across all the right spots, your thighs trembling from the pressure of each thrust — and the filthiest part? You were soaked. The squelch of your cunt around him was wet and loud and pornographic, and it only made him fuck you harder. You bit down.

Hard.

Right into the base of his palm as his hand stayed tight over your mouth. He groaned, bucking into you like it drove him insane. “Shit—fuck, just like that—”

He lost rhythm for a second, stuttering into you, hand slipping from your mouth to your throat, thumb under your jaw to tilt your head back, mouth against your skin again.Then he bit down.His teeth sank into the soft curve of your shoulder as he buried himself deep, his moans muffled into your skin. You swore you blacked out for a second. You couldn’t tell which way was up anymore — just the overwhelming drag of his cock, the heat in your belly, the white-noise roar in your ears as your orgasm crept higher, hotter, inevitable.

“Fuck—Caleb—I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he groaned. “I feel you, baby—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—” You came with a cry into his wrist, your whole body spasming. Everything snapped — the pressure, the tension, the weeks of unsaid things between you, all of it boiling over in that moment as you fell apart on his cock.He barely held it together.You felt him twitch inside you, pace faltering, his voice falling to ragged, desperate whimpers. “Fuckfuckfuck—oh my god, I’m gonna—can I—inside—?” You nodded, dazed. “Yes—yes, please—”

One more thrust. Deep. Hot.

And he came with a bitten-off moan into your neck, his body jerking hard as he spilled into you — thick, hot spurts of cum painting your insides, his cock buried deep as he rode out every last pulse, twitching and trembling. You slumped forward, boneless. His arms caught you. Held you there. Both of you breathing like you’d run miles. Sweaty. Shaking. Still joined, still stuffed full. The closet spun in silence. And when his hand finally fell from your mouth, you whispered — voice shot, lips swollen —

“…We can’t ever just be friends again, can we?” And Caleb, still inside you, kissed your shoulder like it was a promise.

“No,” he said. “We’re so fucked.”

💋🍎

[xavisbff]

skin

caleb x femreader | so uh this one is nasty. spit, desperation, pussy and ass eating. body worship. lots of rimming and fingering. caleb gets off the entire time | minors dni

listen to skin by mac miller while reading. peak experience.

all things considered, caleb should be asleep right now. it was late into the night, only a few hours until his alarm should be blaring into his ear. he was never one to indulge in late night cravings, mostly because it only ever keeps him awake and goes against his own personal diet.

naturally, the same rules apply to you. he’s always lovingly scolded you when he’d catch you scampering around for scraps, once doing a double take when he caught you in the shredded cheese at 4 in the morning. he knew you never listened but it was just in his nature to chastise you when he caught you going against him.

it was late. your stomach was keeping you up. even if you were a grown adult who could make your own decisions, you still had that caution weighing over your head as you crawled out of bed. he’d never actually get on your case about some stupid rule that carried over from childhood days but regardless, you weren’t in the mood for an earful.

the floorboards creak the same annoying way they always have, earning a few curses under your breath. tiptoeing was always useless in old houses like this one, the faintest weight more than enough to set off the wood.

the sneaking around wasn’t necessary, seeing as though a pair of tired eyes meet yours the second you flip the light switch on. overhead chandelier lights flicker on, illuminating the kitchen in a warm glow. caleb, clad in wrinkled pajama pants and an old highschool hoodie, stares right back at you like a deer in headlights.

it’s not often that you get to catch caleb off guard these days, so his bewilderment brings a sleepy giggle out of you. eyes wide, half eaten poptart cradled in one of his big hands, hair sticking up every which way.

“you’re the worlds biggest hypocrite,” you snicker, feeling a sick sense of victory from catching him doing exactly what he advises you not to do. he moves aside when you approach him, clearing your path to the pantry. “i’m never letting you live this down.”

“i’m only human,” he snickers past his initial surprise, sinking his teeth into the blueberry pastry, defenses weak and voice raspy with exhaustion. “this is the last one, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

a hum is all you give in reply, snatching the girl scout cookies that were nestled on the top shelf. they were caleb’s most recent apology gift after another late night, his overtime dampering a planned movie marathon. they weren’t your favorite kind but it was all he could grab in a hurry on his way home that night.

you swivel to hop and sit on the kitchen island, parallel to where caleb has his hip propped against the counter. he watches you with lazy interest as you tear the packaging open, snorting at the scowl you give at the cookies.

“i’ll eat ‘em if you don’t want them.”

he knew you’d react with a glare and he laughs when you follow through, eyebrows furrowed when you tilt your head up, locking onto his with silent denial.

“or not.”

silence falls between you two, comfortable in the same way as a weighted blanket and a fireplace. caleb has been out of the house more frequently and it felt like a rare moment of quality time, one that you didn’t want to ruin with more teasing about his inability to follow his own law.

he catches you staring, unsure what to think of your curious gaze. he crumbles the foil wrapper of the poptart before throwing it out, returning back to his spot in front of you, stepping closer to cage you into the kitchen island.

the invasion of personal space is sudden, yet not exactly unwelcome. years upon years of living with caleb, of being side by side— his mood is hard to pinpoint. he’s not abiding by his own personal rules, he’s quiet.

“is something wrong?” you poke the bear with a gentle nudge of your foot against his calf. the crumbs of cookie you were nibbling on get lodged into your throat, almost choking on them as he grabs your thighs within the blink of an eye. strong hands kneading at the meaty flesh, eyes unreadable.

his head ducks down, forehead resting on top of yours. “do you miss me when i’m gone?” he breathes, almost shaky in the way he exhales against your chin.

your silence almost brings a smile to his face, one of those few times he’s managed to render you speechless.

“because i miss you. all i’ve done this week is miss you, wonder what you’ve been doing, wishing i could be in your space.”

no time is given to answer his question, caleb’s knees buckling to rest on the hardwood floors. a hand is running up the cotton fabric of your tshirt, one of his old basketball tees that you made into a sleep shirt. he’s far from surprised to be met with a pair of panties, face level with your clothed cunt.

“of course i miss you,” your words come out rushed, brain half asleep and struggling to make sense of it all. he’s always been a bit impulsive but this was different, a need and desire so suffocating that even you can feel it. it comes off of him in waves, intensifies when he hikes the back of your knees over his shoulders.

the feeling of his nose nudging you through the fabric has you sighing, slow to react, hesitant to lay a hand on top of his head. he inhales sharply, sniffing the wet patch forming, the action making your cheeks burn in utter shame. “caleb, c’mon…”

your pleas fall upon deaf ears, his lips gentle in the way they kiss your cunt. slow, needy, taking his time. the fabric sticks to your wet lips and he nudges his nose against it, nipping softly at the bud of your clit protruding through the soaked gusset. impatience fills you and you can’t help but huff, hands flying to dip into the waistband and peel your panties down yourself. his tongue seeks you out immediately, almost akin to a magnetic pull.

long drags of his tongue start from your creamy hole, gliding up your folds, tip of his tongue catching at the hood of your clit. you jump and he snickers in turn, hands fishing to spread your thighs out further for access.

performative and loud sucks echo against the cabinets, you almost think he’s playing it up on purpose. those doubts are silenced when you catch sight of his shoulder bouncing, his wrist flicking. slick sounds fill the air and it only occurs to you then that he’s getting off to this, jerking his cock to your taste and whimpers.

fat globs of spit and translucent essence mix and slide between your thighs, tongue lashing against your cunt as if he has festering anger that needs released. there’s no calculation or technique behind it yet this is the fastest he’s ever gotten you to that delicious edge, hands seeking to cradle his face, unsure of where to find leverage. they roam his hair, the span of his skull, scratching and pulling at soft strands in their path.

his eating is a distraction, too high on the ecstasy to notice the way he’s travelled lower. a gentle bite to the globe of your ass makes you jerk, digging one of your heels into his scapula in retaliation. “you’re an ass!”

a muffled chuckle is all you’re offered before he’s traveling dangerously close to your asshole. puckered and begging for attention, caleb was never good at ignoring pretty things that needed taken care of. it’s only right for him to gather spit, to trace your slippery labia with two fingers at the same time as his spit lands on your hole.

it’s nasty, your jaw dropping at the sheer audacity. most of you wants to fight against it, to squeeze your thighs shut and send him to his room. still, that anticipation fills you whole and it’s hard to argue against a man who’s sinking two long fingers deep into your needy pussy.

“what’re you..” you trail off and he sighs in amazement.

“shh.”

his tongue pushes past the resistance of your rim with a lewd pop, glossy with heaps of spit. your eyes can’t decide whether they want to cross or roll back into your skull, hot pleasure overwhelming every sense. the thrill of being caught so off guard forces your back to arch off of the cold surface, heels digging into his shoulders.

“caleb!” you shriek, broken moans and panicked whimpers stumbling past your lips. the sound only spurs him on, groaning in protest against your twitchy hole as you push at his forehead. “no, no. not there.”

any protest that leaves you is betrayed by your body, cunt leaking a river of arousal onto the tip of his nose as he fucks his tongue into the tight muscle of your ass. every fiber of your being is begging him to keep going, greedy hole drawing him in and sloppy pussy crying for his cock, denial be damned.

“please let me stay,” he pants, urgent, as if you’re cutting off his oxygen supply. “shit, it’s so good. i’ll make you cum, i promise. just let me stay.”

you squeal that it’s gross, forbidden— yet he just couldn’t disagree any less. not a single inch of you could ever be disgusting in his eyes. you are his vision of desire and need, beauty in the eyes of the beholder. the feeling of his lips suctioned to your untouched hole was one that you were fighting.

a lost cause from the start, it was impossible to run from. the stretch that his tongue provided, hitting places you’ve never felt on your own. fucking you in both holes, fingers long enough to delve and search for your special spot. too much at once yet so blindingly good. stars litter your vision with every blink, mindless. your body nearly slips off of the kitchen island in your daze, slouched too far.

he catches you. he always manages to catch you, free hand pinning you to the sticky granite countertop, a weak preventative measure. that instinct to take care of you will always overrule his lust, even if his brain is clouded with fog.

“see?” caleb pants as he pulls away, face so messy with saliva, lips glossed and cheeks streaky. they’re blazing with a rosy hue, the first thing you notice when he pulls back to meet your gaze. “look at how much you love it. you’re soaking me, honey.”

there simply was no denying it. the proof was clinging to his face like syrup, it was dripping off of the tabletop edge and onto the hardwood floors. lying and pretending couldn’t cut it anymore— you did love it. you loved caleb seeking deep within himself and satisfying his most filthy fantasies using your body, using your pussy and ass.

“i love you,” he moans, dragging his face back up to your weeping cunt. the fat folds of your pussy shield your most sensitive spots from him but he never gives up in the face of a challenge. he sucks them, pushes right past the soaked lips with ease. “i need you closer.”

oh, he couldn’t get any closer than he already was. tongue buried so deep that his nose is pressing into your mound. he was insatiable, cock leaking and hot to the touch. the sight, the whines spilling from his throat, it was too much.

your moans sound like a broken record, nonstop since they started. he shakes his head between your thighs like a dog and you swear, your pussy gushes cream right onto his frantic tongue, showing him interest and appreciation alike.

shivers run down your spine as you cum, sudden and without warning. it feels as though it was lured out of your body, every muscle tensing up. you cry out into the quiet night at the same time as he groans into your flesh, hot cum shooting from his raw tip, his seed spilling down his knuckles.

shared breaths leave the air thick, languid in the way he pulls away from your twitching cunt. the warmth of his skin earns a gasp from you as soon as he rests a heated cheek against your thigh, eyes starry and filled with wonder. they trace every curve and dip of your face, eyes heavy and unfocused.

“i’m sorry,” he mumbles between deep exhales, placing an apologetic kiss to your knee. “i didn’t freak you out, did i?”

the look in his eyes tugs at your heart, feeling blissed out and in need of a shower. the counters are filthy, his face wet, your thighs sickeningly sticky. he’s created a mess single-handedly yet all you can do is smile right back down at him.

“stop,” you coo in that sweet tone he plays on repeat in his own head, lovesick smile taking over his entire face. one of your hands lands in his messy hair and he leans into it, nuzzles against your palm. “how could i ever be freaked out about you missing me?”

he gives you a sheepish look and it’s almost hard to believe that this was the same man who jumped you within seconds, who just had his tongue and fingers in both holes at the same time. caleb was an enigma of a man but loving him was worth it when he loved so deeply.

[xavisbff]

Yeah no just keep them down 🍏🍎

[xavisbff]

sylus wakes to the sound of chirping birds. which is strange. because it’s the dead of winter and the windows are closed to keep frigid blows of the snow storm out of his bedroom.

“sylus…” you groan, smacking his shoulder as if he were the source of the incessant alarm.

“it’s not me,” he grunts, sitting up. the room is still in the pits of darkness save for a pair of glowing gem eyes. the lamp flicks on with a telling click to reveal a little boy on the bedroom floor.

sylus squints. “kyros?”

“i lucian.” says the blurry blob of baby. in his pudgy little fingers he holds sweet, beloved watcher of the night, Mephisto. “morning, papa. good morning.”

“angel, get off the floor, it’s cold.” he says, shuffling out of bed and staggering over to lucian. he picks him up, and carries him back to bed.

you stir at the commotion, surprised to see a child on your bed at such a late hour. “you okay, sweetie?”

sylus frowns at him. “did you have a nightmare?”

lucian shakes his head. “no, i—i do tores.”

you fight against the weight in your lids, your limbs and your mind and cradle his face gently. “baby, it’s midnight. too early for chores.”

“nuh-uh!” he shakes his head, holding the poor mechanical bird up. so obedient in his little master’s iron death grip, not a single peep of the frustrated squawks you get when you at the very least even look at him.

mephisto opens his beak, and again the symphony of birds chirping escapes his sound-boxed throat. a gentle awakening. an alarm. a cry for help.

“gonna to walk mephie.” lucian then says, shaking the bird. again, it releases a string of bird harmonies. lucian coos at the sound, but you and sylus know better.

though made of metal, bolts and a chip, you’ve come to believe that mephisto has expanded his affinity for emotions (you call it sentience, sylus says its just good tech, you insult him for his lack of whimsy).

and with his growing advancements was child rearing, the basics. downloaded in his bird brain: babysitting for dummies, how not to scare your baby, 100 soothing ambient noises for baby, and more.

“did you wake up so early just for this?” you ask him, gently redirecting his fingers to intertwine with yours. releasing the vice grip around mephisto’s ruffled feathers. the bird chirps gratefully.

“yes, mama.” lucian nods. then glances at sylus. who, for weeks, lucian has caught coming into his and his brother’s room to summon mephisto for his morning walk. “like papa. wanna to help papa.”

an arrow shoots through sylus’s chest at that, and he pulls lucian in a tight embrace to soothe the loving ache. lucian giggles at the motion and hugs sylus back.

sylus catches your eye, just as in awe as he is at the heart your son possesses. and then you shrug, and curl up into your blanket— it’s way past his bedtime, and you have no idea how he got up at this time on his own, but you’ll let it slide just this once. “well, you heard him, my love. time for a walk.”

lucian beams at his father, who grins right back. all traces of sleep gone, he is happy to oblige lucian on his morning chore. because really, he’d do anything for his boy who would do anything for him (and their bird).

and so, he considers changing the ‘walk crow’ schedule to noon.

[xavisbff]

IM SCREAMING FROM THE MOUNTAINSSSSS COWBOY SYLUS FANTASY RETURNS WITH A BURNIN SOUTHERN PASSION ART BY CHIMCHILLA

This makes me want to write!!! Cookin up a cowboy sylus drabble as we speak!!

[xavisbff]

fem xav at the beach + my mc ^q^

[xavisbff]

(( the way i feel like rafayel just gave free point to his rival 🐧))

[xavisbff]

caleb is overpowering. 

he towers above you. his voice is louder. he can sling you over his shoulder with ease.

you’re meek and gentle next to him—so much less significant. 

out in public, people squint at your joined hands, wondering how someone like you could satisfy someone like him. 

everything changes behind closed doors. 

──────

“is that the fastest you can go?” you hiss, digging your hands and knees deeper into the mattress. turning your head, you see the man behind you redden as he frantically snaps his hips into your backside. deep, powerful, but not enough. 

caleb, spent and sensitive from your earlier rounds, pants into the heated air. “no. no, baby, it’s not. i can go faster—i’ll go faster, promise.” 

over your shoulder, you curl your lip at him. your unforgiving glare prompts a startled whine, and his movements stutter inside you. his hands tremble where they rest on the swell of your hips. 

“i don’t need you to promise—just need you to do it.” arching against him, you feel your ass hit the heavy weight at his base and grit your teeth. “hurry up.” 

desperate to please, he swallows thickly and tightens his grip on your skin. seconds later, he’s drilling into you with renewed vigor—pushing you closer, closer, almost giving you what you need.

but in the heat of his devotion, in his frantic pursuit of your release, caleb’s pulsing, painfully swollen cock slips out of you, leaving you empty and angry. 

the apologies are instant. panicked mumbles of sorry, i’m so sorry, as he fumbles to realign his tip with your entrance. after the second try, you crawl away with a frustrated grunt, spinning to face his guilty frown. 

“don’t even bother,” you snap. “i’ll do it myself. roll over.”

[xavisbff]

Zayne now officialy a girl dad, yayyyy♡♡

Hmmm what should we name her...

Thanks to everyone who joined the vote, LMAOO the gender reveal was done democratically 😭

[xavisbff]

i love your writing style <3 this is so beautifully written

play pretend

summary: It's the end of the week, and your last task is a routine checkup with Dr. Zayne. You're childhood friend, the only stability in your life. You wouldn't trade him for anything, and if that means keeping your feelings in check, then so be it. But when the topic of an unwanted suitor comes into question, your check-up is lost to a game of pretend. Do you have the strength to let him pose as your boyfriend for a quick fix, or will you forget where the line between real and fake is drawn? Spoiler: you forget.

tl;dr: plot with porn?? going yearn for yearn with Zayne 😼

zayne x fem reader

authors note: this is purely self-indulgent LMAO I was so hurt by the new main story update that I had to write a cutesy first fuck. And yes there IS a build up to the smut people lock in I’m here to fix your attention spans. Alsoooooo there's nothing else on this account cause I got too embarrassed to post a fic on the main. Can’t have friends and fam stumbling upon smut written by my own hands. Haven’t posted a fic of any kind in years so please be kind 😘 also cross-posted this on AO3

one-shot; smut (p in v, unprotected, fingering); 9.8K words

Hands subconsciously smoothing out your still-pristine uniform, you smile at the familiar nurses who breeze by. It’s an exchange that, no matter how frequent, still strikes you as, well… funny. Never would you have pictured yourself on a first-name basis with half of Akso Hospital. Not without help, at least. You suppose such a privilege comes with the package deal that is Dr. Zayne.

Zayne, whose office is two more turns to the left. Your fingers absentmindedly fix your hair for the nth time. 

Thanks to your hasty stride, you’re a tad out of breath. And late. In hallways where staff and patients vanish from view, you shamefully jog, only to awkwardly press the brakes when those familiar faces attempt to greet you. Of course, they let you go quickly, for this is not an unusual occurrence. While you’re punctual in any other professional setting, your unique situation with your primary care physician seems to influence some tardiness. Maybe it’s because you know that, behind all the mockery and lethal side-eyes, he doesn’t really care. Not anymore; months of buttering him up and trying to coax a long-lost bond from him have undoubtedly paid off. 

But this time, it wasn’t your fault. You physically cringe at the fresh memory moments before you throw the door to Zayne’s office wide open, uncaring of what you might be interrupting. Most of the time, you had some decency to knock during your lateness. Naturally, manners were the least you could offer as an apology. Today, however, your head was a foggy mess.

“Sorry—“ You blurt out. “Sorry, I’m late.”

Zayne sits comfortably at his pristinely organised desk, and—as dramatic as ever—he does not look your way. The soft clicks of his slender fingers typing on the keyboard are the first to greet you. The reflection of the computer screen on his glasses is especially harsh at this hour as the last remnants of sunlight slip away. Beyond the wall of windows, the vibrant Friday night life of Linkon begins to stir, its pulsating energy a stark contrast to the air of serene focus in this room.

“Again.” He hums absentmindedly as you sheepishly enter and shut the door. Those tired feline eyes remain on the computer screen. “What’s the excuse this time?”

The thought of why coaxes an awkward laugh out of you. “Nothing interesting.”

Zayne’s brows ever so slightly pinch at the sound, and he finally throws a glance your way. No doubt he registers your exhausted, flustered look as you settle into a chair. “Even children are more creative when lying. You look…dishevelled.”

“No, I don’t.” You definitely do.

“Overworking yourself again?”

“What? No.”

You brace yourself for the onslaught of questions his words threaten. Whenever the topic of your work’s physical demands comes up, the conversation becomes a never-ending back-and-forth. He insists you need to take a step back. You insist he’s overreacting. Despite your best efforts, neither of you can sway the other. 

“Then what?” He presses. “Something interesting?”

You frown as the picture of your desk back at work comes to fruition, decorated with a flamboyant yet stereotypically boring gift, one that you could not bring with you. Following it is the unfavourable closeness of the gift-giver’s desk to your own. 

“I was just about to leave work—on time, mind you—when I got given a gift, so I got held up in conversation.”

“A gift?”

“Some flowers.”

“Flowers?”

There’s an inexplicable flutter in your stomach as you hint at the event to Zayne, a cringe pressing in on your shoulders, though you can’t quite justify why. Perhaps it’s the invisible, warning whisper of unspoken boundaries years in the making, as if flirtation and romance were forbidden topics in his presence. Like standing barefoot in the cold. Like a puritan child burdened with silent shame, hesitant to speak on the prospects of young love before a disapproving parent. 

The very idea of acknowledging your own desirability feels taboo. And yet, beneath that suffocating truth, a sinister and smitten urge blooms. It is a fragment of your heart eager to dangle those delicate ideas in front of him. Could you coax even an inkling of jealousy from those otherwise unreadable eyes?

Zayne busies himself for a brief, silent moment, arranging papers that are presumably yours into a neat pile and grabbing simple equipment from the drawers. You’re following gaze is spurred by the conflicting apprehension and interest. The dull scratch of a pen on paper, a breath, your heartbeat. Finally, he rests his chin on one hand and taps the pen against his desk. 

“Who gave them to you?” 

“One of the guys I work with. We happen to be stationed together often.”

“A co-worker, huh?” A moment ago, you could have sworn the usual indifference in Zayne’s face had softened. But what you’re looking at now isn’t exactly a soft look. “I presume he didn’t just want to give you flowers for the sake of it?”

“He also asked me to dinner.” You pretend to find interest in the distant view of neon lights outside the window. “Tonight.”

“What did you tell him?” 

Are the taps of his pen on the desk becoming more aggressive?

You shrug as if your answer is painfully obvious. “That I was busy. Maybe another time.”

“Why not tell him no?”

“Well…I don’t know.” You shrink in on yourself slightly, as if confined by the physical manifestation of social pressure. The man you were talking about, while friendly enough, was oftentimes difficult to deal with. Not outrightly so, but it was the little things: the subtle knack of being argumentative, an ego as inflated as a balloon ready to burst. All while you had to see him every day? …You had really drawn the short end of the stick here. “I felt bad.”

Something about your answer makes Zayne sigh. He drops the pen and reaches for the blood pressure monitor. As he speaks, his tone is both exasperated and annoyed. “Don’t worry about being polite with those things. You’re just giving him hope by saying ‘another time’.”

You shrug off the thick, leather-like jacket of your Hunter uniform reserved for office work and present your arm. Beneath it is a tight, white button-up. You try not to be aware of the few unfastened top buttons.

“What if he’s one of those ‘pay for everything’ types and takes me somewhere fancy?” You tease as Zayne wraps the band around your forearm. “One date might not hurt.”

Zayne’s grip on the arm band shifts subtly, slender fingers tugging the band unexpectedly tight. The coarse fabric presses against your pulse. His brow furrows — an indication of focus, but on what, you wonder? Zayne’s medical prowess is above the mechanics of velcro or the calibration of blood pressure machines. The clinically harsh overhead lights cast a white halo behind him that cuts sharp lines across his jaw.

“What happens when he expects more than one date?”

“You never know. I might be swayed in his favour.”

The weight of Zayne’s stare is noticeable only when he looks away, turning his focus to the machine’s screen. “You can have fun without going on pointless dates. Especially with someone you work with.”

You sigh dramatically. “I know. I’m mostly joking, but a girl can dream.”

Zayne raises a brow. “Dreaming about your coworkers? How professional of you.”

“You’re one to talk about ‘professionalism’,” you retort with a hmpf. “You’re my doctor, after all. I thought there were strict rules about interpersonal relationships with patients.”

“Rules, yes.” Scarred fingers reaching blindly for his stethoscope. As he speaks, there isn’t much authority in his voice. Instead, it’s almost quiet, far away as he sinks into thought. “But we’re friends first.”

“It still surprises me, though.”

“I’d be more surprised if you went to someone else.” 

Now it’s your turn to raise a brow. “How so?”

“Well, I know your medical history like the back of my hand, you’re comfortable with me, your condition is compatible with my specialisations…” A hint of mischief burns in the few bright specks of his otherwise dark eyes. “And I highly doubt anyone else would want to put up with you.”

Your face contorts as if his words attack your senses like a bitter lemon slice. “Ouch, Dr. Zayne. Am I that much of a pain?”

“More like a constant headache.”

Zayne reaches forward, and instinctively, you straighten up, welcoming the further tests. But the chest piece of the stethoscope isn’t in his hand. Instead, he leans down, one hand wrapping around your chair legs. The low groan of wood against wood cuts through the room as you slide towards him. He does so with ease. Incredible ease and attractive ease. 

Though his uniform usually leaves little to the imagination, the white coat pulls taut, offering a delicious view of firm muscle. You swallow hard, almost ashamed at how easily the casual display of strength weakens your knees. The man opposite you is otherwise unbothered, straightening to fix the stethoscope in his ears. 

Considering he’s about to listen to your racing heart, you look away, searching for a quick fix. Any sight except him will do. Your eyes fall to the floor…and to the very usable wheels on his own chair.

“In that case, maybe I should switch to someone else.” The cold metal presses in the open V of your button-up, right below your collarbone. “You’re so busy. I’d hate to overwork you.”

Zayne looks up at you through his lashes as he draws close. “Now you’re being dramatic. You wouldn’t last a week.”

“And what makes you so confident?”

He chuckles. Clearly, he’s enjoying the back-and-forth. “Because I know you. You’re stubborn, never listen, never follow any of my advice. Besides, you’d miss me too much.”

Your heart flutters right beneath the stethoscope.

“I do listen.” You choose not to acknowledge the latter half of his answer.

“Prove it then.”

You tilt your head, confused. He makes a zipper gesture over his lips. Oh.

For the duration of his observations, you keep quiet, allowing him to focus on the task at hand. Just as he sets the metal against your chest for the last time, your phone dings. The double chime is unmistakable: the secure messaging platform used for Hunters. You often exchange words with your colleagues through it, but at this time, those who didn’t have your personal number wouldn’t bother you. 

Your heart flutters again—this time for the wrong reason. Spurred by morbid curiosity, you fish your phone from your pocket without disturbing Zayne. Through the notification centre you scroll until the dreaded name pops up. Great.

“What’s with that look?” Zayne questions.

There’s not much more to say than the message itself. You flip your phone around to show it.

Sooo… how busy on a scale of 1 to 10 are you really tonight?

Zayne adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. A subtle squint creases the corners of his sharp, cat-like eyes, the faint glint of curiosity quickly giving way to something sterner. The amused tilt of his mouth from moments before fades, replaced by a slight frown.

“This is the flower culprit?” His tone is painfully dry as he pushes back to grab a pen and paper, jotting down something probably related to your heart rate. 

You hum in thought. “Time to come up with a good excuse, since I have nothing to do after this.”

“Or, and hear me out on this…” Zayne turns to face you, pen still in hand, as he leans back and spreads his legs. The sarcasm in his voice cuts rather than teases. “You just say no.”

Exhausted with even the thought of it, you sigh. “You don’t get it. He’s just a little…much. He tried something with Tara a while back, as if he shares a single similarity with her type, and he’s only just moved past the aftermath.” You huff a laugh. “My guess is that the only thing that will deter him is making myself incredibly uninteresting or pretending I have a boyfriend.”

“What awful options.”

Though you wouldn’t agree, you don’t argue, instead continuing to wonder aloud. “The second option would be the most effective. Two birds with one stone, even.”

Knowing him, a rumour will start at work that you have a boyfriend. A perfect excuse for the earlier gesture just being friendly, considering the flowers were presented with a considerable audience. The rumour wouldn’t be bad if there was an inkling of truth to it. Opposite you, Zayne folds his arms and taps the pen against his arm in a slow but forceful rhythm. 

…Could you use him as a scapegoat? 

The idea creeps in, sly and tempting, an offer as distracting as the taps of his pen. But no — you snuff that worrisome flame the second it sparks. The guilt it brings is akin to admitting aloud the things that cross your mind in his absence. Pretending would be more than a harmless lie, should he agree; it would cheapen your priceless bond. At least to you. The idea leaves a bitter aftertaste.

“What happens when he asks for proof?” 

“Maybe I’ll get one of my friends to play along,” you respond matter-of-factly, although the finer details are nothing more than an afterthought to you. In all honesty, you’ll probably ignore the message, but for some reason, you have yet to drop the conversation.

“And who exactly are you going to rope into this?” 

God, it’s like he’s determined to highlight every flaw in your plan. You grin. “Depends on who can be most convincing. Maybe I’ll hold an audition.”

Zayne taps the pen a few beats faster as you become stuck in a standoff-ish staring contest. Why, you’re not so sure. There should be nothing left of value in this conversation.

“I have an idea.”

“I’m listening.” You lean forward, anxious for his answer.

He tosses the pen onto his desk. “What if…I helped you out?”

You couldn’t be more thankful that the stethoscope is no longer in his hands. There’s a beat of silence as you look back at him with eyes wide in astonishment. Just moments ago, you had disregarded the idea with a sound resolve, considering it distasteful and disastrous for yourself. Now, with the offer coming from him, your stance has shifted. 

He could convince you to get away with murder. You stifle a laugh.

“You? Could you be convincing?”

“So you doubt my acting skills, huh?” He seems to relax at your light laughter, even flashing you a grin of his own. Your routine checkup has been abandoned entirely. “I’ll have you know I’d do perfectly well.”

“Prove it then. Time for your audition.” You clap your hands together twice before leaning against his desk, arm on the surface and chin in hand. “Question one: Imagine we’re going out for dinner. Where will you take me?”

Zayne looks out the large expanse of window as he considers your question with genuine depth. As he does so, he leans against his desk, vaguely mirroring your own position. “Somewhere we can have privacy, but not so secluded that it feels forced. Good food and candlelit tables. Cozy. If I really wanted to impress you, which I probably do, we could go somewhere exclusive.”

When the answer comes to its conclusion, his eyes slowly drift back to meet yours. Still unreadable. Typical. The carefully crafted response renders you speechless for a moment. You remind yourself not to let it show, pursing your previously parted lips. 

“We’ll split the bill fifty/fifty,” you add after a moment.

He scoffs. “Silly of you to think I’d let you spent even a cent.”

Don’t smile. 

“…Okay, question two: Where do we go after?”

“After…we could walk around the city if it’s a nice night and stop at some of the food stalls for something sweet—like the one I took you to after work the other week. Then I’ll drive you home. A little aimlessly, though, so I can waste time and spend more with you.”

Like the one I took you to. You raise a brow. “Nothing extravagant?”

“What, is this supposed to be a first date?”

“What if it was?”

He flashes a look of mock offence, as if the answer could not be clearer. “Realistically, how extravagant do I need to be to win you over? We’re not strangers.”

“But just like you said, we’ve done those things before. What makes this special?”

A tsk. “If you weren’t seeing the situation in a different light in accordance with our different relationship, I’d be a little worried.” 

You bite back a smile. “Fine then. Question three: I get that text while we’re out and show you. What do you say?”

“Tell you to text him something straight forward so that there’s no wiggle room. ‘I’m busy with my boyfriend, can’t talk’ should do it. Simple. If he questions the legitimacy, send him a picture where he can’t deny what we are.”

Reality suddenly draws you from the conversation’s alarming immersion. How did you get here? When did the conversation take this turn? Did the offer leave his lips on a whim, or was it brewing the second you mentioned receiving flowers? …Why? Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to even consider a version of the answer where there’s real jealousy in Zayne. This was a conversation between two friends, where one is in an awkward predicament and the other is offering a clear escape. 

Except it wasn’t clear. 

You could lie or swallow your pride and reject your colleague, but instead, you were hanging on Zayne’s every word in a daze. Though his descriptions were simple, it was almost as if you could taste the remnants of a shared dinner on your tongue, feel the chilly evening air on your cheeks and the warmth of his hand in yours as you strolled aimlessly through the streets. Imagining it isn’t an impossible task, either. Most of the outings you shared were the taunting shell of a date.

Zayne watches with an immeasurable intensity as silent seconds tick by, waiting for an answer. Should you agree? The date was only theoretical—no harm, no foul. Just a story to tell your colleagues. At most, a picture was all you needed. You match his gaze for a moment longer. Then…

“Alright. Fine.” You drum your thighs as you announce: “You’re hired.”

Zayne leans back in his chair at the news, grinning as if he’s just won a childish game of tug-of-war. “Before we start, I have one condition.”

“And that is?”

“As your employee, things will remain strictly professional, right?”

Those simple, serious words douse out the little spark in your chest—something you’re grateful for, and yet stubbornly wounded by. You snort. “I’d be worried if that wasn’t the general consensus already.”

With a hum, Zayne is the first to look away, eyes drifting behind you to the expanse of Linkon City. For once in this strange interaction, you recognise the look on this face: thoughtfulness. Oh, how you wished to pick apart his brain. Should the universe allow it, you would dive into his mind and make a nest of those fleeting thoughts otherwise destined to be unheard. In this moment, you can’t help but admire him from afar. You could swear a merciless ocean stands in the way, or a glass wall thicker than bullets could pierce. Then he stands with an outstretched hand, and suddenly, you’re back in his office, acutely aware of your physical closeness.

You place your hand in his with underlying hesitance. Before he shakes your hand, he pulls you to your feet. Warm fingers delicately apply his strength.

“Deal.”

“Deal,” you echo. You can’t help but feel surprise at his formal, dedicated approach. “Should we take a photo now, or should I just text him first and see if he believes—?”

“Photo first.” He’s quick to cut you off, shrugging off his pristine white coat in the process and haphazardly throwing it over a chair. “Who knows how long it might take for him to reply? We don’t have all night. By the time he does, I might be long gone.”

While that could be true, you knew your colleague would be waiting with bated breath for a reply. But you don’t bother to challenge Zayne in that regard and instead reach for your phone. “As you wish, Doc-tor. …How should we stand?”

Wordlessly, he takes you by the elbow and gently shuffles you to stand before him, your back to his chest. Over your shoulder you watch, quiet and nervous. There’s a pathetically large gap between the two of you. When you don’t step back to close it, he chuckles. 

“You can come closer,” he says. Then, in a more sheepish tone, he adds, “If you’re okay with that.”

You’re affirmation is nothing more than a hum, too cautious to give voice to nerves that may betray you. You’re step back is carefully calculated; not too far so that every inch of you is flush with him, not too quick to suggest eagerness. Zayne leans against his desk in an attempt to adjust his towering height according to yours. As a result, you find yourself standing between a pair of large, spread thighs that faintly brush your own.

Zayne’s movements mirror your deliberate caution, slow and measured. His hands first guide you by the shoulders, then shimmy you by your sides. Then, at a pace so gruelling it was like he wished not to disturb you, his arms slowly snaked around your waist. Each movement is made in such silence that you wonder if he’s even breathing. Were you? His arms hover an awkward inch away, giving you the opportunity to smack his wrists and lecture him on the professionalism he just swore to. You don’t. Of course you don’t. So he comfortably settles them, and you wonder if that opportunity was wasted.

Maybe if you leave your camera facing the ceiling, you won’t have to face the situation you’ve found yourself in. But unfortunately, time was moving at a very real pace, and standing around doing nothing would be just as bad. Stealing yourself, you raise your phone, nervous to make eye contact with your own self. Zayne cranes his neck to fit in the frame. Warm breath fans across your neck and ear as he does so. You shiver.

“Smiling is a must,” he murmurs. 

All you can do is nod, swallow, and smile as he instructs. Though it’s a nervous, timid smile, it is one nonetheless. Satisfied, your finger ghosts over the shutter button, only to forget all about it as he leans in a little closer, voice little more than a whisper in your ear.

“Smile wider.”

You can’t help but giggle at the feeling of his breath on your neck. It transcends the physical barrier of your skin, travelling down your spine tauntingly, leaving behind an overwhelming desire to chase the high. At least you don’t need to force a bigger smile—you take the photo the second he elicits the vulnerable reaction, capturing the fleeting appearance of a genuine smile and crinkled eyes. Though beneath it all, the ache of this hollow pretence remains.

“That tickles,” you say in a tone that is borderline accusing. 

“Sorry.” His voice remains quiet and breathy against the shell of your ear, this time with a hint of playful remorse. “It was intentional.”

“Mm-hm.” Focus. “I’m going to take one more.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Kiss me on the cheek.”

You’re not sure what possesses you to make the request. Sure, from an outside perspective, it is reasonable enough considering the act you’re mutually playing. But such a simple approach disregards human complexity. If he accepts, is that a reflection of blind obedience, or does it stir something deeper, enticing him beyond the agreement? If he refuses, does that mean he respects those boundaries out of disinterest or fear?

“…Okay.” 

That’s all he says. You’re as clueless as you were ten seconds ago. Shooing away the silly internal debate, you turn your head more his way. 

You are entirely unprepared for how he complies.

Nimble fingers trace a path beneath your jaw before finding purchase on your chin, tilting it with a subtle insistence. Fingers splayed, his grasp is all-consuming and possessive—perfect for a photo and detrimental to your moral compass. His free hand finds purchase on your hip, consistently firm despite being nowhere in frame. Were you always this close? 

The final graze of his lips against your cheek is devoid of his hand’s inescapable demand. Instead, the kiss is gentle. Cheeks red and heart racing, you have half the mind to take the photo. Then another. He lingers long enough for you to take three, your face in different stages of submission.

When you lower the phone, his touch disappears with it. What he doesn’t do is usher you away. Curious.

“Got enough photos?” He asks after a moment. The casual nature of his question is almost laughable.

“More than enough. Now to see if it was worth it…”

Zayne peers over your shoulder as you navigate to the message that caused this all. The quickly crafted response reads with little room for argument. 

Look, I think you’re great and I appreciate the flowers, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I have a boyfriend, and he thinks I should convey that I’m taken to spare both you and me, which I agree with. I am not and will not be free to spend time with you outside of work. 

It’s read immediately. The first message follows soon after.

Come on, y/n.

He continues to type. Then comes the second message.

What boyfriend? I’ve never heard of or seen any boyfriend. You don’t have to lie to me. Just give me a chance, sweetheart.

Sweetheart? You scoff aloud in offence. The gall he has to not only doubt you, but throw in a pet name is beyond you. Nevertheless, you couldn’t ask for a better opening. You don’t miss a beat before attaching the photo of Zayne kissing your smiling face with a simple: this one. You can’t deny the satisfaction it gives you to prove him wrong, regardless of the real truth. A soft laugh sounds behind you.

“A photo was worth it after all.”

“I see what you mean, now,” he muses. Though there’s a slight smile on his face, there’s a line between his brows that can’t be missed. “He’s got some nerve, calling you ‘sweetheart’ and all.”

“Sounds like someone is still in character,” you tease, nudging him with an elbow.

“Hey, I’m just making sure the message is clear,” he retorts in mock defence. “Can’t have anyone calling my girl ‘sweetheart’.”

Your breath barely has time to steady before a familiar chime sounds, drawing your attention to the unlocked screen in your hand. A shocked gasp escapes you at the few bold words staring back defiantly. What, it reads. Can he not share? Any words of indignation are snuffed by Zayne’s hand closing firmly around your wrist, angling the screen his way. The shift from subtle indifference to something far more intense is evident in that now-familiar frown.

“Ignore it.” The playfulness is gone.

“Someone really wants to get in my pants.” You sigh. “Well…work is going to be a little awkward. Thanks for your help, though.”

He huffs a laugh, though there's nothing humorous about it. “You’re welcome. Just let me know if he tries to bother you again.”

You half-turn in your spot between his legs and poke him in the chest. “What would you do then, hm?”

“I don’t know…” He trails off as he grabs your wandering hand and settles it back at your side without letting go. He continues, eyes watching where his fingers toy with your bracelets. “Maybe I’d come to the Association myself.”

“Too bad Tara knows you.” It’s a miracle your voice doesn’t waver. The pictures have already been taken; there’s nothing more to fake. “She’d see right through the act. Or should I swear her into secrecy?”

You’re unsure of how long the two of you have been absentmindedly inching closer. The room has shrunk entirely, walls dissolving as tunnel vision settles in. No longer can you pick up the sterile scent of antiseptic that clings to every surface of the hospital, nor do the fluorescent lights bother you. Now, the only tangible thread tethering you to this moment is him. Zayne. Your breath catches in your throat. A dead giveaway. His eyes flicker back to yours. Is it possible that the featherlight drag of his fingertips over your wrist has caught your pulse?

At this distance, you could count each gold fleck in his heavy-lidded eyes. Now, that look is a characteristic you’re less confident in labelling as fatigue. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he’s found in your eyes, his gaze trickles downwards. Over the imperfections of your skin to the curve of your lips, down your neck, skirting the scandalously low neckline of your button-up.

“I can be plenty convincing.” There’s a soft sensuality in the way each word leaves his lips, foreign and addictive. “No one would have to know it’s an act.”

His index finger teases your inner arm before finally making the jump to your waist. Suddenly, you can’t find the line between real and fake, hypnotised by a hazy want. You lay your hand over the one on your hip and speak with hesitance.

“You’re…doing a good job of convincing now…”

Now there’s a hand on either hip, angling you to face him entirely. His words are little more than a breath in your ear. “You think so?”

A moment of clarity draws your anxious attention to the unlocked door. Though it was late in the evening and Zayne should be leaving by now, you were also no expert in the inner workings of Akso Hospital. How often do people walk in unannounced? Would he get in trouble if someone saw him like this? In you’re peripheral, Zayne tilts his head to follow your gaze, curious. Then he laughs, the sound soft and deep, and boldly caresses your hips upon the understanding of your anxiety.

“Don’t worry.” Without lifting a finger, a subtle frost blossoms over the handle. Soft cracks echo as mounds of ice creep along the locking mechanism. The surrounding wooden frame glitters. “No one can open the door.”

You lift your chin in an attempt to tease. “Why would I be worried?”

“No reason.” His fingers continue to deftly draw circles on your hips, slow and intentional. When he leans in again, his lips almost graze the skin of your jaw. “Sweetheart.”

Not only were the lines blurred, they were gone entirely. That fact is enough to feed your confidence. Timid fingers skim over forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves. Jagged scars rise to meet your fingertips. They whisper stories you’ve been too wary to pursue. Zayne’s biceps are pronounced beneath the black fabric of his dress shirt, his shoulders broad and inviting. Your travels come to a shy halt just short of his collar.

“You’re a tease.”

“Don’t make it so easy.”

“You’re not making this easy, either.” His grip tightens with those words.

“What do you mean?”

“Playing this game with you…” His voice wavers then, torn between sanity and delusion. “I don’t know where to stop.”

You’re unsure of what to say or do. A chill is emerging from the tips of his fingers, so cold that it seeps through the fabric of your skirt. Zayne is naturally the embodiment of his Evol; cold and unforgiving to those who don’t know him. There’s a subtle, physical aspect to the manifestation, too, from the sharpness in his features to an arresting chill that follows him. But this is different. The temperature in his hands is dropping rapidly, so much so that the shocking cold almost has a bite to it. Is he…aware that his Evol is activating? You shiver.

“You’re hands are cold,” you whisper.

Those few words connect with him like a punch—a harsh reality check. It’s evident in the way that his entire frame goes rigid, the clouded look in his eyes overshadowed by a minor horror. The daze is gone. So is the cold. Zayne withdraws his hands entirely, sinking further against his desk.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice thick with tangible guilt.

Without missing a beat, you lean forward to match his slight escape, grabbing his hands and bringing them back before he can protest. The act is not a sensual show but instead an admittance of trust.

“I’m not afraid of it, you know,” you try with a small smile. “I don’t mind if your hands are a little cold.”

“You…don’t?” he asks, earnest in his perplexity.

You nod. He swallows.

“Why?”

Once you recognise that his hands won’t move, you slowly drape your arms over his shoulders. The expression on his face is akin to that of a wounded puppy. You’re both surprised at how quickly his hard exterior has melted and saddened by his martyrdom. Instincts rooted deep in your flawed heart pull you in, resting your cheek in the crook of his neck—a place equally as cold. Your fingers, which trace alone his nape, make contact with what you can only guess is a fine film of frost.

You sigh. “Well, you know my Evol can help ease it. If it hurts you, I can help. Besides…I’m not as delicate as you think I am.”

As you speak, the physical apprehension in his body eases. With it is the release of a shuddered breath as his arms tentatively encase you.

“You trust me too much,” he says with a light scoff.

“Sometimes you can be so dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic.”

You lift your head to squint at him. “Hm… Agree to disagree.”

You’re faces are incredibly close. The question of how close or why is entirely out the window. This wasn’t some pretend play anymore. You find nothing artificial in the position of his hands, in the way his gaze dances between your expectant eyes and parted lips. Not in his voice, not in the subtle red hue on his cheeks, not in the complaisant confessions of his ragged breaths. Nowhere. The substance that supported an illusion is suddenly weightless, dissolving alongside the frost beneath your fingertips.

“You truly are the most stubborn woman I know,” he mutters. His own stubbornness is endearing, but you’re tired of this game of cat and mouse. 

“So you don’t want to kiss me?”

Eyes less guarded than ever before stare back at you as if you’ve spoken another language.

You withdraw your hands and tilt your head away, half-joking, half-nervous by the lack of response. “No answer? Fine. I was offering, you know—“

Blinded by his previous dumbfoundedness, you don’t anticipate the speed of his reaction. Cold hands force you’re face back towards his. His head is slightly bowed, reverent eyes staring up through thick lashes. It’s as if he’s cradling an object of worship, like you’re a deity to whom he must repent. For he has sinned, disgraced by an ailing infatuation that has festered over the years, devolving into a mind-numbing greed.

Instead of the gentle tone that his words have melted into, a low, husky voice rings in your ears.

“I never said I didn’t want to kiss you.”

His thumb slides towards your lower lip, gently tracing the dip below to substantiate his claim. Air seems to escape you at the feeling of his breath, of his hands, at the way his gaze triangulates between your eyes and lips.

“I think about kissing you all the time.” 

His nose brushes against your cheek as he cranes his neck, breath fanning across your neck. All you can muster is a whispered, “Oh?”

“When I’m at home.” A warmth against your collarbone cuts through the overarching cold as his lips finally press down. Your heart stutters violently. “When I’m at work.” He kisses the expanse of skin between your neck and shoulder. One hand angles your head from the nape of your neck, fingers fervently tangled in your hair, the other cradling your waist. “When I’m with you.”

Another at the curve of your jaw. While his lips are warm, his breath comes out cold between each peck, each word. The conflicting temperatures are both shocking and enticing. 

“I’m tired…” He kisses your cheek for the second time today before pulling back to catch your eyes in earnest. “Of fantasising about it.”

Your faint smile flickers, a fragile torch that illuminates the path he no longer resists. Restraints shed, your breath mingles, and his lips come crashing against your own. It is unlike the nurturing kisses against your skin. In fact, it is anything but gentle; desperately crushing, a confession condensed into a press of mouths. Slender fingers explore the landscape of your lower abdomen, insatiable cartographers drawing maps of mystical lands. Here, he stakes his claim. A low groan echoes deep in his bones and resounds against your equally curious hands.

You suppress a groan of your own as you melt into putty kneaded by Zayne’s precise hands. Lower they go, pulling you closer by the hips, tracing the waistband of your skirt, testing how close to your ass he can get.

The results are in: he can get very close.

His grin doesn’t go unnoticed as his hands dip down with purpose, massaging the plump flesh. You’re hum of content is an addictive contingency. His grip becomes brusquely firm. You kiss him harder. Suddenly, they drop down to your thighs, and the floor disappears beneath you. A sharp gasp of surprise escapes your lips at the loss of support. Instinctively, your hold around his neck tightens, fingers grasping at the fabric of his black button-up.

Zayne’s grip on you is unwavering as he spins you both. Muscle flexes beneath your touch. One arm hooks beneath your knees and supports you effortlessly. The other reaches behind your back, pushing half of his desk’s contents onto the floor in one fluid swipe. Loose paper flutters towards the floor like fragile autumn leaves, settling soundlessly as pens clatter everywhere. The book on dream analysis that you had teased him about reading just last week lands face down with an accusing thud. It faces the ceiling with open pages, displaying the annotation of an electroencephalography. 

When Zayne sets you down on his desk, the action is gentle. The hand that helped to support you pushes apart your knees, allowing him to settle between and press a quick kiss to your lips.

“Sorry,” he says between peppered kisses. “Should I have asked before I did that?”

You chuckle against his mouth. “It’s fine. I’m giving you consent entirely. …Unless it’s something outrageous.” The latter part you add with a teasing tone.

“Is this too outrageous?”

Forehead rested against yours, he looks down to where his hand settles on your thigh. Your legs are spread wide to accommodate him. As a result, your skirt rides up dangerously high. Any higher and nothing would be left to the imagination. Slowly, his hand slides forward, aiming directly for the improper scene. You both watch in silence for a moment as he traces the raised hem, massages your thigh, then retreats slightly, only to repeat himself again and again. He meets a higher milestone each time. The urge to beg for more is debilitating, yet all you can do is shake your head, pathetic in your submission to desire.

When his lips meet yours again, his pace is slow, vaguely cautious, echoing that of his hand. Each kiss grows deeper and deeper, pushing you further back each time. The wooden surface of Zayne’s desk presses into your back before you know it. 

Angling one of your thighs against his hip, he settles over you with a new closeness. You’re skirt is as good as gone. The fabric bunches around your waist as he pushes your thigh up further. Neither of you pays verbal mind to the physical manifestation of his desire that presses against your aching core.

…Were the two of you really about to fuck in his office?

Zayne was always prim and proper. In the way he dresses, in his sophisticated speech, in his profession and borderline-OCD cleanliness. You would never peg him as the type to yield to sinful wants in scandalous places. And yet here you are, arching your back off his desk and accepting the hungry sweep of his tongue. The only thing protecting him from disciplinary action is the ice embedded in the door. You pray that all the times he insisted on his Evol’s temporal durability were not lies.

When his mouth is drawn back to your neck, your eyes flutter open. They adjust strangely to the overhead lights as little spots glitter in your vision. Confused, you squint. Instead of the specks disappearing, their forms refine into tiny snowflakes drifting through the air. They’re too faint to survive long; as soon as they settle in Zayne’s hair and on the desk, they melt into nothingness.

A question is brewing on the tip of your tongue at the sight. Though it’s quickly lost to the uninhabited corners of your mind when his fingers glide over the edges of your panties and directly across your clothed cunt. Your cheeks flare. There’s no hiding the desire that pools between your legs.

“Is this all it takes to get you so wet?” His voice is a purr against your skin.

You pout. As if you couldn’t feel his erection a second ago. “That’s not fair.” 

“What’s not fair is how long it’s taken to get you like this.” A shameful whimper builds in your throat as he circles his fingers with added weight. His free hand creeps over your mouth. “Shhh. You can stay quiet for me, can’t you?”

With wide, begging eyes, you nod with a muffled mm-hmm. Before retracting his hand, he circles above your clit a second time, then a third, testing your obedience. 

The ecstasy that burns beneath your skin from the slightest of touches is obscene. You would think that you’d been trapped in hours of foreplay, denied even the thought of release. But still, it is not enough. The feeling was akin to wearing layers on a cold day, yet still shivering. Like biting into a promising fruit that hasn’t hung from the vine long enough. It just wasn’t right, wasn’t enough. You roll your hips in an attempt to convey as much.

“Impatient?”

Through a sigh, you answer, “Just a little.”

His teeth graze your ear. “Then use your words. What do you want?”

What an unfair question to ask now, with your mind clouded in drunken lust. Articulation was difficult. So was trying to pinpoint exactly what you wanted. There were too many things you could want and not enough words in the dictionary to do them justice. So instead, all you can offer is, “You. I just want you.”

Thankfully, he seems to understand. His fingers hook around the waistband of your panties. Lifting your hips with one hand, he uses the other to shimmy them down to your ankles. A single beat isn’t missed before the adept fingers of a surgeon slide between your folds. His mouth is back on every exposed inch of skin he can find, needy and hot. You hide quiet pants behind a bitten lip. You almost pierce the swollen skin when his fingers finally find entry. 

“Keep quiet,” he reminds you in a soft voice as his index and middle fingers curl. “Only I get to hear you like this, right?”

You nod, eyes fluttering close. But your agreement doesn’t seem to be enough. He catches your rolling head and forces a moment of sobriety. Acknowledgement from every legible medium, including that of your eyes and mouth, is what he truly wants.

“Right, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe out. “Yes, Zayne. Just you…just…”

You’re words die out into a sharp inhale as he presses down on your clit.  He pumps in and out in tandem with the exterior pressure, stimulating screaming nerves that turn your knees to jelly and your jaw slack. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of your arousal around his fingers, your bitten-back moans, and the wet kisses trailing from your chest to your jaw, then to your mouth and back. 

A small part of you wishes for him to bite down. To leave a mark that was unmistakably his. But, although you were little more than a stranger to Zayne’s sexual nature, you could almost hear him calling hickies childish.

The steady rhythm he’s set calls for release. Like the sliver of morning light on the horizon, you can feel it approaching, an all-consuming warmth that flutters deep in your stomach and creeps up your legs. Your inner walls flutter around his fingers in an announcement of his skilled work’s reward.

“Right there,” you pant, head rolling, and fingers tugging at his hair. “Don’t stop—“

Except, he does exactly that.

You whine as he retracts his fingers, looking at him with indignation, silently demanding an explanation. Only smugness stares right back. Euphoria sinks back into the confines of your bones at the absence of stimulation. You can barely get out the question of why before he cuts you off.

“Believe me when I say I could please you for hours without question,” he says with a quick kiss before withdrawing to tower before you. “But I don’t know how long we have. I can’t let you have all the fun.”

You’re about to roll your eyes when he raises two glistening fingers to his mouth. His eyes remain trained on you as he glides his tongue over the remnants of your arousal before sucking them clean. Nothing could have prepared you for the sight.

“Sweet,” is all he says, as if he’s describing one of the new desserts sold at the cafe across the street. Your cheeks turn bright red.

Satisfied with the taunt, he reaches for his belt, and suddenly you’re reeled right back in. Your unashamed gaze tracks every movement with hunger as he undoes the buckle, then the button below. When he reaches for the zipper, he averts his eyes. Now it’s his turn to feel shy. The top of his boxers comes into view, followed by a mouth-watering outline of the exact thing you crave.

One hand hovering at the waistband, he settles back over you. A palpable shift in the air has taken place. Gone is the initial display of hunger and desire finally brought to light. In this moment, as he looks down with eyes full of affection, there’s a sense of pure, shared intimacy. Not the exhiliration of stupid decisions or a quick fuck. No. Zayne was not one to hook up with someone on a whim. Nor were you.

“You’re sure about…this?” He asks. The previous displays of confidence are nowhere to be found. You don’t think he can even bring himself to say the word, as if an explicit understanding would chase you away.

“What, having sex with you?” You kiss the tip of his nose with a smile. “I couldn’t be more sure.”

You catch an amused yet curious look on his face before he presses a slow kiss to your lips. Your heart races at the sound of shuffling fabric. Then you feel it. You can’t fight the urge to look.

Zayne holds the entirety of his impressive length in one hand. With ragged breaths, he teasingly drags the red, weeping tip across your folds. At the sight of it in his hold, of the tip circling your clit…You can only hope that he fits. 

“I’ll go slow,” he says quietly. You’re almost unsure if he’s talking to you or himself. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much? If you want to stop at all—“

You try to give him a smile as sincere as possible instead of the giggles that threaten to arise. Nerves are obviously kicking in on his end. Not that you aren’t nervous. God knows you are. But suddenly, he can’t meet your gaze for more than a few seconds, and it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever done.

You quickly cut him off before he can ramble. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Zayne nods, presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, and sinks into you.

If your senses weren’t already overwhelmed by him, they were now. The stretch aches at first, his sheer size foreign and unforgiving. Your jaw falls slack at the feeling, and a stuttered gasp leaves your lips. Zayne echoes the sound. Slowly, he pushes further with each roll of his hips, acutely aware of the initial shock. He sweeps away stray hairs plastered to your skin.

“You’re doing good,” he encourages, though he quickly begins to lose his coherence. “So good… You feel so…”

He cuts himself off with a low groan, and his head falls to the crook of your neck. Another careful thrust, then another. Finally, he bottoms out...and his teeth sink into your skin.

It takes everything in you not to cry out his name at the overwhelming sensations. Just moments ago, you wrote off the idea of leaving this room with physical reminders. Now, Zayne’s tongue was gliding over the fresh indents of his teeth to soothe the sting. Today was a day for many firsts.

Resisting the urge to sing your praise is becoming more and more of a punishment. You can only hope that the soft whimpers and incoherent strings of ‘yes’s and ‘keep going’s are enough. Zayne muffles his own voice with the press of his mouth to your skin, desperate and low. Where his throat leans against your chest, the reverberation of ecstasy echoes. What neither of you addresses, however, is the lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and each scraping groan of the desk legs in tandem.

When your fingers tug his hair, his tempo becomes sloppy. Heedless and disorganised, like he’s barely holding on. You’re own high is re-emerging from its previous denial. Nothing seems to register anymore, not beyond the connection of your bodies, not beyond this room, not before this moment. Every sense is reduced to your simple need for him. Sensibility no longer exists, like ink bleeding on damp paper, words blurring beyond recognition. What were the ethics of fucking your doctor? Ecstacy. That’s what.

You squirm in his partial hold, hips aching with the gruelling pace. When your eyes flutter and roll, he hums in content, suddenly slowing down.

His face contorts into something reminiscent of sympathy, brows pinched and eyes pooling with an inescapable intensity. “Right there?” 

Each syllable sounds with a deep roll of his hips. When you whimper out a drawled mmh-hmm, he suddenly picks back up. He’s so close, reaching so deep that his pelvis grinds against your clit. You’re an overstimulated mess of tangled limbs and ragged breaths.

“Zayne—“ You’re legs begin to tremble, inner walls fluttering with that telltale sign. “Fuck—I’m going to—“

When you can’t finish the sentence, he captures your slack lips in a messy kiss. 

“I know.” He trails a hand down to draw slow circles into your clit. “I’ll pull out—“

While it was the most sensible course of action, not an ounce of you wanted that. Spurred by a fraction of sobriety, you look up at him and speak solid yet shaky words.

“You can cum inside me.”

Glazed eyes look back, attention caught entirely. Parted lips attempt to form words that are lost to open-mouthed groans. He shudders. “Fuck. Are—are you sure?”

“You know I’m on birth control.” Hiding a devilish grin, you clench around his length. He sinks further into your embrace with muttered curses. Had you ever heard him say such obscene things before? “Please.”

“How could I say no to you, gorgeous?” 

His words are barely more than a whisper, lost to the scrape of the table and slap of skin. You’re shared sobriety is spent in the short exchange. Your head rolls back, nails digging into a clothed back; his teeth graze against the inches of flesh that spill out of your bra, an indicator of delirium. Everything dissapears behind eyes screwed shut. 

The song of sex is threatening to reach its crescendo, each melodic note vibrating through your entire being. Like a tide pulled by unseen moons, a shared pulse that races beyond the confines of mortal flesh. You hold him close in the moment it engulfs you, and despite Zayne’s intoxicating effect, you are suddenly very sure that this is right. The explosion of pressure in your hips that shakes your legs is right. The perfect alignment of your bodies is right. The stuttered moans as he paints your walls white are right.

For a moment, you two bask in a comfortable silence, arms slung around his shoulder and his head in the crook of your neck. When he lifts himself to hover at eye-level, you can’t help the girlish giggle at the sight of his pretty face and that pretty blush. He smiles back, albeit confused.

“What?” He asks as he absentmindedly fixes your hair.

“You’re cute,” you whisper back. 

“Cute?” He laughs. “Wouldn’t be my first pick of words, but I’ll take it—“

Zayne, who leans in to kiss your forehead, stops just a hairs breadth away when a jarring knock sounds. It cuts through the moment like a distasteful dose of medicine. Both your heads whip towards the door as the handle jiggles. Every function in your body stops. But, for the nth time today, your lucky stars seem to align; the embedded network of ice keeps the door firmly shut. 

The relief isn’t long-lived, though. Underwear God knows where, half of Zayne’s desktop scattered on the floor, hair a mess and skin splotched in shades of purple… You cringe at the disgraceful scene. Zayne sighs, fixes his clothes, and momentarily drops down to fish for your underwear—the first step to regaining modesty. When he slips it over your ankles and up thighs glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, he offers an apologetic look.

“That’s my karma for ignoring the time,” he grumbles.

You slide off the desk and into your underwear, aided by his fingers at the waistband. As he sits them on your waist and pulls down your skirt, you reach up to fix his hair. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, as if it truly was your fault. Well…half of the accountability was yours to claim.

“Don’t apologise.” Stealing a quick kiss, he adds, “Trouble.”

He slips from your grasp before you can retort.

From the view of the door, the criminalising array of pens and paper on the floor is mainly hidden, save for maybe an item or two. But even a single paper was evidence enough. Anyone witness to Zayne’s perfectionism would know as much. But by the time you recline in the chair, he’s already reaching for the thawing door handle. His tall frame blocks the view of the hallway as he pulls the door half open.

He nods. “Yvonne.”

Yvonne. Her presence teeters on the precipice of a blessing and a curse. A blessing, given your growing companionship with the kind nurse from Zayne’s division, yet a curse for precisely the same reason. She had the confidence in your connection to claw something juicy out of you in private, no doubt. Considering how often she brings up the gossip between nurses regarding Zayne and your relationship, this was information right up her alley.

Yvonne shifts her weight to the side to peer in the room—an act of curiosity you read clearly. When your eyes lock, the spark you were picturing stares right back. Interesting, her lively eyes seem to say. After wiggling her fingers in a small hello, she turns back to Zayne with a raised brow.

“Everything okay, Dr Zayne?” she asks plainly. The question is anything but plain. “This door was locked.”

Zayne’s grip on the door turns white knuckled. He clears his throat. “Everything is fine. I must have locked it by accident.”

It takes everything in you not to lose yourself to laughter. Zayne’s quick wit would one day be the death of you, but now his lack of sensibility would be the death of him. Yvonne scoffs at his jarringly poor excuse.

“Accident, huh?” Her amused gaze dances between the two of you, painfully knowing behind the war of words. “I see. Maybe be more…aware next time.”

“I will.”

She hums, posture straightening to indicate seriousness. “Well, I brought those files you requested. Sorry for not bringing them earlier—they slipped under my radar.”

“…Right. Yes. Thank you, Yvonne.”

She purses her lips for a moment and regards him with a scrutinising look. Seemingly satisfied, she says, “That’s all. It’s about time you head home, Dr Zayne. You two have fun now.”

With a wink your way, she disappears down the hallway. Zayne is quick to shut the door. You snicker.

“What’s so funny?”

“You ‘accidentally’ locked the door? Good one.”

“…Shut up.”

His words are accusing and gruff, but there’s no bite to them. He crosses the room in a few strides, taking in your features with a new softness. The two of you simply stare for a moment. Almost subconsciously, his fingers reach forward and skim the curve of your neck, following the path of fresh bruises peaking from your shirt collar. 

“Sorry for those…” he murmurs absentmindedly, lost in thought. “I don’t know why I did that.”

You chuckle. “You don’t?”

He hums. “Heat of the moment. Hickies are childish, but I…I just couldn’t help myself.”

“You may think it’s childish,” you challenge, “but I quite like them.”

A huff resembling something between a sigh and a laugh tumbles from his lips as his fingers graze the curve of your cheek. Delicate and loving, he handles you with a softness you could only read about in tragic odes. You meet his eyes with a look you can only hope shows a sliver of your own overwhelming affection. Although, regardless of the ache between your legs and skin flushed with sex, you can’t shake the disbelief. 

When did the quiet boy you shared stolen sweets with on your grandmother’s porch turn into this accomplished man who dictated your every thought? When was the first time you stole a tentative glance at your childhood crush? On the playground, perhaps. Or maybe outside the store that sold popsicles in the ruthless heat of summer. Those were memories you often basked in. Now, you begin to wonder when he first mirrored your shy gaze. 

“So,” he starts quietly, pulling you from the memories of shared smiles with a very current, very real kiss on the forehead. “About that fake date…”

[xavisbff]

He get emotional for his wifey and baby

Btw guys

[xavisbff]

Morninnn everyone ♡♡

Here zayne as papa, look at their cute babyyy

Btw guys I'm open commisson with friendly budget ♡, check my pinned post

[xavisbff]

— no matter how late he comes back, his family will always welcome him home

Sylus has had a long day. 

He’ll never appreciate the silence that greets him when he pushes through the heavy oak doors of his home. Not as much as the hurricane of two toddlers tripping over themselves to grab at his legs and climb up his clothes as if a tree had entered their house.

Despite the chaos, he has never felt more at peace at the end of the day than in those moments.  

Silence offers a different kind of peace. And in the early hours, so long before dawn, he has no choice but to welcome it. 

Missions don’t always go awry, as long as he can help it. But his streak can’t always be perfect. 

Achy and sore, his bare feet pad over carpet through the dimly lit home as he makes his rounds. 

First, a peek in his twins’ room— each of the two nest-like beds contains a little one breathing and sleeping peacefully. Lucian with his short limbs sprawled to all corners of his bed, little shirt had ridden up from all the movement, exposing his round belly to the cold air. Kyros sleeps curled up a little too tightly in on himself, wrists bent and fists inward towards his chest beneath his chin; knees to his tummy, a speckle of dribble down his chin. 

Sylus leans on the door for a while, fondly watching his two most precious treasures. Then, he moves forward, careful not to make a sound.

He tugs Lucian’s shirt down his stomach and tucks his unruly arms and legs tightly in to the blanket. Sighs when one arm escapes and is raised over his head. Kyros is unwound, wrists untwisted and tight fists opened. Sylus massages his jaw to make sure he isn’t clenching, and then fixes the soft blanket back over his shoulder. For a moment, he worries that Kyros had woken when his finger is grabbed, but the grip loosens just as quickly. 

With a kiss on each their foreheads, Sylus moves to his next destination. 

Mephisto greets him just a few steps down the hall, a little ways away from Kieran’s and Luke’s rooms. He’d asked them to go on ahead home during the mission, and when Mephisto confirms that they’d arrived safely, a weight falls off of Sylus’s shoulders. 

In your shared bathroom, he scrubs off dirt, grime and blood from his skin. Heals his wounds in the mirror. Midway through his routine, when you knock on the bathroom door, he takes the time to gently redirect you back to bed. 

Despite being clad only in a towel around his waist, you cannot make out any marks or scars on his skin. “Sylus…” 

“Not hurt.” is all he says, kissing your head and pushing you back on the bed. 

Stubborn, you stay upright. “I’ll wait.” 

He breathes through his nose, a soft puff of air. Thinks you’re impossibly, and incredibly endearing. And doesn’t hold it against you when you’ve slumped snoring sideways, legs still hanging off the side of the bed when he finally comes out in dark pajamas and soft white shirt (your favorite), ready for bed. 

He fixes you too, just like he did your sons, and then finally curls up behind you. He presses you closer to his chest, inhaling his favorite scent off your neck where his nose finds a home. 

He smells of soap and clean linen. You twist to burrow closer, his chest a den for the blistering cold of a lonely winter. He hums when you murmur something about being late. He apologizes with a press of his lips to your shoulder and a promise to make it up to you in the morning. 

Silence is a welcome kind of peace tonight. Soon, he is pushed off from shore, rocked by the tides of unconsciousness and dreams. A still, hushed slumber. 

A short slumber, he’d come to realize, when Lucian wakes him up with a tap on his foot. 

“Papa.” he whimpers, little hands clutching his stomach. Voice soft and unnaturally crunchy. “I did a throw up.” 

Sylus, bleary-eyed and half-conscious, takes in his little boy in the dark. Hair sticking up in different directions, dribble on his chin and chunks of—he didn’t want to know what—on his Bubble Pals official merchandise pajamas. Nodding wordlessly, he lifts Lucian up by the armpits, walks with him at arms length and cleans him up in the bathroom before you can even stir.

“I sorry.” says Lucian in the bathtub as Sylus washes his feet and hands. He says it again when Sylus changes his beddings— thankfully, his sick missed the mattress by a hair, and almost everything was on the floor. 

“It’s fine.” he supplies for his toddler, kissing his cheek. He’d dressed him in a onesie this time, to keep his shirt from riding up and chilling his gut. “Good job coming to papa.” 

When he manages to tidy everything up, tuck Lucian back under the covers, and clean himself up, he crawls back in bed. Only to find Kyros in his spot in your arms. 

“Papa.” large eyes blink at him, waiting for him. Kyros is wrapped in your sleepy embrace, but he is wide awake. 

“Kyros…” he mutters. He feels the weight under his eyes tugging at his sanity as he squeezes into the bed next to him. Kyros reaches out and Sylus puts his finger on his palm. 

“Papa, I dream a mountain.” he rasps. A failed attempt at a whisper. 

Sylus’s eyes droop. “That’s nice, angel...” 

“And—and a big, big lizard. ‘ike a dinosaur, but with wings.” he continues. something of confusion crosses his features when Sylus doesn’t respond, so he baps his forehead once, twice. “Psst, papa.” 

Sylus snorts, head bobbing forward and shooting back up. “Huh?” 

“I said a lizard.” says Kyros, hands cupped around his mouth like he’s reiterating a secret. 

And really, if he didn’t love him so much, he would’ve just flipped over to his back by now. But he wouldn’t dare, wouldn’t consider it even—not when the little one inherited the fire that burns in you when you’re pushed to your limits. And so, he sighs, “Wow. That’s scary.” 

“No, not-not scary. Was nice, and there rocks. And the red flowers…” Kyros muses, on and on like a tranquil little lullaby. And Sylus is struggling, fighting tooth and nail against his body screaming, begging to be conked out. “Papa? Lis’en.” 

“I’m here, I’m here.” he yawns, propping his head up on his elbow. His eyes slant into tired slits trying to keep up with Kyros’s lively round ones, focusing on the stars from the window’s reflections onto them. “What of the red flowers?” 

“They pretty.” 

“Did you pick some for mama?” 

Kyros nods, yawning. “Just this many.” each of his raised three fingers are pinched lightly by Sylus. “Can’t count more.” 

Sylus hums. Appreciating his kindness, and how his cheeks look extra squishy in the moonlight. Like marshmallows. Pillows. Clouds… He clears his throat, “Where are they?” 

Kyros tugs down on the skin of his papa’s cheeks, effectively widening the eyes that slowly close on him. “In the cave. With the lizard.” 

Sylus is running out of things to say. He closes his eyes—a long blink, he justifies— and asks, “Is… mama the lizard?” 

Thwack. 

He flinches at the sudden smack on his head. Your hand had come alive and reached for the first thing it could hit at his remark. Showing no other sign of consciousness, it baffles him how you even registered that. He can’t fight the amusement though, as he captures your fingers and kisses your knuckles in fatigued atonement. 

“Mama da queen.” says Kyros, completely unphased by the zombie hand. 

“Queen of the cave?” Sylus asks. Your fingers pinch the corner of his mouth, and he is given a warning grunt. He chuckles, waking just that little bit. 

Just as Kyros winds down. “No, papa.” he sighs hopelessly, slipping deeper into your embrace. His own eyes close and he snuggles closer to you. 

Sylus waits ten seconds, twenty, and when thirty rolls in, he breathes a sigh of relief. He turns on his stomach, throws his arm over the mattress to hang, and finally allows himself to slip beneath the cover of unconsciousness. 

bap. 

bap. bap. 

“Huh?” 

“Papa!” Lucian climbs the arm dangling off the bed. Then, he’s sitting on Sylus’s back. “Papa.” 

Sylus groans, at the verge of tears, but so utterly besotted he has no other programmed response. “My angel?” 

“Papa, Kee-ro gone.” Small fingers take hold of Sylus’s ears and are tugged outward. As if stretching them would make them hear better. “Papa, need’ta find— AH!” 

Sylus flexes, knocks him off his back and onto the bed beside his brother’s sleeping figure. Lucian lands with a quiet ‘oof!’ and blinks a few times to comprehend what just happened. 

Sylus shifts to his side to face Lucian. Eyes closed, he takes the boy’s hand and places it on where he thinks his twin is. “He’s right here.” 

“Oh,” Lucian nods. Then he scoots, back pressing against Sylus’s chest and curling in on himself. “Can sleep here?” 

Sylus hums. 

“Pa?” Lucian asks, louder. 

Sylus drawls helplessly, “Lucian…” 

“Can sleep—“ 

“Yes.” 

He giggles. Gifts him a soft caress on his chin. “I not done.” 

Sylus loves him. Oh, Sylus loves him so much. He grits, lovingly. “Mm?”

“Can sleep here?” 

Sylus waits a beat. And then, “Yes.” 

“Tank yoo.” Lucian says, scrambling up to plant a kiss on his father’s cheek. Effectively thawing a tired stone heart. “Nighty, papa. Love you, papa.”

Then, he digs his fingers in Sylus’s heavy limb and hoists it to wrap around him like a blanket. Sylus responds, shifting and then cradling him on to his chest. Sylus can’t help but ask, “Not sick anymore?” 

Lucian shakes his head. “Nuh-uh.” 

And when Lucian drifts off into sleep, the hum of silence fills the room once more.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

A lifeless refrain.

A vacuum.  

Sylus’s eyes snap open. Bloodshot, heavy— and yet wide awake. Still listening, waiting. Running through his head—another tap, another gag, another whisper, another story needing to be heard. Waits, waits, wa— 

Until another hand rattles him, soft and cool. Like feathers up his cheek. A plush velvet thumb brushes the tender weights beneath his eyes. Then prickles from the thorns of the most beautiful rose scrape his scalp; sending shooting stars down his spine. Each light extinguished upon the calming waters of awaiting slumber.  

“My love,” your voice a siren’s call and he is driven insane. 

Thinking you need something, ready to rise and do whatever for you despite it all, he presses his face into your palm. “Beloved?” 

“Rest.” you tell him instead, caressing. Caring. “Thank you. Rest.” 

And that is enough to push him back to the once quiet sea—silence now filled by the sound of his family’s melodious existence—and let the current of dreams lull him to sleep.

something cozy. thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹ᰔ

✧˚ ⋆｡ read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

[xavisbff]

How Puppy!Caleb apologizes ! ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

a/n: sorry, i'm horny for whiny pathetic caleb. yes, that could've been done without the whole puppy aspect. DON'T COME AT ME!! (i promise i'll tag u all in the next post)

--

He ruined your night—and he knows it.

That's why he's standing off in the corner, ears flattened and tail drooping as you wipe off the makeup you'd painstakingly done.

What a waste.

"Don't be mad at me." His voice cracks on the last word.

But you don't look at him. Just sit at the edge of your bed as you try to take out your earrings. You hear him though, shuffling closer and closer until he's right in front of you.

But you still refuse to look at him.

A staggered breath leaves him when you won't meet his eyes. He misses you.

"Please look at me, Pips," he whines, the sound low as he suddenly sinks to his knees in front of you.

You scoff, slowly easing your hands away from your ears and propping them up behind you. You don't say anything, but you're looking at him now. Finally.

You have every right to be mad at him though.

He got too possessive. Again.

Made a big deal about you going out and what other men would do, and forced you to stay home.

So, of course, he ends up at your feet—eyes soft, tail tucked, and begging for forgiveness.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his fingers gliding up your leg. Careful. Slow, like he already knows you'll give in if he's reverent enough.

"I didn't mean to upset you.." He blinks up at you, brows furrowed and lips pursed in the saddest little frown you've ever seen on him. "I just don't trust other men."

Silence.

You press your lips into a hard line and just stare.

You're still not breaking and the fact that you're not breaks him.

A pathetic whine slips past his lips as he dips his head to press a soft kiss to your knee.

"I hate when you look at me like that."

"Then don't give me a reason to look at you like this," you snap, your tone making his ears flatten even more.

"I'm sorry, baby," Caleb breathes, sliding one hand up your calf while he trails the other higher up your leg, fingers curling under the hem of your dress. "Let me show you how sorry I am."

He blinks up at you, every soft breath against your skin weakening your resolve.

"Are you kidding me?"

Caleb exhales, gently nudging your legs open. Just slightly, enough to press a kiss to your inner knee. "Please.. I'll be good. Please.. Let me say sorry."

You shouldn't let him go further. But you do. You sit there, completely still as he carefully slips his thumbs under your dress and begins to tug it up enough to expose your panties.

Then he slowly parts your legs, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs.

He can't help the little wag of his tail when he sees you. Smells you.

"I'm so sorry, Pips," Caleb whispers, kissing and sucking your plush flesh between his lips. "Promise.. Promise I'm sorry.."

You swallow hard when his nose brushes against your clothed cunt.

Caleb shudders, tail thumping wildly against the floor now.

Then, slowly, he presses a kiss to the dampening fabric.

You fight every urge to roll your hips against his mouth. "What?" you huff, your fingers curling in the bedsheets behind you. "You think you can just kiss it better?"

Caleb doesn't say anything. He just pulls you closer to the edge and mouths you more eagerly. "Forgive me... Please. Say you'll forgive me."

Your chest tightens.

He always sounds so pretty like this. So sweet and pathetic.

"Love you," he murmurs into your panties, the vibration making your lips part on a silent breath. "Love you. I'm sorry."

He’s licking at you now, soaking through the fabric.

A quiet sigh spills past your lips, one hand slowly uncurling around the bedsheets to tangle in his hair. "You don't deserve this," you say, your voice low and breathy.

"I know. I know. I'm sorry."

He inhales you, the sound sharp and desperate, like your cunt is the best thing he's ever smelt. "Let me... Let me please. I'll make it up to you."

"I shouldn't..." you breathe, and Caleb whimpers out a pathetic little sound. "But I always do, don't I?"

Caleb nods eagerly.

A beat. The finally—

"Fine.."

Caleb doesn't waste a single second. He nudges your dress higher and peels your panties down your thighs.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Then his mouth is on you again. Eager, sloppy, and devoted.

You sigh, unable to stop yourself from rolling your hips against him. "Don't... don't think this means I for–forgive you."

Your breath catches in your throat when he wraps his lips around your achy clit and sucks. He always knows just the right ways to make you crack.

"God, Caleb.." you moan, tipping your head back and grinding against his mouth. "Why do you always... have to ruin things.."

Caleb whimpers against your cunt, his tongue faltering for just a second. Then he grips your hips harder and buries his face deeper.

"I'm sorry.. I'm sorry." Then he's back on you, eating you out like he has something to prove. "I'll be good, I swear—please don't hate me."

You moan, holding him between your legs. "I could never hate you..—fuck, Caleb!"

"Promise?" Caleb whimpers, the sound muffled against your slick heat. "Even when.. when I don't let you go out? Even when I want you to myself?"

You barely hear his words over the sound of your cunt. You can only make out breathless pants against your skin, but you make out some of it.

You know what he wants you to say, but you can't. Not when his tongue is doing filthy things to you.

But the second Caleb doesn't hear a response, he becomes a babbling mess between your legs. "Please. Need it. Say it."

His desperate cries against your cunt is what tips you over the edge. You come with a ragged cry, your hips jerking against his face.

Caleb laps up every drop, only pulling off when he's sure you'd be completely satisfied.

You let out a shaky breath, finally looking at him again. Your hand rakes through his hair, gently rubbing his fluffy ears between your fingers.

"I promise," you finally say, tilting his head up. His face is glistening in your mess, and his lashes are wet with tears.

The sight makes your chest squeeze.

"I could never hate you, Caleb."

Caleb's ears perk up, his tail thumping even louder against the floor.

"Do you forgive me?"

"I forgive you."

Caleb smiles, instantly crawling up your body and peppering your face with kisses. You can smell yourself on him. Musky, but not unpleasant.

"Thank you."

You give a defeated sigh as you wrap your arms around his neck.

You always forgive him.

Always.

And this time was no different.

You just could never stay mad at your sweet little puppy for too long.

––

to everyone waiting for me to finish ur requests, i promise i'll get to them! i have 30 atm so be patient!

[xavisbff]

a vampire's heart

⭑.ᐟ collab with @heartyluv

summary: zayne chose to exist for eternity so he could research the death of his beloved bride. but what happens when his bride is reincarnated 600 years later and shows up as his new medical intern?

contains: nsfw, mostly historically accurate (1840s), gore (anatomical dissections + surgery), vampire!zayne, zayne's having a religious crisis (christianity), reader doesn't remember zayne, swearing, zayne (kinda) loses control

moodboard ⟶ fic (coming soon)

images are not mine

[xavisbff]

— sylus making you record both of you during sex ༯

“angle the phone properly, sweetie.” sylus cooed, mindlessly continuing to pound himself in your sweet hole.

you gulp up a response and tried to aim the camera at your pussy taking in his cock, but every thrust sent to you seemed to make you stumble every time you tried to keep the phone still.

“s-sy! slow down- agh!”

sylus chuckled at your reaction and placed his hand over yours, aiming the phone at the right spot before eyeing you.

“better?”

you stare at the screen, mouth agape in disbelief, watching his cock bulging in your tummy as he continued the quick pace inside you, tearing you apart lovingly.

“now don’t move around, okay?” he mumbled, gliding his fingers along your thigh lightly squeezing it before snaking to your lower stomach.

“stay still.” a playful grin appeared on his lips and he lightly pressed down on the bulge, making you jolt on the spot.

“focus on the phone,” sylus taunted, continuing to toy with you as you tried to record properly.

just know, after this, you definitely weren’t getting a good recording. and he’d probably ask to do it again!

a/n: if I’m on my period I have no motivation to write. sorry for nothing the past few days