honey's recs

You’re ogling him right now. You aren’t even trying to hide it. His eyes are locked hard on his laptop, typing away while those ruby red eyes of his occasionally twitch from the glare of the sun blaring into the window of the cafe you’re working in.

“You should wear those tinted glasses more often.” You hum, sipping on your drink through a paper straw. You hollow your cheeks, imagining what it would be like to hollow them while you— ahem. Not the time, you freak.

“It’s bothersome.” He briefly gestures to the mentioned glasses sitting next to his laptop. “If my eyes start acting up I’ll put them on.”

“They’re already twitching, big brain.” You slide his glasses closer to his hands. “Put them on before you have to get some kind of laser surgery.”

Reluctantly, Sylus slips the frames onto his face. They fit him so well, accentuating the shape and sun-exposed glow of his eyes, his sharp jawline, those pink heart shaped lips, his cheekbones, that one pimple you had begged to pop just a few days ago before he threatened to bite you… so fucking handsome.

“You’re staring.” A twitch of his lips curve into a small smirk. 

Sylus may be your typical genius— and totally your type— but he is by no means an idiot. He’s always noticed your ‘stares of admiration’ as he calls it, but he avoided confronting it. Mostly because he wanted to see how far you’d go.

Too bad he’s already wrapped around your finger. He doesn’t even realise it yet! Well, he kind of does.

You’ve been working towards this for months. To be fair, you’d been friends with him for a while, supporting each other through your first two years of university for academics and then for companionship overtime. 

One thing led to another and by one thing we mean a very short and very unintentionally intentional kiss, you two are now locked in for life.

“I like your face.” You grin, ignoring the heat rushing through your cheeks. One year ago, you would have made fun of him, telling him you can see his pores. Right now, you just want to tell him how beautiful he is. Then maybe kiss him in front of all the people in the cafe like a cringey movie couple.

Instead, you say “Makes me want to lick you.”

As expected, you receive a grimace then a short chuckle. “You’re so intriguing.” His eyes momentarily return to the code running on his screen before looking back up at your unwavering gaze. “I want to show you something.”

“Another vintage weapons museum?” You sigh with a smile.

He loves his vintage stuff. Vintage buildings, vintage vehicles, vintage everything. Sometimes he buys them and keeps them as collectibles. He’s got his quirks, as concerning as they can be, but that’s what you adore about him. He’s passionate.

“Not this time,” He stores away all his belongings in a leather bag with an unusual sense of urgency. “I think you’re tired of being stopped from touching old swords.”

“Why put them on display if I can’t touch it?” You huffed, joining him in his fast strides to his motorcycle.

Yeah, he has a motorcycle. He even invites you to his place to help (more like you watching) him do some repairs. You have a feeling he’ll do a bachelor’s in engineering after his current degree at the rate he’s going.

The drive to this mystery location was peaceful. You had no idea where he was taking you and no matter how many times you asked, Sylus would either poke the hand that was wrapped around his waist or just yell “You’re being a bit too impatient, sweetie.”

It was only when the engine died down did you glance up to see a very old, gothic looking building.

“An abandoned church?”

You can tell it hasn’t been touched in a while. The stained windows near the entrance had streak marks alongside layers of dust, probably being the only areas apart from the higher parts of the church that the rain managed to reach. Cobwebs cover the hinges of the large double doors that Sylus strides right over to in those leather pants you love so much.

The doors loudly creak open, giving you double confirmation that nobody has been around the area in years. Dust practically falls on your shoulders as the two of you walk in, bringing in a sight more beautiful than what is presented from outside.

Multiple wooden pews are aligned neatly from the entrance right, each one delicately carved with designs you can consider arcane. A large window, fragmented into different unequal pieces illuminate the altar with so many colours it seems like a large kaleidoscope. The structure is severed into arcs and divine shapes, creating a garden of intricate design as it the hands that made it created it with pure reverence.

The afternoon light peers through the stained glass, staining the dust and your skin with beams in several colours. You peer up to the ceiling and softly gasp at the sight of the paintings inscribed eternally onto the plafond. They’re intricate, delicately painted as if they were crafted by the greatest of artistic hands centuries before your very existence.

“When did you find this?” You ask with your neck still craned, mesmerised by literally everything in front of you. “How did you find this?”

You hear him softly laugh as his hands gently tilt your head down to lock into his gaze. “I came here on the way home after studying late.” He flicks your head at you muttering ‘nerd’ under your breath. “I’ve seen you study till sunrise, you mega nerd.”

“Sylus, you know I don’t that anymore!”

“Let’s wait until exams come along.”

“Fuck you.” Oh, would it be great if you could.

“Can I continue?” Sylus flicks your forehead, this time more gently. “It started raining on the way back and it got really bad. Obviously, I wouldn’t want to get wet so I stopped at the closest shelter I could see. Right here.”

You watch him look around to admire the temporary shelter he had found. You can see the appeal. The stained windows, the old organ on the altar, the narrow, carving embroidered path leading what you assume are the confessionals. It’s all so beautiful, and intricate. 

You could do anything here in peace. Heh. Anything.

You also find a set of thick blankets and pillows laid near the altar, positioned specifically to be hit with the colourful light radiated from the stained windows.

“I ended up sleeping here,” He sheepishly smiles, averting his gaze briefly to your lips. “When I woke up, the rain droplets were on the large window and the way the beams of light collided only skin and in the air was just… beautiful. Almost as much as you.”

“Huh?” Your eyes widen slightly. Your cheeks burn as if the sun is right in your face. He said what?

“You’re beautiful.” Sylus says again with a small smile on his face. Not snarky. Not smug like he is with all the people that fawn over him. No, this one is serene, full of admiration and a hint of something much more. “I’ve told you this before.”

“Yeah, when I was in a literal pit and going through absolute hell.” You scoff, trying to turn your face away but his hands have been holding your cheeks the entire time. “I thought you were just saying it to make me feel better.”

“Why would I do that when you already know it’s true that you’re beautiful?” He pouts, raising a brow. “You are beautiful. And if you don’t want to hear me say that word, then you’re really pretty.”

“Sylus.”

“You’re really cool.”

“Sy.”

“You’re incredibly smart and empathetic.”

“Sylus, I get it—“

“You’re amazing, and I’ve always thought that you’re all those things. From the moment you wanted to be my friend— and it only amplified after we kissed.”

For some odd reason, your heart skips a beat hearing that slip through his lips. That kiss.

Neither of you were under the influence, under emotional turmoil, none of that messy stuff that turns something so intimate into something you’d want to hide.

Instead, it happened overlooking the view of the city. You two had gone on a joyride to take a break from studying, just to clear your heads. You were sitting close together, knees, thighs and hands touching, shoulders bumping and rubbing together under his jacket to keep you both warm.

You were talking about everything and nothing, recalling the early months of your friendships and helped each other through everything. You knew everything about each other and made sure to make it fun.

He told you he wanted to learn how to sing, even though it was really bad at that time. You told him you wanted to be more confident in your skin. You shared your vulnerabilities and soon a glimpse of your mutual desires.

One glance turned into another. A glimpse of your lips prolonged until your realised you were both leaning in with no intention to stop. And above the endless bustle of the city, you found peace in each other’s embrace.

It was soft. It was brief. It was gentle. His lips were soft, almost trembling with nerves before he moved with you even if it were for just seconds. You cradled each other’s faces with a care and level of devotion you would grant a small animal like a little crow or a kitten. 

When you eventually pulled away, the memory, the sensation, the event simmered away with small— but not awkward— laughs and a change of the subject.

The event never found its way back into conversation. Until now.

“You’ve liked me that way this entire time?” You whisper, feeling a low bubbling of both hope, excitement and rage boil within you.

You have been crushing on him for so long that you were considered adding obliviousness to his list of nerdy traits. To realise that he had the same sentiments almost ticked you off. Maybe you were so drawn to him that you didn’t notice him pining over you the entire time.

“Yeah,” Sylus grins, exposing his cute gummy smile. You remember you used to force him to smile like that by tickling him until he started to attack back. “You were so enamoured that you barely noticed. Which makes more sense now, considering you so recklessly told me about your fantasy to get fucked in a cathedral. You thought I friend zoned you, giving you leeway to tell me your dirty secrets.”

Shit. Shit.

You’ve been telling him almost everything. Like when you were complaining about how your old vibrator was dying out on you so you needed to replace it. He helped you get a better one— walked around a sex shop with you for hours— and even offered to make one himself.

You nagged him about his smooching skills— the one other time you both referenced the kiss you shared— and somehow showed him pictures of all the hickeys you have received. You even gave him a very clear and descriptive visual of a position he was confused with from a book you were reading together.

You’ve told and shown him a lot of things you probably shouldn’t have, especially considering he’s your friend. But you had long accepted the fear that he wouldn’t return your feelings and chose to continue being his friend than to break your heart in the attempt to push it further.

Now that it’s confirmed that the feeling’s very much mutual, you are so insanely fucked.

“I’m going to start drinking.” You deadpan. 

“No, you’re not.”

“I told you the freakiest things I wouldn’t even tell my best friend!”

Those pretty lips of his curve into a pout. “I thought I was your best friend.”

You paused in your panic. He is technically your best friend. “You’re my best friend in possession of a dick.”

Sylus narrows his eyes in suspicion. “I think you should admit that you’re so comfortable in our relationship that you’re open to say some of the most grotesque things around me.”

“If I admit that then you have to admit that you were planning this!” You arms flail in the air as you gesture to the church sheltering you. Again, you are very very smart, even if you don’t want to say it. You’ve been catching on to his little stunts from the start.

You invited him to study with you, knowing the weather would switch up by the time you finish your session. You wanted a cute cliche moment of sharing a jacket while running in the rain. Something to soothe and satiate your romance-hungry fantasies. Nothing too crazy.

What confused you on the joyride to this arcane infrastructure was how he knew when to start moving. He checked his laptop before he got up. He took routes that you didn’t know existed. It was almost like he was intentionally stretching the drive to get the timing right.

Also, you told him you wanted to get fucked in a cathedral. Your current location doesn’t stray far from your personal fantasy. Coincidence? You’d be foolish to assume so.

Thunder lowly rumbles from outside the church with soft patters of rainfall accompanying it. That nerd wanted you to be here exactly at this time. 

“It was going to rain today.” You start, lips thinning into an irritated line.

“I checked the weather, and so did you.” That stupidly attractive smug smirk paints his face.

“I wanted to get you to stay at the cafe just until it started raining.”

“So you could get your cliche moment.” So he knew!

“You took me here to fulfil a fantasy I used to have.”

He gives you a knowing look. “You still want it.”

To be fair, it is still an active desire you have.

You’d spent some occasional nights driving your clit to overstimulation over the imagery of the two of you having a moment (at least two nights) of passion in this kind of place— as controversial as it seems. You’d spend your nights crying out his name in desire only for you to spend your days poking and prodding him as your friend and not someone you adore.

It’s still something you want. 

“You fucking nerd.”

“You’re a greater nerd than I am.”

His hands are still cradling your face. His palms have small callouses, probably from all that boxing he does. Despite the roughness of his skin, he holds you so gently. With so much consideration and care.

“We’re both incredible.” You say, unable to pull away from his gaze. Not that you wanted to. “We’re both nerds.”

“Major nerds.” Sylus agrees. That beautiful smile hasn’t left his face. 

Droplets of rain strike the large windows, filling the silence between you. The opportunity is right in front of you. He’s clearly more than willing to do what you want to do, or he wouldn’t have brought you here.

Do you stop him? Do you indulge? Or should you sprint and scream into that little pillow fort that you’re certain smells like him? Or maybe you should stop overthinking and notice that he’s starting to notice you panicking in your mind.

Sylus is smart. He’s so dangerously talented and multi-skilled. He’s so irritatingly kind and charming that you almost feel like an idiot for catching feelings so quickly. You don’t regret it, but making the move to pursue your very desires (which he has a good knack for catching) might just make your friendship something entirely different.

Eh, fuck it. You were going to snap eventually.

Pursing your lips together, you muster as much courage as you can grab before the special moment fades into another memory. “I’d like to kiss you again, Sylus.”

That small flicker of joy flashes through his eyes just long enough for you to catch it. His face stiffens for just a moment before his smile widens, exposing more of his cute, adorable gummy smile as his eyes crinkle, showing those lines surrounding his eyes made from exhaustion and all he times he’s laughed with you. “Really?”

“Really.”

Like back then, the endless gap of air and space becomes more narrow as you lean towards each other. Magnetised, enamoured, connected. 

“I have always held my affections for you.” Sylus whispers, his coffee-touched breath tickles your skin as his thumbs ghost circles onto your cheekbones. “My heart has always beat a certain way in your presence, I have always spent my every breathing moment desiring you since we met.”

Your attempt to whisper your response ends with a soft gasp shared between you as your lips finally reunite. 

It feels just as soft as it did before. Your arms slowly creep up his back to wrap around his neck and find comfort in his soft hair. You’d always brushed and played with his hair and he would always just allow you to. To feel it like this is something entirely new.

You move together in unison, hands shifting lower and higher in intervals as you find rhythm in your embrace. Aches of desire, both familiar and slightly inappropriate for the sentimental nature of this moment, set you in flames as your tongues begin to explore. 

Breathing becomes a social construct and touch becomes your lifeline. Tasting him despite the remnants of caffeine attached to him drives you into a flustered frenzy, tugging at his locks unintentionally, relentless in your desire to feel him and hold him and adore him before it all turns into a dream.

Your lips pull apart after what feels like hours, your breathing heavy and thick with need. Sylus, eyes still partly closed, leans closer to you with the sole intention of attaching his lips to yours once more.

“Why pull away?” He rasps in that super hot husky voice that you only hear when you call him in the middle of the night.

“You should have let me talk about how much I like you.” You tease, pressing a kiss on the corner of his lips.

“It’s all in your eyes,” He smiles, cradling your skin with his calloused fingers. “You’ve always told me how you feel with them.”

If you thought you were a perv, Sylus is lucky you can’t read his mind.

And that you haven’t already noticed the raging boner poking through the fabric of his pants. The very set he knows you drool over. 

Sylus has been very deliberate with his actions for a while now. The way he dresses has been to satisfy your tastes and match your outfits, the way he styles his hair has been to catch your eye every single time. 

He made sure he walks with his back completely straightened to stand at his actual height— and not in the slouch that he has habitually claimed from curving over his laptop while typing away at the programs he makes. All for you.

He gets your favourite drink every Tuesday afternoon between lectures, he drives you to your apartment and has sleepovers with you whenever you don’t want him to leave (and neither does he).

All those intricate details and deliberate moves to subtly charm you were for this very moment, all those days of impressing you in his charm and all those nights of spilling hot strings of cum onto his sheets whilst moaning your name into the air— he’s a shameless guy, you see— were all worth it for this.

He might just cum in his pants right here and now.

Sylus wastes no time to kiss you again, this time with more hunger and need than before. He waits for your hands to wander, ghosting over the skin of his nape until you grip hard on his soft locks hard. 

He groans into your mouth, giving you the opportunity to slip your tongue in, tasting him and feeling as much as you can before you lose your breath. It turns into a lustful dance, intertwining tongues, tastes mixing, desire building and burning to the point where kissing alone won’t just do it anymore.

Just as you pull away, his lips find new attachment on your neck to suck and lick away at your skin. You’re warm to the touch, if it’s not due to his mind being half gone already. What can he say? You’ve got him wrapped tight around your finger.

“Tell me what you want us to do.” Sylus murmurs into your neck, mouthing wet kisses into your flesh.

“Hm?” You’re too deep in your daze to think about what he said. It must be a dream come true. Sylus, your best friend Sylus, is kissing your neck. You can feel his hard on literally throbbing against you, hot and rock fucking hard. 

You’ve seen him in less clothing than what friends should normally see, so you’ve always been aware of his huge bulge— which is something you always think about whenever you get horny— but now that you can feel it, it’s larger than you’d thought.

And now you get to have him all to yourself?! All that prep you did with your trusty dildo is finally coming to use! You could go into detail about how you’ve tortured your cunt to the thought of him but you’d rather pay attention to the nerd that’s busy sucking very dark, very visible hickeys onto your neck.

“Don’t haze out on me.” Sylus rasps. That just shoots shocks of pleasure down your spine. “What do you want us to do while we’re here?”

Oh, you have a lot of ideas in mind. Riding him on one of the pews while the storm rages outside as if you’re in some scandalous scene in a telenovela, having him eat you out in the confession booth until his face is covered nose to chin in your slick and cum, being entangled within those blankets near the altar— 

It’s a very long, near endless list of ways you can take advantage of the opportunity you have in your hands.

“You’ll freak out if I say it.” You say instead, feeling heat warm up your ears. You’re not embarrassed, you just… feel a little nervous to talk about your fantasies now that you two are more than friends now.

“Perhaps I should guess then.” His hands wander to the hem of your top, gently raising it higher and higher until he feels your bra. “Maybe you want to start on the pews, riding me perhaps? Or maybe you want to warm up first in the confessionals, with me on my knees eating you out until you tell me to stop.”

Oh, that mouth of his is exquisitely filthy.

“Or perhaps you want me take you to every single corner I found here and paint each wall in our cum, and compose a symphony of our own noises of pleasure right on top of the organ.” His large hands cup your mounds, gently squeezing them like a horny teenager.

“Or maybe we should screw the logistics and fuck in every part of this place we can reach until we can’t think straight.”

Holy fuck, he’s profane. Your jaw drops as your brows deeply furrow in shock. You know he has a bit of a not-so-innocent innuendo to him, but this? How pussy throbbing.

“Surprised?” His lips curve into a sly smirk. He can tell that he’s riled you up.

“Just a little bit.” You tug at his white locks, relishing in the hushed moan that slips out of his lips. Your other hand explores his chest, ghosting your fingers over his pecs. “I like it. Didn’t expect you to be so… lewd.”

Sylus doesn’t respond. Instead he steps closer to you, closer and closer until he’s moving you as he walks towards the pews. His hands slither down to your waist, wrapping tight around you so that he can pick you up and gently straddle you on his lap.

The dimmed lighting creates a soft sparkle in those ruby eyes of his, completely amplified by the glasses loosely hanging on his nose. There’s just something about the way that he looks at you with a sliver of admiration… it makes your heart warm.

“We can stop whenever you want us to.” He says in a hushed tone, the warmth of his breath fans your lips with the afterscent of caffeine. “I’d never want you to feel like you must do something you aren’t fully up to.”

You shake your head, tapping his lower lip with your finger. It’s so soft and plush, you could fangirl about it for hours. “I want this. I want you.”

The kiss he engulfs you in is borderline orgasmic. He must be fucking starving from how quick his tongue slips through your lips. Your bodies move as if they’re in sync, hands wandering from hair to skin, from your necks to your chests until you reach the hems of your clothing. 

You pull your clothes off as if it burns you until you’re both in nothing but your underwear, breathless from the rush of feeling each other skin to skin.

“Confessional,” You sigh into his lips. “Start there.”

To this day, you marvel at his strength— it’s almost inhumane. Sylus carries you in his arms effortlessly, his lips never leaving yours as he makes his way to the confessional standing parallel to the altar. It’s like he memorised every part of this place.

He gently sits you down all while dropping to his knees from how compact and tight the space is. There’s something that is just so appealing when it comes to Sylus being on his knees. You have a hunch that it’s the fact that he enjoys it.

“Got any confessions to make, Sy?” The way he looks up to you almost makes you cream on the spot.

His eyes are completely glazed over with lust and desire, irises shaking as if the light shining above you makes you look like an angel about the cleanse— preferably ruin— him. Your grip on his hair brings his gaze to roll slowly to the wooden ceiling of the confessional before your grip forces his attention back to you.

“What confession?” He husks, with a saccharine smile. He must be in heaven. 

“Look how hard you are.” You tut, rubbing your foot between his legs, deliberately teasing his shaft. “Are you always like this when you think of me?”

The contact alone makes his cock twitch, pumping blood right down there. He’s practically soaking himself in precum from all that excitement, length swelling with insatiable need.

“Yeah,” He confesses, flushing bright pink all around his face. “Almost every night.”

“The only fair thing to do is repent, don’t you think?” You tease, subtly hinting your innuendo by shifting your hips lower to bring your soaked pussy clothed in lace (conveniently) to him.

“Mhm,” Sylus can feel himself salivating at the sight of you being utterly soaked. Just for him. The way the fabric of your panties were beyond saving, so much so that your essence dripped down to the seat you comfortably treated as your throne, it’s riveting.

More than enough for him to worship you for hours. Hell, if he told himself the day before that he’d be doing this, the past version would have scoffed. Look at him now. Lady Luck has most definitely granted him good fortune today.

“Should totally repent.” He affirms, eyes darting between your soaking pussy, his hands wrapped around your thighs, and that beautiful face of yours. This little play of words and desire is entertaining. “That’ll make you forgive my transgressions, yes?”

He could look at you for hours without losing his concentration. He would design code that would create all the weirdest hacks that would impress you. He would write love letters that would make Shakespeare spin in his grave just from how romantic and devoted they are. He would cook for you every day, but make sure you know that you’re the best meal he’ll ever have.

“Definitely.” You breathlessly nod, moving your hand from his soft white hair to caress his cheek. Your press down harder on his length, drawing out a pleasured hiss from him. “Best you get started before I get impatient.”

Without another word, Sylus sinks his head snug between your legs. His tongue darts out straight into you despite the barrier of your panties, tasting your warm slick like its holy water. 

His eyes roll back into his skull, his tastebuds tingling in tandem with the throbs of his cock like you’re the first meal he’s had in months. Hearing your short yet audible moan only makes the feeling so much more divine. 

His eyes flutter shut as he draws himself to lock in on the mission at hand: pleasing his goddess, you.

It’s really hard to keep your mind in one piece when all you can see and think of is the sight of your best friend on his knees, between your legs, sucking the juices out of your soaked underwear before he feasts on you properly.

Your hand twitches back to his locks, tightening in grip as out grow antsy for more. Droplets of your own slick spread up to his cheekbones from all that lapping, nodding and nuzzling, making it so much worse.

“Sy,” You whine, slithering his name in a lengthy moan. It barely registers to him that you’re trying to get to him. He’s already gone, already in deep.

His lips curl around your clothed clit and suck hard. His brows furrow in deep attentiveness as he sucks on your clit, drawing small circles with his tongue as roughly as he can to penetrate his ministrations through the barrier of lace between you. 

Something about that friction just works so well that your toes curl. “Sylus— fuck— take it off.”

Between his muffled groans, Sylus presses a hot kiss on your clit before pulling away. “You’re disturbing my repentance, sweetie.” 

Oh fuck.

You gulf as he rises to his feet in the too-small booth until he hunches over you. Firstly, you want to hear him calling you that more often. Secondly, the very first thing you see in front of you is his cock straining against its confines, thick, huge, and leaking. 

You must be drooling from how long your jaw dropped. You had a feeling that he would be big from all the times you’d seen him in sweatpants, but damn. You’re kind of glad you invested in a dildo.

It takes so much willpower to look away from that Herculean girth in front of you and when you do, you meet his hazed gaze that teases you with a knowing look accompanied with his signature smile.

“Don’t start.’’

“You like it?” You both speak in chaotic unison, only to magnify the irritation painted in your expression and the smug flattery in his.

“I think you like it.” Sylus hums, gently gripping your hips to help raise them. With your hands gripping on the seat beneath you to secure your position, Sylus hooks his fingers around your lacy garments and pulls them down with a swift tug.

The cold air hits your open cunt like a gust of wind, making your legs shiver. The sound of a gentle patter on the floor catches your ears, bringing you to see his underwear on the floor with yours.

“It’s only fair that I do it too.” Sylus answers before you even start. You know each other that well, answering each others’ questions before you even think of it.

“Is there anything else I should do?” He asks as he returns to his knees, this tie hooking your knees over his broad shoulders. Your lips part to say something, anything, with a bite but you’re rendered speechless. “No? Alright.”

Sylus plants his head between your legs once more, licking a long stripe down your thigh just before he touches your folds. Hot, wet kisses travel around your pussy, all the way to your clit without truly giving you what you want.

Such a tease.

“Did you know there’s thousands of nerve endings here?” He muses, darting his tongue around your clit so lightly that you can only feel the burning tease of his touch. “Of course you do, you abuse this poor thing with your vibrator.”

Soft whines slip out of you lips before you can stop them. You can barely do much other than squeeze his head with your thighs, but it’s looking like that only riles him up more.

“Since my hands are out of commission at the moment,” Sylus says, patting your thighs gently. “How many times do you think I can make you cum with my tongue?”

“No more than twice.” You try to scoff, but it comes out more like a whine you tried to swallow. 

“Is that a challenge?” He grins, nuzzling his head into your thigh all while keeping his crimson gaze on yours. You can tell he’s slipping despite his confidence, if not that then his reddened cock bobbing between his legs is a dead giveaway.

“I’ll aim for three.” His tongue travels back down slowly to your pussy, lapping up your dripping essence. “Just to be spiteful.”

All that teasing from earlier goes right out the window when he dips his tongue right inside you, enveloping his tastebuds in nothing but your taste. A melody of your moans bounce off the walls of the confessional from the mutual pleasure.

His tongue goes as far as it can, caressing and pressing hard against your walls, moving back and forth and curling like he’s looking for something within you. His brows are knotted, eyes blissfully closed as he worships your fluttering cunt.

The noise is so obnoxiously loud and wet that it almost outdoes your own. Your nails dig into his scalp as his tongue finally curves just right, getting as close to your most sweetest spot as his tongue can reach.

“Sylus!” Your back arches into him, receiving a muffled grunt in return. His tongue circles around your entrance, lapping up all the slick that attempts to drip down away from his reach. 

He has no intention of wasting what you give him. Each slurp and lick comes with a kiss to your folds until he’s practically making out with your pussy, tasting, teasing, and pleasing you all at once. It all burns so good that you can already feel that familiar, back-arching tingle subtly creep in.

“I could stay here forever, making you feel so good.” His rambles, sounding slightly incoherent from all his ministrations. His grip on your thighs tighten as he glances down to his aching cock. Watching it twitch and drip all that precum in desperation just reflects his own need for you. 

“You taste so damn good.” He licks a long stripe from your cunt to your clit, circling around your bud with the tip of his tongue. “You sound like heaven.” It’s almost too much to not to do anything, so much so that his hips start to grind his cock against the surface you sit so beautifully on for some satiation to his arousal. “Wanna drown in you, sweetie. Won’t you let me?”

Just as you’re about to respond, Sylus suckles hard on your clit in pulsating intervals so erotically well that it brings you to your first climax. Your toes curl, your thighs tighten around his head without restraint, and your eyes roll back until your vision is spotted with sprinkles of light between the darkness of your skull.

A sharp, lewd cry of his name flows right into his ears from your kiss-swollen lips as hot waves of pleasure hit you with each harsh suck that he gives your clit. He’s just so close and attached to your clit, both through his own strength and you literally holding him there mid-orgasm, that he’s more than ready to happily stop breathing between your legs.

There can’t be any joy better than this.

Other than the painfully slow grinds he teases his cock just enough to keep himself at bay. One glance down and he’d see his cock almost completely soaked from all that leaking. He can feel his pulse thump and throb right there as he twitches violently from the lack of contact.

Just a bit longer. You come first.

Which you already did. But he still needs two more before he can even think of his own needs.

You’re whining his name like you’re about to cum again, clawing your nails down his nape and tugging at his hair, confused between whether you should push him away or pull him closer.

“Sylus, wait— Sylus!” You can barely think of what you’re supposed to tell him from that overwhelming pleasure. You can just feel the second one creeping in fast like a storm and it’s clear that Sylus won’t stop until he achieves it.

His tongue flicks back and forth over your sensitive bud, carelessly rutting his cock up and down to capture new flickers of your carnal responses. The way you’re tugging his hair makes him whimper. The way you whine his name burns a sense of pride in him. The way you pull his hair to you fucking yourself on his face, he relishes in it all.

The second orgasm comes in stronger than the first. Your thighs are trembling in his grip as your cries hit a higher pitch. Your eyes, too far gone up your skull, might just reach crossing territory at this rate. If you grab his hair any tighter, you might end up ripping it off. And still, he just doesn’t stop.

“Sy,” You pant, trying to writhe away from the overstimulation he’s driving into you. “That’s two, you can—“

“I said three.”

“C-Come on, Sy!” You gasp, feeling your breath catch in your throat from his titillating gaze. 

Half of his face is completely drenched in your slick with some dripping down his chin. Your legs move up and down with his body from all that grinding to soothe his aching cock. He just can’t stop, can he?

“Three.” He presses a hot kiss on your pussy, nuzzling your clit with his nose despite how violently your thighs tremble around him.

“Too much!”

“Three.” His tongue swirls around you, slurping up everything you generously give him while his moans get louder with yours. It looks like he’s about to cum too.

“Sylus— f-fuck— please.” You whine as your fingers curl around his soft locks like second nature. The aftershocks from your previous orgasm are still pulsing through your body, adding onto the endless pleasure burning through your veins and flesh.

“You can do it, sweetie.” Sylus hums into your heat, softly whining from your scent. “Just one more.”

Just one more.

It all blends together until you can barely tell where pleasure begins or ends. Your head leans against the wooden wall, seeking cool air as a relief of all the pleasure-driven heat burning you up. It’s still too hot. Too full of your moans and cries, his groans and whimpers, and the tasteful stickiness in the air from your joint arousal.

You can barely muster a single word when the third finally hits you like the skies falling upon the earth. Your back sharply arches as your eyes cross over completely, ripping out a blissful moan from your lips. Your legs straighten as your body tenses, unable to comprehend anything other than the pleasure and relief his tongue gives you.

Finally satisfied with his work, Sylus grants his cock the attention it needs, grinding faster and harder as his tongue helps you ride out your orgasm. But he doesn’t allow himself the pleasure of cumming— not yet.

By the time you’ve calmed down enough to have some level of comprehensive thought— and finally released your death grip on the poor man— the first thing you see is a goofy smile plastered on his face.

“See?” His smile widens, glistening with your slick and cum. “You can handle it.”

You’re far too exhausted to give a snarky response, or any at all. He definitely takes note of it.

“We can stop here—” Sylus begins, readying himself to carry you out of the stuffy box of a confessional, but you smack your palm on his forehead.

“Who said I wanted to stop?” 

He looks dizzy with excitement just from hearing that and picks you up in his arms as if he wasn’t on his knees for so long. Just how much stamina does he have?

The walk, more like pace, to the makeshift bed is quick. So quick that you barely realise he’s gently set you down like he’s about to tuck you in. Reaching behind you, he pulls out a large box of condoms and swiftly takes one out, shining bright in its packaging.

“Sy, you do know I’m on the pill, right?” You ask, watching him set the foil between his teeth.

“Of course I do.” He hums as he rips it open, letting the condom fall into his palm. “But you did mention in your very detailed fantasy that you wanted to end the night with multiple used condoms all over the floor.”

There is no way he remembered all those details.

“It’s only fair that we fulfil each and every portion of what you want, right?” He slowly pumps his cock to get it harder, as if it isn’t already in that state, and slips the sheath down his shaft.

“You’re terrible.” You groan, covering your face. Maybe that will save you from embarrassment.

His hands caress yours with tender affection. “Do you want us to continue, sweetie?” He asks as he brings your palm to his lips for a gentle peck. “We don’t have to if you’re not ready.”

He’s too sweet. So gentlemanly that you can’t stop the smile spreading from ear to ear on your face. “I’m more than ready.”

No other words need to be shared for Sylus to align his cock with your pussy. He taps the tip on your entrance, once then twice to tease, before gently pushing in.

Since you’re already soaked (times three), he practically slips in like a hand into a perfectly fitting glove. His girth and pressure of something so beautifully warm and big being inside just brings that delicious burn that makes you both hold your breaths.

Your hands lace together as he sinks in deeper and deeper until he’s fully bottomed out, hip to hip and skin to skin. You both deeply exhale, keeping your gaze on each other to make sure you’re okay. 

Just the slightest twitch shoots jolts of pleasure up your spine just from how good he feels inside you. Nothing could beat this feeling. Nothing could ever defeat being like this with him. Goodness, it’s all just too good.

And then he moves.

He pulls back nice and slow until his tip is all that’s inside you, then thrusts right into you with little patience to spare.

Your eyes flutter shut from being filled with him once more, then again and again in a rapidly moving pace until your hand reaches for his back to paint with scratches while the other claws at his hair. Anything to keep you grounded while he presses you into the makeshift bed.

“You like how this feels?” Sylus grins his famous smug grin, sliding his hand to your breasts to fondle and tease. With a quick peck on your permanently parted lips, he lowers his head to trap your hardened nipple between his teeth.

“F-Fuck,” You half-sigh, half-moan into the cold air. His tongue circles around the bud, teasing and suckling you all while his gaze is locked on your beautiful face.

Each whine, each gasp, and each loud and lust-soaked moan that leaves your mouth is committed to memory just so he knows exactly how to please you. His cock is practically begging for release from how hard it throbs as he pounds his hips into yours, but he doesn’t want to yet.

He wants to feel you suffocate his cock from how good you feel around him. Between his relentless torture on your tits and romantically filthy pumps of his cock into your cunt, he can’t tell which is more blissful to do. Maybe both.

That’s definitely the case for you. 

All that overstimulation from his tongue torturing your clit has left you weak and overly sensitive in all the good ways. Your walls flutter with every single time your bodies collide, smacking loudly from your slick spreading all over you and mixing with the layer of sweat coating your skin.

The otherwise silent infrastructure sings the echoes of your lovemaking both shameless and divine, almost overpowering the rumbles of thunder striking the skies beyond the shelter of your sanctuary. Sylus groans loudly, licking his way up your chest, between your collarbones until he reaches the corner of your lips.

“I won’t last long, sweetie,” He grits in the midst of a rougher thrust into your squelching pussy. It almost aches him to hold himself from moving faster and harder despite you sucking him in every time he moves back. 

His face is completely flushed red, crimson eyes glazed over with bliss solely from watching your face contort in the pleasure he gives you. The tight squeeze of your walls almost suffocating his length is riveting, maddening.

“Good,” You huff into his neck, mouthing hot, wet kisses onto his cheek and nipping him with your teeth. “‘M close too.”

All that overstimulation from him eating you out is more than enough to tap out, really. But something about the way Sylus stares at you… as if he knows what you truly desire and is more than happy to give it to you. How can you possibly deny yourself such pleasure?

The squelches of his cock and claps of wet skin fill your senses, blocking out everything until there is only you and him, you and him, and the insatiable burn that consumes you both into oblivion.

You’re almost certain his back is completely red and tainted with lines from your scratching. Your throat grows hoarse with every moan, whimper, and cry that you two share, each being louder than the last.

It’s so lewd, so risqué, and yet it makes you writhe and arch in ecstasy. 

“Sylus,” It’s almost second nature to whisper his name into his skin as if you’re casting a spell on him. 

“I’m here, sweetie,” Sylus croons before he captures you in a lascivious kiss, slipping his hand down between your colliding hips to torture your long neglected clit.

The contact immediately maximises the tension building deep within your core, crashing over like waves hitting the shore.

Your vision goes completely white as a hot stream rushes up your spine. Pleasure becomes tangibly infinite, forcing all your senses to kneel and submit to the orgasmic waves pulsing through you. You can’t tell if you’re even making a noise at this rate even though your throat burns.

Your walls clench so hard on his cock that Sylus’ climax hits him like a train, bursting ribbons of thick cum into the condom over and over again until all he can feel is his own hot seed against the barrier of your warmth.

Your bodies move in a carnal dance as you ride out the pulses of your senses going on overdrive. It feels like hours before you can think of anything other than Sylus. Anything other than how he feels, how he sounds, and how he just gave you one of the best orgasms you’ve had in months.

“You okay?” You croak, patting his sweat-dampened hair. He merely nods— or rather nuzzles, since he’s barely moving— with his forehead stuck on yours. The only noise he can muster is an adorable mixture of a whimper and a groan.

The soft grunt he makes sounds like a mirrored question. Are you okay?

Especially after getting your shit rocked by your best friend, who admitted he really likes you and knows you like him. Especially after having one of your most prominent fantasies fulfilled by the very person you wanted to do it with.

Are you okay?

“Yeah,” You close your eyes in bliss and nuzzle him back with as much strength as your body can give. “I feel great.”

You barely give yourselves time to rest, not even for a moment. Freaks. “Again.”

That must have been a buzzword because his cock immediately hardens in an instant. Sylus shoots up to sit on his knees and slowly pulls out to see the condom full, full, of cum.

“You don’t have to tell me twice, sweetie.” He’s quick to tie it into a knot and throws it away to grab the one of the many that you will be using up.

Watching him reach for the condoms beside the bedding, you weakly lift yourself to rest on your forearms. The sight of the setting sun shining specks of colour onto his glistening form is so ethereal that you’d assume he’s an angel. He must be if he gave you all those orgasms.

“Remember when you told me about that other fantasy you have?” He asks, sliding the sheath down his cum-slick cock. His grip is tight on the base to keep it from jumping but its violent twitches are a dead giveaway of his insatiable arousal.

“Which one?” 

“The more exhibitionist one,” Sylus prowls over you once more, raising your legs to his shoulders to peck and caress. “Where did you want it to be? Ah, yes. A party."

You seriously need to stop telling him these things.

“Don’t remind me, Sy.” Your groans of embarrassment are greeted with more affectionate kisses and love bites all over your skin. 

“A house party, right?” He slowly pushes your legs down until they connect with your chest, folding you over into a gentle yet strong mating press. You can just feel the heat of his cockhead slipping in and out of your cunt.

Too aroused to even speak, you nod with a mischievous grin painting your face.

“Good.” Gentle yet fast is how he slides back in like he never left, making sure you feel every aching part of his cock reuniting with your pussy. “A friend of mine is hosting one next week. Let’s make that desire of yours come true once we’ve ruined this place.”

Yeah. You love nerds.

your breathy sighs and moans of his name seem to echo throughout the room, your body already bent over the headboard as sylus remained laying beneath you, pleasuring you in ways that you never thought was even possible.

his tongue was the only thing you felt traveling deep inside of you, invading your slick walls while drinking up every last drop of your honeyed sweet arousal. and when he manages to thrust a thick finger within your heat, you immediately cried out to him.

feeling your arousal dripping down in his awaiting mouth made you feel a wave of embarrassment, your chest already heaving with each labored breath that you take. “ngh, sylus… please, it’s too much…”

he merely chuckles in response, giving your bare backside a playful slap before spreading your sex wide open for him. “don’t get too shy now, my little dove. would you really deprive me of the sweet ambrosia between your legs?”

the deep words spoken by the onychinus leader only serves to strengthen the heat that courses through your veins, with your walls clenching in response to them. a rich chuckle was heard coming from your lover just as he presses his lips against your soaking wet cunt.

“let me indulge myself with you for just a few more hours, i’m sure you can hold on a bit longer for me…”

you were at the library with zayne, exploring the aisles with him when you kept detecting the faint scent of his cologne. the subtle, yet masculine scent of it was suitable for him.

as if addicted to the smell, you kept trying to inch closer to him, earning a frown of zayne’s face. finally realizing his expression, you immediately backed away from him. “i’m sorry. was i too close?”

zayne shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose while pushing up his glasses.

“no, it’s just… i can smell you.”

you felt your cheeks turn hot in response, unable to protest when he takes you to the furthest corner of the library. “you need me… but there’s nothing i can do about it here.”

your heart was already pounding within your chest when zayne casually kneels in front of you, speaking with such nonchalance that he could have been talking about the weather in linkon today. “however, that isn’t to say that i’m opposed to helping you relieve yourself.”

with your back pressed against the bookshelf, you allow zayne to take off your panties from beneath your skirt, feeling him spread you wide open with his hand before adding a finger within your glistening cunt. “this scent… so musky and sweet… so you.”

his ragged whisper causes another wave of arousal to wash over you, making you mewl softly when he presses his lips over your spread pussy lips. “keep quiet for me, i don’t want us to get caught.” with those words serving as his final warning, you felt his tongue tracing at your sex before suddenly diving straight into your heat.

your reaction was immediate-

back arched against the aisle of books-

legs spread wider to give him better access-

all while your hands gripped at his soft strands of hair as zayne worked on devouring every inch of you while feeling his every word vibrating against you-

“mmm, you taste so good… better than any dessert i have ever had.”

you were gasping, unable to control yourself when xavier suddenly slams your naked cunt against his mouth, forcing you to ride his face.

“xavier… mmm… hah! t-this is to embarrassing-“

yet the hunter merely cuts off your protests by shoving his tongue even deeper within your heat. he ignores your embarrassed whines and continues to use his mouth to pleasure you all while keeping his grip on your waist-

preventing you from removing yourself from his face.

you were still too mortified to even think of riding him, hands gripping at the sheets below you as you felt xavier’s tongue invading every part of you. it was getting harder for you to hold back, and when you felt xavier nuzzling your swollen clit in the process-

every single one of your inhibitions flew away from you.

now desperate to chase your high, you began grinding your aching cunt against his mouth, trying to give your hardened bundle of nerves the friction it oh so craved.

rafayel takes his time with you-

inserting each of his slender fingers one by one within your silken heat while basking in your expressions of pleasure.

he had you exactly where he wanted you, bare and laid back leisurely against his bed. while playing with your body, the lemurian never once looked away from you.

“princess, you’re so beautiful.” your whine proceeds to echo throughout his room when he suddenly adds a few more fingers within your heat. each time he thrusts his digits back inside of you, a new flood of moisture was felt staining at the palm of his hand-

making rafayel become nearly drunk at your scent that seems to permeate at the air.

“i’ll never get tired of you.” he removes his fingers from your aching cunt, earning a whine from you as your body seemed to writhe against his bed in agony.

“rafe, i was so close- hah!”

but he cuts you off the moment he picks up your body, holding up your body so that he could see the way your pretty walls clenched at an eye level. without any further warning, he covers the entirety of your sex with his mouth, causing your back to arch against him.

a flood of moisture was felt escaping from you and into his hot mouth, the sensation of it all being so sinful that you could only lay back and bask in the sweet friction your lover had gifted you.

“i’ll never get tired of you, baby. never ever.”

you began shivering in bed, hearing the way caleb’s voice dripped with need when he kissed down your naked body. you could feel each and every ridge of his muscle against you, causing your heart to pound with sweet anticipation.

caleb lets out a grunt of your name, further kissing down your body before fully stopping when he reaches your pelvis. spreading your legs wide open, the colonel settles himself between them with his nose pressed against your heat. you began to feel your face growing warmer when he sharply inhales-

seeming to take in your scent before lifting up your right leg and tossing it over his shoulder.

“you smell so fucking good, baby. you’ll let me have a little taste of you, right?”

your breathing hitches-

and you could only manage a single nod in response to his deep plea-

yet that was all the urging caleb needed to surge forward, mouth already wrapped around the entirety of your sex as his tongue explored you. the sudden invasion of it all makes you cry out to him, hands already gripping at his soft strands of hair while he collects every drop of your arousal on the tip of his tongue.

devouring you like a man starved, caleb continues to press himself against you, making you go almost dizzy with pleasure. yet when you felt something thick and hard enter your heat along with the sensation of his tongue curling from deep within you-

you knew you wouldn’t last another second-

spilling yourself within his awaiting mouth as his groans of approval vibrates within you.

your chest rose and fell with every breath you take, and you half expected caleb to free you-

to pull away from you.

so imagine your immediate surprise when he ends up pulling you closer to him, forcing you to lay back in bed as he held you by your waist, licking away the evidence of your climax before thrusting his tongue back inside of you. his actions made you cry out in response, with your nails clawing at the sheets below you as his drunken words repeat themselves within your mind:

“mmm, ngh, i need more babygirl. i need to devour you completely, to surround myself with your taste until i’m satisfied.”

end notes: don’t mind me, i just woke up from a very wet dream and decided to immortalize it in this short, unedited thirst post 🙂‍↕️

You consider switching schools. Or switching husbands.

Not that anyone knows you already have one.

It’s not just Caleb. It’s the entire school. They’ve turned your professional rivalry into a spectator sport.

The whole school ships you.

Not loudly. Not with banners or fan edits (thank God). But it’s there—in the way students smirk when you argue in the hallway, or how they exchange glances every time Caleb calls you “Miss Xia” with that infuriating little smile. He calls you “Miss Xia” in front of students like it’s a joke.

You haven’t legally changed your name. You haven’t even told anyone you’re married.

But he says it with that smug little smile, and you let him—because correcting him would mean admitting the truth.

And you’re not ready for that. Not yet.

You’ve overheard whispers. A few ‘just kiss already’ comments. One student asked if you were dating during a quiz review, like it was relevant to Newton’s third law.

You denied it, obviously. Professionally. Firmly.

Caleb coughed. Loudly.

You glared.

He smiled.

Someone snorted.

You gave up after that.

Let them speculate. Let them write their little theories and ship you like it’s a group project.

They don’t know you already share a Netflix account. Or a laundry basket. Or a last name.

Heh. Fools.

You’ve become the school’s favorite subplot.

Forget curriculum reform or budget meetings—your hallway interactions are the real drama. Students time their bathroom breaks to catch glimpses of your “fights.” Staff members place bets on who’ll snap first.

You once found a sticky note on your desk that read “Enemies to lovers? Or lovers pretending to be enemies?” No signature. Just chaos.

You suspect Year 11.

Caleb, of course, encourages it. He thrives on attention and absurdity. He’ll lean against your doorway mid-lesson, arms crossed, voice loud enough to echo down the corridor.

“Hey, Pipsqueak. You seen my protractor?”

You don’t look up. You’re mid-sentence, explaining centripetal force to a room full of teenagers who are now laser-focused on the drama unfolding in your doorway.

“Try checking under your ego,” you say.

Someone chokes on their water bottle.

Caleb grins, unbothered. “Already did. Found a thesaurus and half a granola bar.”

You sigh. Loudly. Deliberately.

He takes it as an invitation.

Strolls in like he owns the place, plucks a spare protractor off your desk, and holds it up like a trophy. “Victory,” he announces.

You snatch it back. “That’s mine.”

“Sharing is caring.”

“Then care less.”

The class is silent, hanging on every word. One student mouths married. Another writes Caleb + Pipsqueak = OTP in the corner of their notebook.

You pretend not to see.

Caleb winks as he leaves, and you swear he does it in slow motion.

You resume the lesson, but the damage is done.

No one remembers centripetal force.

They remember the way you said care less like it was a love confession.

It gets to the point where the students tried to play matchmaker.

One time you and Caleb both got locked in the supply room. Another time it was the gym closet.

One leaves a folded note on your desk: If you were a molecule, you’d be polar—because you’ve got chemistry.

Another starts a rumor that you and Caleb were spotted at the same coffee shop. You were. Along with half the faculty. But that part gets edited out.

Then there’s the anonymous suggestion box. You open it one morning and find:

•            Field trip idea: Escape room. Lock them in together.

•            Extra credit: Write a love letter using Newton’s laws.

•            Petition to make Caleb a guest lecturer on flirting through physics.

You start assigning more homework. They start turning it in with doodles of you and Caleb arguing in speech bubbles that end in hearts.

Caleb sees one. He doesn’t comment. Just grins like he’s been waiting for this subplot to kick in.

During a class party, students hand out personalized juice boxes. Yours says your last name. Caleb’s says Mr. Heartthrob. Inside each is a folded note: You two are the reason we believe in tension. Caleb raises his juice box in a toast. You drink yours in one long, pointed sip.

It’s after school. The halls are quiet, save for the distant hum of a vacuum and the occasional locker slam. You’re in your classroom, reorganizing lab reports and pretending you don’t hear Caleb’s footsteps approaching like he’s auditioning for a rom-com entrance.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, smug as ever.

“You know,” he says, “I think the Year 10s are planning a fake wedding. There was a glue stick labeled ‘ring’ in my drawer.”

You don’t look up. “Tell them I’m already married.”

He grins. “To who?”

You glance at him. “To my job.”

“Oof. Cold.” He strolls in, picks up your red marker—now permanently scented with his overpriced cologne—and twirls it like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk on emotional repression. “So. How long do you think we’ve got?”

You blink. “Until what?”

“Until someone figures it out.” He gestures vaguely, like your entire relationship is a subplot he’s tired of keeping secret. “The marriage. The laundry basket. The shared Netflix account with my cursed algorithm.”

You sigh. “I told you to stop watching documentaries about competitive cheese rolling.”

“They’re inspiring.”

You set down the papers. “I give it a month. Maybe less. Someone’s going to catch us slipping.”

He tilts his head. “Slipping how?”

“Like when you called me ‘babe’ in the staff room.”

“I was quoting Shakespeare.”

“You were asking if I wanted Thai food.”

He shrugs. “Same energy.”

You cross your arms. “We could just tell them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And ruin the mystery? The drama? The hallway tension that fuels their academic engagement?”

You stare. “You think our fake rivalry improves test scores?”

“I think it gives them hope.”

You snort. “In what? That love is just bullying with paperwork?”

He steps closer. “In the idea that two people can fight like hell and still choose each other. Every day.”

You hate him a little for that. Mostly because it’s true.

Then he’s in front of you—closer than he should be, marker forgotten, hands sliding around your waist like he’s done this a thousand times and still isn’t used to how you tense when he does. His mouth finds yours before you can think, before you can argue, before you can remind him that the blinds are half-open and your dignity is hanging by a thread.

It’s heated. Familiar. His hands are so not innocent—one trailing down your back, the other skimming the edge of your blouse like he’s trying to rewrite the dress code.

You break the kiss with a sharp inhale, palms pressed to his chest.

“Hands,” You slap it. Hard. “We are in school, Mr. Xia.”

He blinks, dazed. “Right. Sorry. Got carried away.”

You straighten your blouse, ignoring the way your heart is trying to escape through your ribs. “You always do.”

He grins, sheepish. “Can’t help it. You’re very... grade-ruining.”

You shove a stack of papers into his arms. “Then go ruin them. Quietly. In your own classroom.”

He salutes. “Yes, Miss Xia.”

You roll your eyes. “One month.”

He’s halfway out the door when he turns back. “You know I’m going to lose, right?”

Your negroni is fifty percent water by now.

The flock of past classmates, professors, and adorning fans has been relentless, swarming the bar where you and Zayne currently sit— or perhaps more accurately, swarming where the distinguished Dr. Zayne sits. 

You sigh under your breath, fussing with the cocktail dress slit against your thigh before taking another sip of your drink, the melted ice dulling the burn of the gin. It has only been an hour since you arrived, and yet you can already feel your social battery reach its limits, tired of going through the same motions for every other person who bothers to acknowledge your presence: a smile, what’s your name, are you a surgeon as well, what’s your connection to Zayne, no we’re not together.

It’s not that you haven’t met fascinating individuals— your first round of drinks was shared with two sisters, old classmates of Zayne’s who were now Linkon’s top OB/GYN doctors and genuinely the sweetest women you’ve talked to today. 

But everyone has limits. And with the relentless swarm sucking up to Zayne, it hardly gives you a moment of peace, let alone an opportunity to talk with your date for the evening.

Thinking about the stipulations of your relationship and what this night even means for the two of you sends your mind reeling further, and you finish the rest of your negroni in a shot, wincing. 

As if sensing your frustration, the doctor in question looks up from his conversation with a classmate. Zayne gives a knowing, apologetic smile before returning to his conversation, the gesture leaving you with a fluttering in your chest.

Calling the bartender over, you place another drink on the tab before tuning in to the conversation next to you as you hear the echo of laughter. 

“No, no, I’ve been lucky enough to have seen it myself!” An older man laughs again, his drink nearly sloshing over the rim as he smacks Zayne’s shoulder. You snort at the way he stiffens. “Our Dr. Zayne isn’t just a professional at work, you should see him play billiards. Let me tell you, he’s amazing at both the operating table and the pool table”

A deep sigh. “You drank too much…” 

“Nonsense!” The man pats Zayne again before recounting a story from their residency days to the crowd of onlookers.

You yourself are rather engrossed too, more than happy to learn more about your elusive doctor, especially these hidden talents he seems set on keeping from you. Zayne, on the other hand, is far from impressed. Brows furrowed, he turns from where he sits against the bar counter to scan your face. 

Leaning in closer, you inhale sharply at the feel of his cool breath against your ear. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” 

His thoughtfulness would be sweet if it weren’t for the way Zayne had whispered it, lips brushing against your sensitive skin as you shudder at the slow, deep cadence of his voice. 

Noticing your hesitation, Zayne’s hand comes up to rest on your knee, thumb slipping under your dress’ slit. He cocks his head, waiting for your response, drawing soothing circles against your bare skin, which is having quite the opposite effect. 

Panicking, you shake your head. “I’m alright. Plus, I’d feel bad stealing you away from all your adoring fans so soon, Dr. Zayne.”

He scoffs under his breath, but you see the slight curl in the corner of his lips. Still, he has yet to let go of your thigh, and you decide to shift closer, turning in your seat so your knees brush against Zayne’s, his hand involuntarily sliding higher. 

His fingers are calloused and worn, a testament to his many years spent in the medical field, and his grip is firm against your thigh. It feels familiar, and the memories of his hands on you in many different places sends heat rushing to your cheeks.

The thought doesn't seem to have left his mind either, judging by the way his eyes dart down to your parted lips.

Clearing his throat, Zayne looks away. He is about to say something when you decide to interrupt instead.

“Besides,” you hum, taking a sip of wine. “If the rumors are to be believed, then I’m missing quite a show. Is our Dr. Zayne really that skilled at pool?”

“Ah.” Zayne retracts his hand, clearing his throat as he straightens up in his seat. ”You’re trying to gang up on me.”

You know him well enough to recognize the hint of embarrassment in the way he avoids your gaze. But before you can tease him further, another cheery voice interrupts.

“We meet again, sir!” A young man practically bounces over to the bar, caught between a bow and a handshake as he stumbles into both, flashing a gummy smile at Zayne. 

You raise a brow at his overwhelming enthusiasm, glancing at Zayne as you watch recognition flash across his face.

“Good evening. It’s Steven, yes? You don’t need to address me as “sir”.” Zayne nearly grimaces as he says the word, and you take a sip from your drink to hide your growing smile. 

“Yes! I’m honored you remembered.” Steven nods vigorously. “But anything less would be inappropriate. After all, you taught me so much with your hands-on instruction, I owe my knowledge and successful residency so far to you, sir.”

Still, Zayne shuts him down. “I was only doing what I should have done. Any credit beyond that is your own.” 

It’s almost like he’s allergic to praise. 

“Humble and smart,” Steven laughs, winking all-too-obviously at you. “Regardless, I just wanted to thank you for everything formally, sir. You two have a wonderful rest of your night!”

“Yes.” Zayne frowns, leaning ever so slightly closer to you. ”To you as well.”

Quickly feigning ignorance, you pretend to be absorbed in the powerpoint some professor is giving on the opposite side of the venue, immediately lost in a diagram of a heart valve. You’re about to take another sip of your drink when something pinches your ear. Yelping at the sting, you jump in your seat, whirling around to face the culprit.

Zayne scoffs. “I could see you eavesdropping a mile away. Did you find anything interesting?”

“Oh, aside from learning that you are extremely humble, smart, handsome, and rather adept at hands-on instruction, nothing much,” you lean against the counter, blinking up at Zayne through your lashes as you sing the last word, “Sir.”

You watch his jaw clench, a rigid movement that makes your heart skip. Zayne laughs, a harsh, sharp sound. He shakes his head before his hand grips your jaw, tugging you gently but firmly towards him. His eyes narrow, and your heart stutters.

“Clever girl. What is it you want this time?”

This time. As if Zayne could refuse you anything, as if the mere sight of you isn't enough to make him go mad.

But you're not the only one who knows how to play. And he rather likes watching just how far you’ll go.

Smiling innocently, you rest a hand on Zayne’s shoulder. The warmth of his skin seeps through the silky material of his suit. You can't help but slide your hand further up, tracing the curve of his neck with your thumb. “Well…” You lick your lips, tasting the waxy remnants of your lipstick as you fight to keep your voice even under Zayne’s piercing gaze. ”You never did any hands-on training with me, and everyone says what an honor it’s been to be taught by you, sir. I wonder what I’ll have to do to experience it finally.”

Zayne sighs, and for a moment, he appears disappointed.

“It seems like you truly want to learn about surgeries.” A scoff, and Zayne’s face seems to fall back to its stoic facade. But he pulls you closer, tilting your head so his lips graze your earlobe once more. “Who knew my little hunter was so skilled at acting?”

You gasp, placing a hand on your chest in faux surprise. “What accusations, doctor. Besides, I was thinking about something with a… less steep learning curve.”

Zayne hums thoughtfully, thumb venturing from your jaw as it brushes across your lips. Once. Twice. Three times before he stands up, hand finally dropping from your face as he grabs your wrist instead. 

“Then allow me to take our first lesson elsewhere.”

You don’t offer any sort of resistance as Zayne leads you through the crowd, opting to let go of your wrist and guide you away from prying eyes, hand instead lingering against the small of your back as he walks beside you. He opens the door for you, directing the two of you down one of the main venue halls, echoes of conversation muffled by the soft ding of an elevator. Zayne flashes his medical ID before clicking the top floor, the sensor buzzing green as it carries you up with the smooth flow of elevator jazz. 

Zayne’s hand has yet to leave your waist. His thumb goes back to tracing soft circles against the divots in your back as though from habit, nearly touching bare skin due to the sweeping backless design of your dress. You fight the urge to lean further into him, already fidgeting in your heels at the thought of his touch, slow and careful and calculated, elsewhere.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the chime of the elevator. 

Oh, god, snap out of it. You rush out of the elevator, hoping Zayne didn’t notice the furious heat you can feel rising from your cheeks to the tips of your ears.

Smoothing some loose hair back behind your ear, you close your eyes and focus on taking deep breaths, as if it’ll push all these obscene scenarios of Zayne’s large, perfect hands doing unspeakable things out of your mind. 

It works for a moment, expelling all these potential scenarios and instead reminding you of every time Zayne has taken action. Memories of him after hours at the clinic, during movie nights when neither of you paid attention to the TV, and even the drive here where he decided to—

“Does the sight of a billiard table scare you that much?”

The heat from earlier is back in full force. Your eyes snap open, and you are greeted with Zayne’s signature eyebrow raise, feigning concern despite his amused smile that only grows more prominent when he notices the flush creeping across your skin.

“Hardly.” You force a smile, turning your head as you refuse to let him gloat. “I’m just so ecstatic that I’ll finally receive hands-on training from the Dr. Zayne.”

A low hum, “Yes, at least until you feel well enough to go back and socialize.” 

He says this, yet you know Zayne is just as happy as you are to finally escape from the crowds below.

“Well,” you purr, “take care of me until then, sir.”

You giggle as he frowns at the title, waltzing past him to a corner pool table in the billiard hall. The floor is dedicated to different tabletop games, all lined up against numerous floor-to-ceiling windows aglow with a gorgeous view of Linkon City. The city lights bleed in since the entire room was rather dim, no doubt an artistic choice, adorned sensually with faux candlelight chandeliers and the low timber of jazz.

“Have you played before?”

“Once or twice– some call me a natural genius.” You brush imaginary hair from your shoulders as Zayne scoffs before handing you a cue stick. Lacing his hand into your own, you pull the stick and thus him closer. “Why? Are you going to be strict with me, sir?”

Seeing through your jab, Zayne responds without hesitation. “Strict teachers make outstanding students. Let’s start.”

You pout, about to walk to the other side of the pool table to observe his shot, when Zayne’s arm laces around your waist, holding you against him for a second longer. 

“And no more distractions.”

Not trusting your voice, you nod, watching as he bends to aim the cue, muscles beneath his sleeves flexing with each calculated movement. You hear the sound of a cue stick colliding with its target, but your attention is too focused on his fingers to process any of the actual movements.

Another sharp click breaks the silence. You watch as the cue ball collides with a red striped one, sending the former skittering off the sides while the other sinks into the pocket with a dull thud.

“You’re unfairly good at this.”

Zayne raises a brow, “Maybe it’s because a surgeon requires steady hands.” 

And the moment you glance down, any chance of salvation is lost.

You’re not a fool. You’ve noticed Zayne’s hands before, on more occasions than you’d care to admit. But it’s as he says and more. 

Lining up for another shot, you watch him stretch forward, forearms exposed from his deliciously rolled-up sleeves and discarded blazer, your eyes tracing every prominent vein down to his hands, spread wide against the table, tense as the stick rests against his pointer finger and thumb. Even in the dim lighting you can see pale silver scars littering his forearms, and you swear you’ve never seen something so beautiful, like traces of frost against marble. 

Again, it shouldn’t be a surprise that a surgeon must take good care of their hands, but it’s nearly unfair how gorgeous Zayne’s are. Not only that, but you remember how comforting his hands feel against your own, how they caressed your thigh earlier tonight, and just how attentive and precise they can be. 

“You’re not focusing on my lesson.”

Shit.

With a single strike, Zayne tries to sink another ball, but the angle is just off, and the striped ball hits the corner of the pocket, ricocheting against the wood with a dull thud. 

Zayne leans against the pool table, cue stick resting against his shoulder.

"Your turn."

Copying Zayne’s movements as best you can, you clumsily position your cue stick between your knuckles, aiming for what seemed to be a fairly easy shot. Only for the ball to ricochet far left as the white ball knocks into it. Even your cue stick wobbles after, as if shaking in laughter at your poor shot. 

Frowning, you look up to see Zayne’s disapproving gaze locked onto the pool table. 

“Is there not an easier way to do this? One more suitable for beginners?”

“There is.” Zayne leans in, his expression betraying nothing. “First, try adjusting your posture. You’ll see better results.”

Another sigh, and you halfheartedly drape yourself over the table again. “Like this? I’m not sure I fully understand, I think I need your help identifying my weak spots via more hands-on learning, sir.”

“Allow me to guide you, then.”

For a moment you think you’ll have to bait Zayne more, yet before you can figure out how to push the stubborn doctor any further, you feel the weight of his hands, heavy against your shoulder and hip. 

Zayne shifts forward, and you can feel the fabric of his suit vest graze the bare skin of your back, his hands unnaturally cool against the dips in your waist as he nudges your back into an arch. You comply, Zayne’s body nearly folding atop yours as his chest brushes your back. 

He takes the cue stick from your hand.

“You’re too tense,” Zayne pats your back two times. Your waist immediately bends, and you hear him laugh under his breath. “And now you’re too relaxed.”

With his hands still pressed against your waist, Zayne repositions himself and thus you as well, and you can feel the chill of each exhale against the crook of your neck.

He guides your aim, lining it up to the cue ball. The tip brushes ever so gently against the felt surface as it pushes, slowly and deliberately, practicing the gentle back-and-forth motion as you struggle to keep pace. 

“Drop your left arm. Allow it to bend naturally.” He taps your elbow and waist. “Your head, dominant arm, and the cue stick should all form a straight line.”

You begin to shuffle according to Zayne’s instructions, hinging your hips backward before you realize what a wonderfully compromising position he’s placed you in. As discreetly as possible, you allow your right leg to step backward, movement forcing you further against Zayne as you press the curve of your ass into his hips. Immediately, you’re rewarded with a sharp inhale next to your ear. 

But instead of pulling away or reprimanding you Zayne merely continues with the lesson, almost frustratingly unaffected if it wasn’t for the fact that you could feel his reaction grow between your thighs. 

Still, he is nothing if not a professional as he whispers against your jaw, "Behave.”

"I am," you reply, and one of Zayne’s hands comes up to guide your cue stick. “...It just hurts a little.”

You don’t have to see his face to know that Zayne is giving you a smug smile. 

“That means it’s correct.”

You take a deep breath. You practice the same back-and-forth motions, thrusting the stick forward on the third, watching as your cue stick strikes the white ball, sending a solid orange one rolling.

Another click and a thud, and you successfully land a pocket.

Just when you feel like you’re finally getting the hang of it, you make the fatal mistake of looking down to where Zayne's fingers guide yours against the cue stick, and your brain turns to scramble once more. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a soft, fleeting sensation.

And you miss.

Zayne is quiet for a long moment, tilting his head, letting the warmth of his cheek press against your neck. “Snap out of it. Are you even paying attention?”

Bastard. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“Of course,” you retort, skin feeling uncomfortably hot even when Zayne finally steps back from you, your body searing the memory of his touch into every nerve. “I’ll score the next one myself.”

He hums and cocks an eyebrow as if telling you to go on, prove him wrong. 

“Remember, move the cue stick to gauge the shot two or three times, then stop at the position closest to the ball.”

You do, gauging the weight of the cue stick, bending down over the table so your chest nearly brushes with the felt, narrowing in on the solid green ball. 

“Stop and pull back the cue stick in three, two, one.” 

On Zayne’s command, you strike, a satisfying click followed by the thump of the ball falling into the corner pocket. You scored. All on your own.

“It went in!” You jolt up, spinning as you laugh. 

“So it did. Seems like your pool skills are less about precision and more… passion.” Zayne’s lips twitch into a smile, and you’re not foolish enough to ignore his double meaning. “Granted, you might need a little more than passion to come back and win this round.”

You scoff, attempting to change the subject without drawing attention to how red your face has gotten. “Well then, perhaps if you’re not too committed to this doctor thing there’s still a chance for you in the professional billiard space.”

“No, thank you. Now, think you can make another shot by yourself?”

“Wait a moment. When a student does well, shouldn’t they get a reward?”

“Very well,” Zayne relents, tone even despite the searing gaze he practically strips down your body. “What do you want?”

“There are a few balls blocking my next shot. Help me?”

A beat, and he blinks at you incredulously. “That is all?”

“What’s wrong, Dr. Zayne? Scared that if you give me too much help, I’ll steal this victory from you?”

“Provocation doesn’t work on me.”

“Then come here.”

God, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to how pliant he is for you, obeying your command without so much as a moment of hesitation. His larger frame now towers above you, close enough that you have to crane your neck to maintain eye contact. And you can’t help but tease him a bit more. It’s not your fault his obedience gives you a rush.

“Closer,” you whisper, teasing your fingers against his vest buttons. “Or else I can’t reach it.” 

Still, Zayne complies. Although this time his brows furrow, shuffling closer so his knee slips between yours and your chest presses against his. “What exactly are you…”

You yank his tie, pushing him down atop the felt tabletop before he can finish his sentence. 

There’s a dull thud, Zayne’s vest ruffled as you pin him to the table. He still looks frustratingly composed, not a hair out of place, but you feel his chest rise and fall uncharacteristically fast under your palm.

Smiling in victory, your other hand brings up your cue stick, making a show of tapping it on his broad shoulders. “Ah, look, the ball is so far away. I think I’ll need a cue rest.”

“Using cue rests would be overkill,” Zayne retorts, propping himself onto his elbows as you pout. You’ve been teasing him all night; surely just one more push, and he’ll finally give in? 

Before he can escape from your hold, you lift the cue stick off his shoulder, letting the tip slip under his tie. Zayne watches with a tight frown as you tug his tie loose. “And this is inappropriate.”

“But are you not enjoying it too?” Your leg slides out from the slit in your dress, allowing you to straddle Zayne’s thigh as your arms cage him further against the pool table. “Sir?”

His brows furrow, almost surprised at your brazenness before he looks down with a huff, and you see the smirk he’s fighting to keep at bay. “I shouldn’t have taught you so much.”

Getting revenge for before, it’s your turn to grip his jaw, brushing kisses against his beautifully hooked nose and down his jaw, leaving smears of cherry red in your wake as you purposefully neglect his waiting lips. “What can I say? I have a very attentive teacher.” 

Zayne is about to say something sarcastic back, no doubt, so you roll your hips forward, cutting off his words as you’re rewarded with a groan instead. The angle allows you to grind atop the rough seams in his trousers, nearly catching against his zipper and the heavy bulge you can already feel straining underneath. 

His hand shoots out, gripping your thigh as you gasp. There’s a warning look in his eyes, but he makes no move to stop you.

Encouraged, you repeat the motion, rocking forward against him as you give an exaggerated moan. Zayne quickly cuts it off with his other hand, thumb pressing against your bottom lip as he muffles your noises. You open your lips further, allowing the digit to slide against your lipstick and push against your tongue. 

Zayne tsks, shaking his head.

You gently nip at his finger before beginning to suck the offending digit, flicking your tongue against the rough pad of his thumb. You watch his eyes narrow, the grip on your waist tightening. Zayne is holding himself back. Again. 

You release his thumb with a pop. "Don't worry, sir, no one will hear." As if to prove your point, you stop grinding, instead bringing your hand up to cup at the bulge straining against his pants. “Besides, you’re too pretty like this. I'm the only one who gets to hear all the sounds you make.”

You smile so sweetly despite the way you torture him with every rough drag of your palm against his clothed cock. But it’s only when your smile breaks into something more genuine that Zayne feels himself flush, gazing up at you adoringly before he tries to play it off with a chuckle and a pinch at your hips.

"The things you say..." His expression changes to something unreadable, stone-cold and conflicted. The chances of losing you again are greater than he once thought. He doesn't deserve this, and he doesn't deserve you. Zayne is reminded of that every time he dares get too close.

But he can't help it. He’d eternally become a fool, a martyr, just for you.

Zayne’s jaw clenches, and a stuttered moan slips through his teeth as your hand squeezes his clothed cock. "Do you think I'm that weak to flattery?"

"No. I just think you deserve it sometimes." You smirk. "Plus, I'm not flattering you, I'm complimenting."

"And what's the difference?"

"The intent," you whisper, grinding your hips forward again.

This time, you catch him by surprise, and Zayne moans, the sound low and rough and so fucking addicting. Zayne grunts, head tilting back as he shuts his eyes, lips parting ever so slightly as more soft sighs and moans slip out, spurring you on.

You lean in, breath warm against his ear as you whisper, "What's wrong, sir? I thought you had a lesson to teach me."

Zayne’s grip tightens, and he yanks you down so your palms skid across the smooth felt of the pool table you’ve pinned him against, pulling your hips flush against his as his palm cups your ass.

“If you actually want to learn, there's another way I can teach you…” Zayne leans up on his forearms until his lips brush with yours, and right as his eyes begin to flutter closed, you shove him backward. Denying his kiss. Again.

“Sir, this seems to be highly unprofessional.”

And Zayne finally snaps. 

“First you use your teacher as a cue rest, then you try to talk about professionalism?” He lets out a curt laugh, and you can practically feel his patience wearing thin. It’s terrifying, and your stomach flutters in anticipation.

“ Unprofessional ,” he spits, and your thighs clench at the growl undercutting his words. “Unprofessional, like that time you were screaming my name in the back of my car while we were still at the hospital parking lot? Or unprofessional, like that time you interrupted me during work hours, begging me to eat your cunt out in my office? Or perhaps it’s like when you decided to turn this lesson into an opportunity to tease me since you’re clearly so desperate?”

You can practically feel yourself drip at Zayne’s blunt words, each one harsh and true— your relationship with him had passed morally ethical the moment you pulled him in to kiss you instead of pushing him away months ago.

Using this moment of weakness, Zayne lifts you up, flipping the two of you around so you’re the one pinned against the pool table as he reaches for his abandoned cue stick. And he finally- finally - claims your lips with his. 

Zayne always kisses like he operates, slow and methodical, as if he could spend hours learning every inch of your body, and it never fails to leave you breathless. But today, the urgency in the way he licks into your mouth is palpable, and it has you whining and clutching his suit, legs wrapping around his waist as you try to bring him closer, the oak rim of the table forcing your back into a deeper arch as you whine. 

A firm hand against your hip stops your movement, pinning you down. You feel so small, caged in between his much longer legs, his superior height much too obvious. The difference in size is almost laughable as he bends down to lick deeper into your mouth. You gasp against Zayne’s lips as his other hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb rubbing circles against the column of your throat and your fluttering heartbeat underneath.

You whimper into his mouth, futilely attempting to push him away even though your hips grind insistently against his thigh. “Zayne,” his name tapers off into a moan as he kisses you again, addicted. “We can’t–” another kiss. “Anyone could walk in.” Another.

When he does give you space to breathe, a thin string of saliva connects his bottom lip to yours. He pants heavily, lips shaded a hue of cherry red from your lipstick and teeth as the corner of his mouth tugs into a frown. “Hm, I suppose that’s true. But that didn’t stop you before, did it? So I see no reason why it should stop me now.”

And you realize your fate has long since been sealed.  

Zayne returns to peppering your neck with kisses, teeth nipping the soft skin at your collarbone, and you yelp as he leaves a particularly harsh bite. Your hands come up to fist into his hair, and Zayne groans against your chest.

"Do not think I have forgotten our lesson," He whispers.

"Who, me?" You bat your eyelashes. "I would never. Sir."

His gaze darkens. "Then watch closely, I’m only doing this once.” 

Leaning over you, Zayne positions the cue stick against your shoulder, not unlike you did to him before. But unlike you, he forces your hips up against his thigh, watching your eyes roll back from the delicious friction of his expensive trousers. “There are two striped balls left. As punishment for your attitude during my lesson, I want you to come on my thigh before I pocket both of them.”

Dumbstruck, you can only stare up at him, stammering at his demand as you feel your pussy flutter. “I- I don’t think…”

Zayne scoffs, silencing you by roughly thumbing at your lips again. “Don’t act so shocked. You’ve been humping me like a desperate brat all evening, so go on and come like one. Come for me.”

His words are demeaning, each one cold and seemingly emotionless as he stares down at you. But you can see the truth in his eyes as he watches your every reaction, their gentle green filled with an adoration so tender it terrifies you. You feel the truth in his touch, only moving with your consent, already having memorized your body to learn the way you tick and acting upon your every whim, only pushing you just as far as you wish to be. 

Zayne has never told you he loves you, but he has shown you that he does in a thousand countless ways. 

And he’ll prove it to you in a thousand more. 

”Unless, you want more punishment?” Zayne twists his head towards you with his next statement, and he feels the way it makes you flinch— it makes him throb at the same time. You shake your head. 

You can barely form sentences when he’s deliberately tensing the muscles in his thigh, each movement in time with every needy twitch of your hips like it’s a means to emphasize his point. 

“Use. Your. Words.”

“No.”

His grip tightens, fingers tensing against your neck, and you stammer back out the correction. “No, sir.”

“Good girl.”

Your heart flutters at the praise, a quiet whimper escaping you as you buck against him. Your lips are pouty from being bitten between your teeth, and you still hear muffled sobs and moans slip past your lips as you begin chasing the friction against his thigh, the upward angle punishing your clit. 

Despite how much Zayne likes to front that he’s in complete control, something tells you he’s having a harder time holding back than he’ll ever admit. You think maybe the bulge in his slacks and his low moans against your ear is proof enough of that.

Zayne’s not sure which is more distracting, the sight of your pretty pussy grinding against him, only just covered by the thin silk of your dress, or the sounds falling from your mouth. The room is filled with the wet sounds of your cunt, your whimpers, and Zayne's own groans.

Pressing his forehead against yours, Zayne leans in for another kiss, the tips of your noses barely touching. But the proximity makes you slow, and he clicks his tongue, reaching above you to line up his cue stick for the next shot. But he pauses, instead fully tugging off the tie you had loosed.

"Since you were so insistent on taking my tie off earlier, here. Keep it for me." Zayne grabs both your wrists with one hand, looping his tie tightly against your skin, skillfully making a knot without ever releasing your wrists. 

“Maybe this will help you behave properly,” Zayne whispers, voice low as he mouths your pulse point, a fresh surge of arousal rushing to your core as you feel his length pressing further into you. 

With a broken whimper, you hook an ankle around Zayne’s back as you begin to grind harder against his thigh, moaning at the new angle. It hardly compared to the feeling of his fingers or cock fucking into you, but you barely cared, arousal and lust spurred on by Zayne’s voice. 

You soon fall into a rhythm, painfully slow, the mere friction sending jolts of heat through you until you’re certain Zayne’s trousers must be stained. You nearly beg for something to hold onto, hands writhing helplessly against his tie as your sobs are muffled into your red-bitten lips.

But just as soon as the pleasure builds, you feel it plateau, hips beginning to stutter as the dull friction becomes too little, the coiling heat inside you desperate to be properly filled up by something, anything. 

Zayne, on the other hand, is faring no better. 

He’s thoroughly distracted with the pretty little thing desperately fucking herself against his thigh, caging you down to the table as his hands clench against the cue stick, nearly enough to make it snap. 

You continue to push yourself in desperation to fulfill Zayne’s order for you to come, his continuous praises mingling with the lewd squelch of your cunt, and your eyes roll back with a cry. Zayne’s voice is intoxicating, his steady tone rough with lust sending tremors down your spine, infecting you like an aphrodisiac. You were building further and further, mounting pressure in your core dizzying, desperation for release seeping through you, mind lust-drunk as you willed yourself to fall off the peak.

But the familiar sound of the billiard balls clicks somewhere above you, followed by two distinct thuds. 

A hum, and Zayne pries himself away as you whine at the loss, cold air rushing in. 

You failed. 

“How disappointing.” Zayne scolds as if he wasn’t the one who nearly came from your grinding instead. ”But you know what happens to students who fail to follow clear instructions, don’t you?”

Standing back, Zayne discards the cue stick entirely as one hand readjusts his trousers, and you whimper at the sight of him cupping his bulge, stroking and coaxing it against his thigh just so he can stand straight. 

“Turn around and lift your dress.”

You obey, propping yourself up on shaking arms before you flip around so the rough edge of the billiard table now presses against your stomach, the felt hot beneath your bound wrists. 

Zayne hums in approval, almost apathetically observing the way you squirm before he nods at you to continue. Lowering your eyes from his, you allow your leg to slip out from the slit in your dress, spreading your legs back and to the side as the silk falls off the curve of your ass, Zayne’s piercing gaze following every movement. 

“Didn’t think a game of pool would turn you on this much,” he muses, leaning against the rim of the table as he crosses his arms.

Unable to meet his stare any longer, your head falls between your still tied-up hands, every inch of your body burning in shame and lust as Zayne continues to wordlessly observe you. You swear you’ll burn up with the way he fucks you with his eyes.

 Still, Zayne doesn’t move. 

You nearly scream against the table, eyes scrunched as you snap. “Fuck! Zayne, I swear to god, if you don’t finally fuck me I’ll do it myself or find someone else who will.”

The words barely leave your mouth when a hand fists into your hair, pulling you backward until you arch back, and you gasp, mouth falling open at the sensation. Zayne's breath is cold against the shell of your ear, the growl undercutting his words sending tremors down your spine.

"Needy little brat," his fingers curl into your hair, pulling until your jaw goes slack. Zayne's other hand finds its way back to your underwear, the material so damp that it almost feels sticky beneath his touch, and you moan at the sensation, unable to formulate a retort as your eyes flutter closed. “I think you’re forgetting this is meant to be your punishment.”

He snaps the band of your panties, and you choke, knees wobbling.

"Remember to count, or we start over.”

Placing the flat of his palm in the space between your shoulder blades, Zayne pushes you down against the billiard table, the side of your face pressed against the felt.

You hear the sharp crack of his hand meeting your ass before you feel it, the burn returning with a vengeance as you scream into the table. The sting of his palm leaves a searing heat across the curve of your ass, and you bite down on the tie binding your hands to muffle the cries that escape you.

Then you remember his order, lips quivering as you say, "One."

Another smack. This time harder. The strike is so precise it nearly sends you toppling over, the sting and ache following pushing you further against the wood. You let out a sob, eyes beginning to water as you clench around nothing, the throbbing of your cunt only worsened by Zayne's firm grip on the base of your neck.

"Two."

The third strike comes down even harder than the last, the resounding echo of his slap followed by a strangled scream from you, the heat and pain making your knees give out, forcing you to rest fully atop the pool table. “Three.”

You feel tears running down your face, undoubtedly ruining your makeup. But before you can process the fourth smack, you feel the familiar sting against your ass and the paradoxically gentle rub of Zayne's hand against the aching spot, soothing the pain as you count.

 "F-Four." You shutter as you feel sheer cold bloom against your skin, his Evol numbing your ass as you whimper from the pleasure-pain.

Zayne’s thumb dips past the seam of your panties, gathering the slick that has been dripping out of you for the entire night. You feel the heat of his stare on you and the weight of his hand heavy on the small of your back, his other hand still gripping your neck with his thumb tracing soft circles against your pulse.

"So wet. Is this what you were hoping for, hm? Testing me until I finally snapped and ruined you?”

You don't dare look him in the eye. "Please, sir. I can't—"

"Can't what? Take anymore? Can't take any more punishment like the disobedient brat you are?" Zayne's voice is low, and you shiver at his words, unable to respond as the tears continue to flow, the mixture of pain and arousal leaving your vision blurred and cloudy. He spanks you again, this time hard enough to leave a mark, and you keen, legs spreading even wider in desperation.

"I can't— ah shit — please. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sir, please, just fuck me already.” you plead, voice trembling as you beg, desperate to be filled by anything other than the emptiness. 

“Language.” Zayne reprimands, and the sting of his strike follows shortly after. “And you forgot to count.”

“Five! It’s f-five.” Your knees buckle with a sob, and Zayne has to hold your waist so you don't slide onto the floor, his touch paradoxically gentle compared to everything else he’s done.

“Shh, you’re far too noisy. It’s almost as though you want someone walking in to find us like this.”

Your dress is only noticeably bunched up from the back and Zayne is still fully clothed. Anyone walking by the billiard hall would just see a couple talking by the tables, but if they were to enter the room it would hardly take a brain surgeon to figure out what was happening. The realization has your walls clench around nothing.

Zayne hoists your wrists up, forcing you into a deeper arch before untying your restraints. You then watch him fist the purple silk into a ball before pushing it into your mouth, gagging you with it. “Don’t worry, this will help.”

It doesn't.

You moan against his tie, saliva pooling against the silky fabric as Zayne pushes the soaked garment deeper into your throat, his chest pressed against your bare back. You look up at him through watery eyes, sniffling, the tingling sensation of being punished in such a way overwhelming you completely. Zayne uses this opportunity to soothe you like he always does— never failing to find the perfect balance between rough and gentle.

"It's alright, I know, my little darling can’t make up her mind. I’ll help you, I’ll show you what you want." Zayne soothes, stroking your cheek with his thumb, his gaze gentle despite his steady and strict voice. Then, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he whispers, “If anything hurts or becomes too much, tap the table twice." 

You wouldn’t dare, not after finally getting what you wanted.

Zayne slips his hands under the backs of your thighs, easily lifting your weight against his chest as you whimper, the toes of your heels just barely grazing the tiled floor. The position is beyond embarrassing, ass up, face down, completely exposed and at his mercy.

He withdraws one hand, and you cry out, a garbled mess of pleas. The absence of his touch is torturous, the throbbing of your pussy and the soreness of your ass a painful reminder of the punishment you received.

The tent in his pants was tantalizingly obvious, even more pronounced once he pushed his pants down, taking out his length. He spits on his fingers, the slick sounds of him stroking himself making you whine in anticipation. It was oozing with precum, head red and flushed as he jerks himself off with sharp movements between your thighs. You grind your hips back, trying to tempt him, but all Zayne does is coo at your pitiful attempts.

"Look at you, so desperate. All that childish stubbornness just because you want my cock." He lines himself up, the head of his cock catching against your entrance as you shiver. The stretch burns, and you groan, eyes screwing shut at the feeling. "My beautiful, filthy girl."

Zayne whispers, curling an arm between your sweat-slickened bodies. You think he means to finally alleviate the needy throbbing against your clit, but instead his hand presses firmly against your lower stomach as he continues to fuck into you, torturously slow, allowing the blunt head of his cock to bully its way deeper and deeper still. 

The sensation is overwhelming, the stretch of Zayne's cock combined with the sting of his earlier punishment leaves you a mess, fluttering around him as he finally bottoms out.

He lets out a long moan, a low rumble that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. You're so full, the head of his cock pressing insistently against the bundle of nerves inside you.

Some distant part of you is mortified of every lewd squelch and moan that echos over the jazz in the public hall, but feeling Zayne gently cup your ass while the other brutally pins you down, hearing him come apart against the back of your neck, knowing that your stoic lover was pushed to such extremes has you keening.

You want to feel every inch of him, so you clench down, and Zayne bites the back of your neck in retaliation, his hips stuttering.

"You’re perfect." Zayne praises, and his breathless voice sends shivers down your spine. "So good for me, taking me so well."

Zayne finally starts moving, letting the tip of his cock pull back until the head catches on the rim of your cunt, trying desperately to keep him inside, until he thrusts back into you in a single harsh motion, watching you fall apart just as he knew you would. 

Your scream muffles into the gag, and Zayne reaches down to push the tie deeper into your mouth, the knot catching on the back of your tongue as he sets a steady pace. 

The hand against your lower stomach shifts, still pressing hard enough so Zayne can feel his cock throb through you, and yet now positioned perfectly to thumb against your clit too. He needs to make you come, to feel it around him. 

Zayne knows your body better than his own, knows exactly what angle he needs to hit, knows exactly where to touch to send your hips jerking back, and knows exactly where to tease to have you clenching down and sobbing into his tie.

It doesn't take long until you're coming, his fingers circling the bundle of nerves until you're screaming, thighs shaking, and he has to hold them open as you fall apart around him, cunt gushing as you squirt over his suit and trousers.

Your orgasm has your walls fluttering, clenching around his cock as it nearly begs for him to be buried deeper inside, and Zayne grunts, a broken moan ripped from his throat as his grip on your thigh tightens.

The pace of his thrusts grows sloppier, and you can tell he's close, the wet squelch of his cock inside your cunt driving you mad as his rhythm becomes inconsistent. You can feel his breath fan against your neck, labored and shaky, with the way he chases his high.

Your cunt aches with how full you feel, overstimulated and sensitive, but you push your hips back anyway, meeting Zayne halfway as you both chase the release that's been building up all night.

With one final thrust, Zayne finally comes inside you, a choked gasp followed by a low moan as his hips stutter, almost fucking his cum back into you as a sloppy mixture of your release drip down his cock and your thighs. 

Your eyes roll back into your skull, and your second orgasm takes you by surprise, your body convulsing at the overstimulation and the warm soothing sensation of being filled to the brim. 

"Fuck." Zayne whispers, his hands holding your hips as his thumbs trace circles against the dimples at the small of your back. The chill and comfort of his hands is almost enough to distract you from the ache, and you groan, legs finally giving out beneath you as you fall forward onto the pool table, the hard surface unforgiving as the wood rubs against your bruised knees.

Ever so gently, Zayne removes his tie from your mouth, turning you around so you’re pressed tight against his chest, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder. You can feel his rapid heartbeat and the way his hands tremble, and you smile, the familiar tenderness of his touch calming the both of you.

He slowly runs a hand down the curve of your back and you hum against the top of his head, your own hand coming up to gently stroke his hair. “I think I love you, Zayne.”

He doesn’t say a word, instead, you feel his other arm wrap around your waist, tucking you further into his embrace.

The two of you remain like this, tangled in each other until your breathing finally evens out and the fever that inflected you begins to cool. When Zayne finally speaks, his voice is muffled against your skin, and you shiver at the mere brush of his lips. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Hmm, not any more than I’d want to be.” 

You mean it as a joke, but Zayne immediately stiffens in your hold, pulling back just enough to inspect your neck, then your wrists and hips as he kisses each bruise and remaining mark with hushed apologies. 

"Did you mean it?"

You look down at him, his brows furrowed as you thumb at the stubborn crease that appears between them. You’re not sure why, but something in the way he stares up at you, waiting, longing, makes tears prick in the back of your eyes. 

"Zayne," your voice is gentle, and you cup his cheek. "I do. I love you."

The tension in his jaw melts, his expression softening into something unnameable. His hand comes up to cup yours, scarred thumb tracing circles against your palm. " Say it again."

"I love you," you repeat, the corners of your mouth tugging upwards. "I love you. I love you."

"Again."

"I love you, Zayne–"

The last syllable of his name is cut off by his lips against yours, and you smile into the kiss, pulling him up until his forehead finally rests on your again. 

"As do I," Zayne whispers, voice thick as he holds you close.

You made them happy, gave them comfort, gave them everything but it wasn’t enough. Because you weren’t the person fate chose for them.

Imagine you never knew that. Imagine you never knew that even after all this time you weren’t enough, it still wasn’t you. Yes, you knew what you are in for when you followed your heart instead of your mind back then, but you thought that as time went by the owner of their heart, their mind became you.

Sike, they said. It’s still mc.

They just buried their feelings because she left, because she wasn’t there, she didn’t choose them and they love her enough not to shackle her and they love her too much to let their feelings go.

Imagine being a backburner but at the same time you weren’t. Imagine the conflict within your mind and your heart. Your mind commands you to let go because you deserve better than this and your heart coaxes you to wait, first love is hard to let go, to wait because time will tell. But for how long will you wait?

Imagine them making promises, setting dates, calling you, asking for your attention.

But those promises kept being broken because well mc needs him

You kept being stood up on your dates, always either they’re calling for a raincheck or calling because they forgot and well they’re with mc

They called you? Oh they just really need to get the giddyness out of their system because mc gave them attention

Asking for your attention? They need someone to talk about mc with, what to do with her, where to bring her, what to give her, whatever