jelxqa

You wouldn’t have known this at first, but he had been preparing for weeks. Months, even.

Research of all kinds, trying to ensure he’d have the right technique if (when) the time came. He was obsessed with it, enamored with the idea of going down on you especially. He researched everything else too, of course, but there was a special emphasis on the best ways to give oral. He wanted to turn himself into a tool you could use for your pleasure. He wanted to impress you, blow you away with how good he could make you feel. He wanted to be good for you.

There was definitely a lot of insecurity he had built up inside him due to being inexperienced. It wasn’t that he wanted to be able to name a bunch of women who were notches in his bed post, no, he just wanted to prove he could be everything you’d ever need. He had the money, the stability, the shoulder to lean on, the only thing he lacked was sexual experience. So he dove head first into research, hours and hours spent collecting as much info as possible. He would take notes and, hell, he even practiced using fruit. There was one thing he was sure of…he would be prepared and he would be confident.

Except, being face to face with your clothed core, able to see a darkening wet patch in the middle…yeah, that confident bit was a tad more difficult than he had expected. He honestly was in awe that he was actually in this position right now. Weeks of guilty fantasies and secret exploration had actually led up to the real thing. It was odd, the first thing he did, but he couldn’t help it. He pressed his nose right to your core, his eyes fluttering shut as he took a deep breath. The sigh he let out was so shaky, so overwhelmed…you had never seen him so undone. The sight of him inhaling your scent made you flush a bright red, unsure how to react to such an action.

He looked back up at you, keeping his face pressed to your core as he reached up to grab your hand and thread his fingers through yours.

“My apologies, I have imagined this for a very long time. You won’t mind if I’m thorough, will you?”

You blinked down at him, the warmth in your face becoming hard to ignore. He sounded so…gone? Like he was doing everything he could to not lose himself. You were used to his icy, firm tone he used professionally, or his softer tone he had adopted only with you over the past few months you’ve been dating. Not this breathy, desperate one that made heat curl low in your belly. You swallowed thickly before reaching your other hand down to card through his hair. He lifted his head to reach your hand easier, looking at you with pure adoration.

“I don’t mind…I’ve been wanting this for a while too.”

He smiled at that, grabbing your hand to gently kiss your knuckles. “Thank you, darling. I promise I’ll make you feel good…”

With that, you removed your hand and he dove right in. He began to kiss around your inner thighs, even nipping lightly at times. He knew that he had to build up to the main course, no matter how badly he just wanted to shove his tongue into your leaking hole. After light kisses and licks over your panties, he finally reached for the hem of the garment, looking to you for permission.

“May I, darling..?”

You nodded and lifted your hips for him to pull them down your legs and set them off to the side. When he looked back, wow…the view was just too beautiful. He let out a shuddering sigh as he took her in. All her gorgeous folds, how she glistened, how soft she looked…he must’ve been staring too long as you had started to whine and try to shut your legs. He gently held them open.

“Don’t hide, you’re stunning…”

You blushed and hid your face in the crook of your elbow. He chuckled lightly, reaching up to grab your hand once more.

“Do you need a moment? I can be patient, no matter how…difficult…it may be.” He said the word difficult with a quiet shakiness. Oh, he was desperate for a taste.

You shook your head, inhaling deeply before setting your arm down.

“No…I…I want your mouth on me, zayne. I need it…”

And that was all he needed to hear. It was like a switch flipped in his brain, one that made him dive into your pussy like a man starved. He snapped, he lost control, he couldn’t help it! He tried to take it slow, but hearing you say you needed him? Gloves off, he was gone. And oh, god, your taste. You had already smelled and looked divine, but the taste was better than anything his imagination had conjured up. He knew from that moment alone that he was hooked, and he could never go without it.

His dick was rock hard, straining against his slacks. There was an obscene wet spot by his tip where he had been leaking since he got on his knees. He found his hips were grinding into nothing, and he was wholly unable to stop himself from doing so. The slight friction from his pants just felt too good.

You cried out above him, your free hand now firmly rooted in his hair as you started to rock against his mouth. This must be what heaven is like, he thought. He was getting the cues you were close, so he really began to focus. He suckled gently on your clit which earned him a tug on his hair and a whine of his name. It only took a few more licks before your back arched and your orgasm ripped through you. He held your hips down and attached his mouth to your clit as you rode out your high. Honestly, it was so intense it was almost like he orgasmed as well.

Well, that’s because he did. Sometime during your orgasm, he had also managed to spill into his pants. Though, he wasn’t worried about that right now, being more focused on savoring every last bit of your slick before finally pulling away, cheeks flushed and panting. He hadn’t even taken his glasses off, so now they sit askew on the bridge of his nose. They were foggy, so with a shaky hand he plucked them from his face and sat them on the couch beside you.

You both just caught your breath for a moment, taking in the afterglow of such an intense, first time experience. That was when he looked down and seen the mess he made of his slacks. He blinked rapidly as he started to understand what happened. He had then set his head to rest on your thigh, the tips of his ears burning.

“That was…incredible. Are you sure you’ve never been with anyone else?”

You had no idea the research and effort he put into this, and he planned to keep it that way.

“I have not, I suppose my knowledge of anatomy is just proving even more useful than I thought.”

You panted together in the quiet living room, your hand gently running through his hair. You had caught a quick glimpse of the dark patch on the front of his slacks, making you realize just how good it felt for him too. You smiled to yourself, but kept quiet as you didn’t want to further embarrass him. As you both finally came back to earth, he peppered your lower half with gentle kisses.

“Thank you…for allowing me to have you this way.” He murmured, before pressing another soft kiss to your inner thigh.

“Thank you…for having me.” You murmured back, just as blissed out as he was.

Needless to say, the next time he went down on you wasn’t far in the future. He was addicted, and there was no stopping this new craving of his. 🩷

This is so risky. You shouldn't even be humoring it. You're gonna get caught.

And yet, as Sylus gently spreads your legs apart under the table, you can't think up an escape plan.

You prop your elbow on the table, hand casually covering your mouth, and scan the restaurant. The table he chose is far in the back, with the most under-lit mood lighting, and the most privacy. You wonder how long he's been planning this for.

Other diners don't notice what's happening - or pretend not to, at least. Maybe they really don't notice. In the bid for more secrecy, Sylus had excused himself from the table to the bathroom with a smug smirk. And then, with the familiar caress of his Evol, appeared underneath the table and its heavy draped cloth.

You reach under with your other hand, closest to the wall, and dig your nails into the back of his hand where it sits on your leg. You need him to hurry up. Every second that ticks by has you even more paranoid and anxious than the last. His lips touch your skin, placating and unbearably delighted by your plight.

He grabs your hand and guides it to his hair. Teeth glance your skin in an effort to stop the purr rumbling in his throat. Then his hand glides up the length of your leg, cold metal band announcing his undying affection, to push aside the hem of your way-too-expensive dress, and curl long fingers around the line of your panties. It would be too awkward to pull them off, no doubt, so he should just move them to the side and-

He's pulling them off.

You dig your nails into his scalp, admonishing him. It doesn't deter him for even a second. There's nothing you can do as you feel him work them off your hips and down your legs, slipping them over your heels. You can just imagine the look on his face as he tucks them into his pocket.

That bastard. He never took your underwear for himself while you were dating, keeping his hoarding urges in check. Now that you're married, he gladly takes them anytime the urge strikes him.

It would be more annoying if it wasn't so hot. The pictures he sends while he's away on business trips. The videos of his fist wrapped around his cock with your underwear acting as a barrier between them. Audios where you hear him breathing in deep and groaning out sinful words muffled by fabric...

With his broad shoulders, pushing you fully open would be too suspicious. Instead, he draws your leg over his shoulder. It feels obscene to be in public like this, drooling beneath the table as your husband nuzzles against your inner thigh and breathes you in.

The first taste has you biting the palm of your hand to stay quiet, the warm metal of your own rings against your lip. Even when you want him to rush, to get out of this predicament faster, he treats it like an act of pure and utter worship. Devotion in the touch of his lips in a soft kiss to delicate flesh.

The second taste is nothing short of distilled desire. His tongue lolls out, hot and solid, and licks a long stripe from your dripping entrance to your clit. Gathering all the slick and swallowing it down greedily. He doesn't waste much time after that.

You hate to imagine what people who happen to glance over might think of you. Your face is burning hot under your hand as you try to hide without making it too obvious something is going on. Between biting your hand and biting your lip, your lipstick must be ruined. You hope you can hide it once this is over, when you'll most definitely be urging Sylus to leave as fast as possible on wobbly legs and with a desire that's only craving more.

It's all his fault, really. Texting you while he sits directly across from you about the quality of the food not being up to his impossibly high standards. How he's imagining a much better meal. How he's too eager to wait until you get back home to indulge. When he's so blunt about how much he craves you, it always gets you riled up, too.

You wish you could peek under the table, just to see his face while he buries it between your legs. The furrow of his brow from pure ecstasy. The glow of his Aether Core as he satiates his desire. The shine of your arousal on his chin. He would try to meet your gaze immediately. He loves to watch the way you fall apart at the slightest change in pattern and speed.

Instead, all you can do is watch in horror as a waiter catches your eye from across the restaurant and hurries over with a polite smile and a bottle of wine.

"Is everything to your liking tonight?" he asks, none the wiser to your husband seemingly working twice as intensely to make you break now that a second presence is right there. You tug hard at his hair. He doesn't move an inch.

You clear your throat. "Y-Yes, it's very delicious, thank you," you manage, hoping you hid the waver in your voice well enough. Teeth nip sharply over your clit. You jolt, playing off Sylus's disagreement as trying to scoot your chair forward.

"I'm glad to hear it! Would you like me to refill your glass?"

You nod, not trusting your voice. He's such an asshole, working you with such familiarity it has your mind growing fuzzier around the edges. How you wish you could be laid up in bed where it would be safe to let yourself drift into a headspace where nothing matters except the pleasure you feel and the only word you can remember is his name.

But not here. You can't lose yourself too much. You bite your cheek to ground yourself.

The waiter, bless him, pours the wine into your glass. He tops off Sylus's right after. "Will you be getting dessert tonight?"

You pinch Sylus as he grins against you, already enjoying his own dessert.

"Um, I'd like to look at a menu, please."

"Of course! I'll bring one right over."

Just in time, the waiter walks away to find a menu, and a sound slips out. It's quiet, fading into the background noise of cutlery against glass and idle chatter.

You close your eyes with a shuddering breath. You feel it. The building pressure in your abdomen. The heat that surges to life in your belly. Growing too much to ignore or overlook.

Sylus knows it, too. His hand soothes over the skin of your thigh, ring warmed by your own skin, coaxing you to give in to the pleasure. A soft hum, vibrations purring against your clit, take place of words encouraging you to give in to him.

The waiter returns, laminated menu in hand. He sets it on the table with a smile. "Will that be all for right now?"

You blink up at him. Are you acting normal still? Are you playing it off convincingly? You can't tell. "Yes, th-thank you," you murmur. He doesn't seem to notice anything amiss, turning and leaving to tend to other tables. With the limited privacy you have again, you whisper down to the table. "Oh god, Sylus..."

A messy kiss over your folds. A hot tongue flattened over your clit. It moves quickly, flicking back and forth, begging you to cum into his mouth and give him the meal he deserves.

You don't know how tightly you must be holding into him. Tight enough he's going to tease you about it later, you're sure. You're not worried - he can heal anything you throw at him, and he loves when it hurts. Your own knuckles are getting sore, though. Tugging him closer, the heel of your shoe digs into his back to keep him there.

It builds and builds and builds. A growing wave, ready to crash down at any moment. You can't even pretend to look at the menu. Trying to control your breathing enough to survive the onslaught.

And then it snaps.

You bite your hand hard to stop the cry of pleasure trying to break free. Legs shaking, Sylus's mouth works you through it, gulping your release down like it's the best thing he's ever tasted. He hums his approval against your heat.

He takes and takes and takes until you jolt in your seat with overstimulation. He leans back, easing your leg off his shoulder. While you catch your breath, he lowers the hem of your dress back into place. With a final kiss to your knee, his hands disappear. He disappears.

You're finally back to some semblance of calm when you see him returning from the bathroom. His face is clean, but he catches your eye with a smirk. His eye is still faintly glowing.

He slides into his seat across from you casually and picks up the menu the waiter left behind. "So, kitten, how about some dessert?"

---

Tag List:

You always get clumsier when he watches you. He knows this. He absolutely uses it. He’ll lounge on the couch with one knee up and his chin in his hand, just looking, and you’ll lose the ability to operate a doorknob. Today he’s been sketching you in the corner of his page—not the painting he’s supposed to be working on, the commission one, the important one—and you caught him at it earlier and went so red he had to put the pencil down because his own face was getting warm.

He crouches down with you to gather the brushes.

You’re both on the floor now, knees almost touching. He hands you one, and his fingers brush yours, and you flinch like he’s electric.

“Y’know,” he says, conversationally, lining a brush up on the tile, “for someone who’s been kissed by me a frankly impressive number of times, you still go pink like it’s our first date.”

“I— I don’t—”

“You do. It’s my favorite thing.” He grins, eyes crinkling. “Don’t ever stop.”

There’s paint on your cheek and he refuses to tell you.

You only realize it when you catch your reflection in the window—a streak of pink swept right across your cheekbone, from when you’d rubbed your face earlier. You whirl on him. He’s already laughing, that bright, unbothered laugh of his, head thrown back against the couch cushions.

“Rafayel!”

“What? It suits you, cutie. It’s my color. You’re branded now.”

“You let me walk around like this—”

“For at least forty minutes, yes.” He gets up finally, and crosses to you with that lazy, unhurried gait. His thumb comes up to brush at the paint gently, careful in a way his voice never is in moments like this. The teasing slides off his face for half a breath. “There. Almost gone. Mostly.”

He kisses the spot anyway. Light. Quick. Like he’s signing it the way he signs his canvases, which you might as well be, at this point.

“There,” he murmurs, and he’s smiling, but his ears have gone faintly pink and he won’t quite meet your eyes. “Now it’s mine.”

You hide your face in his shirt. He lets you, one hand settled at the back of your head, and pretends, for your sake, that his heart isn’t doing anything embarrassing at all.

Zayne - When You Drop the Mug Again

He hears it before he sees it hit the floor.

The clatter of ceramic against the kitchen tile carries down the hallway, followed by the small, mortified sound you always make when you’ve done something you wish nobody had witnessed. Zayne is in the doorway within seconds, still holding the medical journal he was reading, one finger tucked between the pages to mark his place. He takes in the chipped mug on the floor, the puddle of tea blooming around your slippered feet, and your wide eyes—and his expression doesn’t change at all, except for the faint lift at the corner of his mouth that you’ve learned, over time, is his version of trying not to smile.

“Don’t move,” he says.

He goes for the dustpan, not for you.

It’s a thing he does on purpose. He told you once, late at night with your face pressed into his shoulder, that he doesn’t want fussing over you to feel like a verdict. So he sweeps up the shards in that quiet, methodical way he has—same hands that handle patient charts, same hands that tie his scarf for him in the mirror every morning—and only when the floor is dry and safe does he straighten up and look at you properly.

“Feet,” he says, and crouches.

“Zayne, I’m fine, it didn’t even—”

“Feet,” he repeats, in the same tone he uses on patients who try to lie about whether they’ve been taking their medication.

He checks for tiny cuts even though there are none.

You sit on the edge of the counter because he’s lifted you there, his palm warm at the back of your knee, and you can feel your ears going hot in that traitorous way they do whenever he’s this close and this serious. He turns each of your feet over in his hand like he’s reading them. Nothing. Of course there’s nothing. He knew there’d be nothing.

“Was it hot?” he asks.

“Lukewarm. I let it sit too long again.”

“Mm.” That single syllable contains an entire diagnosis. You forgot it on the counter because you got distracted reading. You always do.

He kisses your knee before he lets you down. It’s quick. Almost businesslike. If you weren’t paying attention you’d miss the way his ears go a shade darker under his hair, the way he turns toward the cabinet for a clean mug a beat too fast.

“I’ll make you another,” he says, with his back to you. “Sit. Don’t help.”

“I can hel—”

“Sit.”

Later, you find the chipped mug glued back together on the windowsill.

He doesn’t mention it. He never does. But that night, when you apologize again into the dark of the bedroom—I’m sorry I’m such a mess, I’m sorry, I—he sighs, pulls you closer by the waist, and murmurs into your hair, “Stop apologizing for being someone I want to take care of.”

And you don’t know what to do with that, so you just hide your face in his chest, and he lets you.

Xavier - The Counter Is Too High Again

He’s half-asleep on the couch when he hears the stool wobble.

Xavier sleeps the way cats sleep—anywhere, instantly, with one ear still on the world. So even though his eyes are closed and his hair is a soft pale mess against the cushion, he’s already sitting up by the time the legs of the kitchen stool screech against the floor. You’re up on your toes, reaching for the jar of honey on the top shelf, the one he keeps meaning to move down and never does because you keep insisting you can get it yourself.

You can’t get it yourself. Both of you know this.

“Wait,” he says, voice still rough from sleep.

You don’t wait. The jar tips. You make a tiny, panicked noise.

He’s across the room before the honey hits the counter.

It’s the speed that always startles you—that quiet, easy way he moves, like distance is a suggestion he chooses not to take seriously. One of his hands closes around the jar mid-fall. The other settles, warm and steady, at your waist, anchoring you on the stool so you don’t pitch forward after it.

“Got it,” he murmurs.

“I almost—”

“I know.”

He says it without any of the I-told-you-so other people would lace into it. Xavier doesn’t scold. He just notes things, the way someone might note the weather, and then he handles them. You look down at him from your slight height advantage on the stool—a rare angle—and his hair is soft and rumpled and his eyes are the color of a sky you’ve been trying to remember.

You go pink. Of course you go pink.

He tilts his head a fraction. There’s a slow, drowsy smile spreading across his face, the kind he only ever wears for you, the kind that makes him look about seventeen years old and very far from anything dangerous.

“What?” you whisper.

“Nothing.” He hands you the honey jar like it’s a small, ceremonious gift. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

“Xavier.”

“That’s my name.”

He doesn’t let you climb down by yourself.

You try. He doesn’t allow it. His hands come up under your arms and he lifts you down off the stool like you weigh nothing—because to him you do—and sets you on your feet so gently your slippers barely make a sound on the tile. His thumb brushes once, absently, over your hip before he lets go.

“You could’ve just woken me up,” he says.

“You were sleeping so well.”

“I’m always sleeping well. You’re more important than sleeping well.”

He says things like that all the time. Quiet, true, unadorned. Like it’s nothing. Like he isn’t slowly dismantling you sentence by sentence. You hide your face in your hands. He laughs softly, low and very fond, and pulls your wrists gently down.

“None of that,” he says. “I want to see you.”

He makes the tea himself after that.

He moves you to the counter—not the stool, he gives the stool a small, suspicious look, like it’s personally offended him—and stands between your knees while the kettle heats. You play with the hem of his sleeve. He lets you.

“Honey?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

“Mm.” He reaches past you without looking, gets the jar, sets it down. Kisses your forehead on the way back. “See. Easy.”

You don’t trust yourself to answer. He doesn’t seem to need you to. He finds you adorable anyway.

Caleb - The Loose Step on the Porch

He warned you about that step three times this week.

The third one from the top. The wood’s gone soft from winter and he keeps meaning to fix it on his next leave, but his next leave is this leave, and he hasn’t gotten to it yet because you keep finding more interesting things for him to do with his afternoons. So when he hears the small, surprised yelp from the porch—followed by the unmistakable thud of someone going down hard—he’s out of the kitchen before the screen door has stopped swinging.

You’re sitting on the floorboards with one hand bracing behind you and the other clutching a paper bag of groceries that, miraculously, you’ve kept upright. An orange has escaped and is rolling, with great purpose, toward the steps.

He stops in the doorway. He takes one look at the scene. His mouth does that thing where it tries very hard not to smile and fails completely.

“Honey,” he says, holding back a laugh..

“Don’t.” you hiss.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.” you huff.

“I was going to ask if you’re okay.” He crouches down in front of you, elbows on his knees, head tipped to one side. His hair falls into his eyes—that soft, sandy brown he never bothers to push back unless you do it for him. “Which step?”

“…the one you told me about.”

“Which one did I tell you about?”

“Caleb.”

He’s laughing now. Quietly. Mostly to himself.

He takes the grocery bag out of your lap and sets it aside with care. Then he takes both your hands and turns them palm-up, checking for scrapes. Methodical, unhurried, all of his focus settled on you. There’s a small graze along the heel of your left hand. He frowns at it like it has personally offended him.

“Stings?”

“A little.”

“Anywhere else?”

“My pride.”

“Well.” His thumb brushes very lightly over the graze. “That one I can’t kiss better. The hand I can do something about.”

He does. Just a press of his mouth, warm and quick, against the inside of your wrist. You feel it everywhere. You always do. He glances up at you through his lashes and catches the color rising in your cheeks, and his smile goes a little crooked, a little pleased with itself.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

“There what is.”

“That face you make every single time. The one where you pretend you’re not embarrassed and you go pink anyway.” He sits down beside you on the porch floor, knees drawn up, shoulder bumping gently against yours.

He retrieves the orange before he retrieves you.

It’s almost at the bottom of the top step by the time he ambles over and scoops it up, tossing it once in the air and catching it without looking. He’s wearing the soft grey t-shirt you stole twice last month, and he looks so much like home in the late afternoon light that you have to look away for a second just to remember how to breathe normally.

He notices that too. He notices everything. It’s a problem.

“You’re doin’ it again, pip.” he says, settling back down beside you with the orange in his hand.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I just walked through the door after six months.” His voice has dropped, lost the teasing lilt. “I’ve been home a week, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

“I know you know.” He turns the orange in his palm, smiling. “I just like that you still do it.”

He helps you up like you’re made of something breakable.

His hand is broad and warm at your lower back, and he lifts you mostly with that one point of contact, the other hand finding yours and not letting go even once you’re standing. You shift your weight tentatively. Your ankle’s fine. Your knee’s fine. Everything’s fine. The only thing that’s not fine is the way your face refuses to cool down, because he’s still looking at you with that quiet, careful attention, like checking you over is something he gets to do now, like he gets to be the one who does it.

“Verdict?” he asks.

“I’ll live.”

“Great.” He bends, picks up the grocery bag, tucks it against his hip. The other hand stays in yours. “Cause I’m fixing that step tomorrow. First thing.”

“You said that last week.”

“I mean it this week.”

“You said that last week too.”

“Pips.” He pulls you in by the hand until you’re tucked under his arm, and presses a kiss into your hair, and you can feel him smiling against the top of your head. “Are you tryin’ to start a fight with the man who’s about to make you dinner?”

He does fix the step. Not tomorrow. That evening, after dinner, with the porch light on.

You watch him from the doorway in his soft grey t-shirt, sleeves shoved up, a pencil tucked behind his ear that he doesn’t appear to be using. He whistles while he works. He glances up every minute or so, just to check that you’re still there, and every time he catches you watching him he grins like he’s won something.

You think, watching him, that he’s been home a week and the house already doesn’t know how to be a house without him in it.

You don’t say it out loud for him to hear. When he comes back inside, dusty and pleased with himself, he takes one look at your face and says, very softly, “I know, baby. Me too.”

And that’s the whole conversation.

Sylus - You Spilled Wine on His Shirt

The shirt is black. The wine is red. The math is, frankly, in your favor.

You realize this approximately half a second after the glass tips, which is approximately half a second too late. The stem slipped—your fingers were nervous because he was looking at you the way he looks at you, like you’re the only interesting thing in a room full of people he’s been politely tolerating all evening—and now there’s a dark patch of wine spreading across the front of Sylus’ very expensive, very tailored shirt.

You stop breathing.

He looks down. He looks at you. He raises one brow.

“Sweetie,” he says, in that low, gravel-and-honey voice of his, “you missed.”

He is, somehow, smiling.

It’s the smallest version of his smile—the one that lives mostly in the corner of his mouth and the slight narrowing of his red eyes—but it is, undeniably, a smile. You can feel your whole face going hot.

“I’m so sorry, I’ll— let me—” You grab a napkin. You grab three napkins. You start dabbing at his chest with a bit too much panic, even for your embarrassed state. “It just slipped, I don’t know why, my hand just—”

“Mm.” He doesn’t move from his spot. He lets you fuss. His hand finds your wrist gently, and stills it. “You’re making it worse.”

“I’m sorry—"

“Stop apologizing.”

He says it the way he says most things—like an order dressed up as a suggestion.

You go still. The napkin sits crumpled in your hand. He’s still holding your wrist, his thumb tracing one slow, idle circle against your pulse point, and his eyes are doing that thing where they soften only at the edges, where you’d miss it if you didn’t know him.

“It’s a shirt,” he says.

“It’s an expensive shirt.”

“They’re all expensive shirts, kitten.” His mouth tilts. “That’s the point of having too much money. You get to be casual about ruining things.”

He plucks the wine glass out of your other hand and sets it well out of reach. A precaution. You catch the small, amused tilt of his mouth as he does it, and you go even pinker, if such a thing is physically possible.

“You did that on purpose,” you accuse, weakly.

“I did.” His voice is unrepentant. “You’re quite clumsy with stemware. I’m protecting my furniture.”

“Sylus—”

“And my floors. And my staff. And—” he leans in, voice dropping low, just for you “—my sanity, which you ruin nightly, by the way. In case you were keeping score.”

You make a small, strangled sound. He looks delighted.

He takes the shirt off right there.

Casually. Like it’s nothing. Buttons undone with that easy, practiced flick of his fingers, and then it’s draped over the back of a chair and forgotten, and he’s standing there in a plain black undershirt that does absolutely nothing to help your current condition.

He notices you checking him out. His smile sharpens.

“Eyes up here, sweetie.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Oh, but you were.”

He hooks one finger under your chin and tips your face up. His expression has gone almost gentle—the version of gentle that only exists in private, the version most of the world will never see and would never believe in if they were told.

“Breathe,” he says quietly. “It’s a shirt. You’re allowed to drop things in your own home.”

Your own home. That’s what undoes you. He always says it like that, like the question of whose home it is was settled a long time ago, and you simply haven’t caught up yet.

Later, he absolutely tells Mephisto the story.

You hear him from the next room, low and amused, and you hear Mephisto’s offended kraa, and you bury your face in a cushion and you think, with a kind of helpless, baffled warmth, that you have never, in all your life, been this loved by anyone half this dangerous.

© zaynessbeloved 2026. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!

🏷️: @aiycnlyme, @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple, @youkoden, @w0ndert1nk, @deadlyskepticalnightmare, @2affectionate4z, @daisybbyxx, @kokoa21, @imaginationofafan

one.

“Grandma, this is…Skye,” you said with a forced smile as you gestured to your partner.

‘Skye’ stifled his chuckle and extended a hand to the elderly woman. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Josephine,” he said politely with a charming smile, “Your granddaughter talks fondly about you.”

Josephine smiled in delight, never imagining her granddaughter would bring home a very attractive man. It was like she was looking at a work of art created by God Himself. She shook the young man’s hand happily. “Come in, come in, dinner is ready. We can chat as we eat.”

As dinner progressed, the conversation remained lively. This Skye certainly had a way with his words, his charisma was so radiantly brilliant. Josephine had also never seen her granddaughter as happy as she looked now, noticing how the two would often share sweet whispered secrets when they both thought the old woman wasn’t watching.

Oh, youth, Josephine observed with wistful envy.

After dinner, Josephine left her granddaughter alone in the kitchen to do the dishes as she went to her bedroom to retrieve a family photo album to reminisce over. Along the way, she unwittingly walked in on Skye having a private conversation on the phone in the hallway. She was about to turn away before he noticed when she paused, hearing a peculiar comment from Skye:

“Hm, so they had thought I would be there to be ambushed, did they?”

Ambushed? Josephine furrowed her brows in concern.

“Never mind, I trust you and Luke had taken care of things, correct?”

Taken care? Josephine went pale.

“Hm, they should know that Onychinus does not take betrayal so kindly.”

Motherfucking Onychinus?!

Josephine immediately raced back to the kitchen, not noticing ‘Skye’s’ amused smirk.

You were just finishing the last of the dishes when Josephine grabbed you by the shoulders, shaking you immediately and making you nearly dropped the plate you were holding.

“Dear, you have to break up with that man!”

You stared wide-eyed, feeling completely blindsided. “B-but why? I thought you liked Skye, Grandma!”

Josephine looked at you nervously, swallowing slowly before she spoke in a hushed tone, “Dear, I…I just heard him having a conversation…I…I think he’s part of…that notorious group…Onychinus.”

“Oh,” you said flatly.

Josephine stared, confused. “‘Oh’?” she echoed back, flabbergasted. “Dear, I don’t think you understand. Onychinus is a very dangerous group.”

“Uh, yeah, dangerous,” you agreed, tone flat. “Super dangerous…”

Josephine started to get annoyed, not understanding why you were behaving so flippantly about this bombshell news she had just dropped. “Dear, Onychinus is wanted for many crimes. Its leader—”

“Sylus,” you said.

“Right—wait, you know his name?”

“She should.” Josephine heard ‘Skye’s’ deep, smooth voice as he stepped back into the kitchen. “She is dating him.”

Josephine felt like her brain had just short-circuited as she watched this man walked over and leaned down to kiss her granddaughter on the lips.

“Did you even try to be discreet?” You scolded Sylus with a frown after he pulled away.

He chuckled and shook his head. “I saw her from the side,” he admitted, adding, “And I don’t like being kept a secret so…”

“You—mmph!” Sylus immediately kissed you again before you could scold him.

Josephine watched this exchange uncomfortably, feeling like she was having an out-of-body experience as her brain tried to comprehend that her sweet granddaughter, one of the top hunters in Linkon City, was in a relationship with a notorious wanted crime boss.

“I…I need some tea…” she managed after a pause.

“Oh, I’ll make some for you, Grandma!” You pulled away from Sylus immediately, rushing to the cabinet.

At that moment, Sylus’ phone rang. He took a glance at the screen and apologized. “Sorry, I have to take this call.”

Once he was out of the room, Josephine immediately rushed over to you, pulling you to the side. “Dear, do you realize what you are doing?”

“…making tea?”

“Don’t get wise with me, young lady,” she chided you instantly with a strong glare, “You know what I am talking about.”

“…Sylus?”

“Haven’t you thought about how problematic this relationship could be?”

“He does have a strange obsession with crows…”

Josephine looked bewildered. “What does that mean—never mind, I meant that he’s a felon!”

“A little bit, yeah…”

“Dear, is dating a criminal your way of getting back at me for not getting you that pony when you were eight?”

“N-no! Of course not!” You protested. “Besides, Sylus also has this amazing horse, although if I have to be honest, I prefer riding Sylus—”

Josephine had decided that was the perfect moment to black out.

“…motorcycle?! Grandma?!”

two.

Grandma, I have someone I would like you to meet! :)

Josephine felt relief when she had seen that text message her granddaughter had sent. It seemed Sylus was no longer in the picture, she thought, a little worried about any repercussion that could come from splitting with a dangerous crime boss.

As she glanced at the message again, the little smiley face at the end of the sentence calmed the old woman instantly. There was probably nothing to worry about. You seemed pleasant. Cheerful, even.

This was a good sign.

The following Saturday afternoon, Josephine was positively thrilled to meet her granddaughter’s new boyfriend, Xavier. She was immediately charmed by his princely appearance and soft-spoken and polite way of speaking. He truly looked like he had stepped out of a fairy tale.

After introductions were made, you had excused yourself from the group after receiving an urgent phone call from Tara. The other woman was in such an overly anxious state, ranting something about her cat? It took you nearly ten minutes to finally calm your friend before you were able to hang up and return to the group.

Stepping into the living room, you were surprised to see only your grandmother sitting in her chair. You furrowed your brows, feeling a strange knot forming in your stomach. Nervously, you stepped over to your grandmother.

“Wait, where’s Xavier?”

Josephine smiled. “In the kitchen,” she answered, not noticing your face was paling. “He mentioned he wanted to heat up the dish you both brought over in the oven—”

“In the oven?!”

“Yes, the oven—”

The fire alarm blared as dark thick smokes billowed from the kitchen, but thanks to the bravery and promptness of the men and women of Linkon FD, the fire was put out in less than fifteen minutes.

Josephine remained in her chair, face covered in soot, her voice peculiarly neutral. “Dear…”

“Insurance will cover this, don’t worry, and if not, I will buy you a new—”

“I don’t even like tuna casserole.”

“I told you we should have made chicken potpie.”

“Xavier—that’s…that’s not the issue…”

three.

When her granddaughter mentioned bringing an artist over, Josephine had some doubts. She worried about her granddaughter having to support a struggling artist until he could make a name for himself, but even if she did voice her concern, it would most likely have the opposite effect and just make that man seem even more desirable in her granddaughter’s eyes.

It wouldn’t do. She didn’t want to meddle, but she hoped things would just naturally end on its own terms.

Her worries instantly disappeared when her granddaughter sent her a photo of the young couple at an art exhibition. Josephine’s eyes caught the name of the artist as well as the face of the young man with his arm around her granddaughter’s waist in the photo.

Wait.

Rafayel.

This was The Rafayel.

As old as she was, Josephine kept up with the news. She recognized both the name and the face of the artist. She laughed heartily to herself, tickled that her pretty granddaughter managed to catch the eyes of a well-known artist such as Rafayel.

Her worries eased, knowing her granddaughter had just secured her future being entwined with someone as successful as Rafayel. She immediately started planning a wedding. Maybe even a guest nursery in her home for when the happy couple would visit with hopefully numerous great-grandchildren.

From this moment all the way to the next Sunday for brunch, the old woman had an extra pep in her steps. As she exited a taxi, Josephine found herself at a well-known restaurant, popular with brunch for the younger crowd. It was typically packed and hard to get in, but Josephine supposed someone as influential as Rafayel would have no problem securing a table.

“Grandma, over here!” you rushed over to hug your grandmother. After kissing her cheek, you sighed playfully, “You know Rafayel and I offered to pick you up. You didn’t have to take a taxi.”

“Nonsense, an old woman like me is perfectly capable of getting around by herself,” she chided you gently. She patted your hand reassuringly as you both walked arm linked into the restaurant. “This is so exciting, darling. I have been looking forward to meeting Rafayel all week long.”

“Wonderful!” you exclaimed, beaming, “He is really the sweetest, Grandma. You will love him. He gotten us a table outside. It really is beautiful out there.”

Well, Josephine can check off meeting a famous artist on her bucket list.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Josephine,” Rafayel greeted the older woman with a charming smile. “I have heard so much about you from this cutie over here.”

“Ra-Rafayel,” you protested with a blush and then whispered harshly under your breath to him, “N-not in front of Grandma…”

He smiled, shrugging. “Sorry, cutie, force of habit.”

“You did it again…”

Josephine laughed and reassured her blushing granddaughter. “You two really are the cutest thing ever,” she said, smiling in gratitude as Rafayel helped seat the older woman.

The time passed with a lot of pleasantries and sharing stories over a delicious array of food. Smoked salmon, quiche, waffles, fruit salad, and bellinis filled three happy bellies. Just as Josephine was already planning on speed-dialing a wedding planner, she noticed Rafayel’s face did a complete 180.

“Rafayel? Are you alright, dear—”

“M-m-m-monster!”

“Excuse me?” Josephine glared when Rafayel pointed at her.

“N-no, Grandma, it’s not you,” you quickly protested, standing up and rushing to Rafayel when he stumbled out of his seat shaking in fear. “Rafayel, calm down! It’s just a—”

“Meow.”

“Oh!” Josephine laughed when an orange cat leapt onto the table, purring happily at the plate with some leftover smoked salmon. She laughed and started petting its head as the cat greedily licked the plate and ate the remaining morsels. “Where did you come from, little one?”

The cat purred happily amid Rafayel’s screams.

“Rafayel, ca-calm down!” You trailed after Rafayel as he backed away.

“Get that monster away from me!”

“Rafayel! Come back!”

Josephine sighed.

After filling its belly with some delicious salmon, the cat napped in the old woman’s lap, purring contently as its ear was scratched. At that moment, the waiter walked over and placed the bill in front of Josephine to her surprise.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she griped once she realized her granddaughter and Rafayel were both gone.

four.

“Oh, dear, I am so excited to meet this one,” Josephine said, meaning every single word, “The way you described him makes him sound like quite a catch.”

Tall, handsome, intelligent, and with the added bonus of being good in the kitchen! There was no way this one wouldn’t be a perfect match for her sweet, darling granddaughter, who, after all, deserved only the best in life.

You laughed. “Grandma, what are you talking about? You know him.”

Josephine blinked, confused. “…I do?”

“Yeah, it’s—”

“Where’s my favorite pipsqueak?”

You gasped as you felt an arm wrapped around your waist, easily lifting you up. You blushed. “Caleb!”

Josephine laughed. “Caleb, you didn’t tell me you were coming home to visit.”

Caleb looked confused as he settled you back down to the floor, but his arm remained wrapped around your waist. “I thought Pipsqueak mentioned it to you already?”

Josephine frowned. “I don’t believe so,” she said, adding, “But what bad timing, we’re having a guest tonight and—”

She paused, suddenly noticing how Caleb’s arm still remained wrapped around your waist and the way you leaned in close against him. You were all giggly and blushing like a schoolgirl.

“…and…”

“Um, Grandma,” You started feebly, “Caleb is my boyfriend.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Uh, yes, he is.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Grandma—”

“No, he’s not.”

“Caleb!”

“Gran, I—”

“I am taking a nap!” Josephine declared, determined to wake up from this surreal dream she was having.

“Caleb—”

“Shh,” he quietly shushed you. “Gran is taking a nap…”

You glared at him, sighing in defeat as Josephine sat in her chair, blanket over her lap, and she closed her eyes, cursing whatever deity who had decided she needed to deal with this weird-ass situation at her age.

five.

Josephine smiled serenely as she watched you and Zayne make dinner together in your kitchen.

Finally, a good man.

Zayne was always the sweetest little boy, and it pleased Josephine to see he had grown into a kind and caring man with a successful career and highly-respected reputation among his peers. Zayne had effortlessly ticked off every single box in Josephine’s list of criteria for a grandson-in-law: intelligent, kind, patient, respectful, charming, handsome, successful, loving. There was not a single flaw in this young man.

“My love, come taste this,” Zayne called out as he held up a wooden spoon.

Oh, my. Even Josephine couldn’t help but blushed and felt her heart fluttering at witnessing how sweetly affectionate Zayne was with you.

“What do you think?” he asked.

You pondered, licking your lips lightly. You smiled. “Maybe just a little more soy sauce?”

Zayne nodded. “Okay,” he said, “Could you grab the bottle for me then?”

“Of course, Zaddy—”

You froze.

Zayne froze.

Josephine stared.

“Za…Zaddy?” Josephine questioned from across the kitchen island.

“It’s…nothing,” Zayne said, his ears turning red, “Just a silly nickname.”

Josephine nodded, seemingly accepting his weak explanation. “How long until dinner is ready?”

You swallowed nervously and barely managed to rasp out: “An hour…maybe?”

“I’ll just take a quick nap if you two don’t mind—oh, don’t trouble yourself, dear.”

“Okay, Grandma, you can nap on my bed…” You said feebly, a little perplexed by how…calm she seemed.

Josephine nodded again and walked to your bedroom. She sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled out her phone, searching up ‘Zaddy’ online.

She wished she hadn’t.

+ one.

This was a dream.

A motherfucking dream.

And not even a good one.

Josephine stared at all of the tall, handsome men—and Caleb—towering behind her granddaughter.

“…Dear, I thought you were dating Zayne.” She glanced at the young doctor who looked away in embarrassment.

“I am,” you answered nonchalantly, confused by your grandmother’s behavior.

“…Didn’t you break up with these other young men—and Caleb?”

Caleb blinked.

“No,” you said slowly, “I didn’t want to bombard you with all of them at once, so…I staggered their introductions.”

“You’re…dating…five men…at the same time?”

“Grandma, you are acting like I am banging them all at the same time!”

“Dear, I am sorry, it’s just—”

“We’ve only done it once.”

“…Excuse me?”

“It’s actually harder to coordinate an orgy with everyone’s busy schedule,” you explained thoughtfully, not noticing Josephine’s horrified expression. You continued flippantly, “Zayne has so many surgeries lined up for the next three months. Then Rafayel has an upcoming art show he needs to prepare for, and Sylus—”

Josephine walked away in the middle of the conversation, heading to her bedroom, leaving you flabbergasted.

You looked behind you at your five boyfriends and they all shrugged and scratched their heads, just as lost as you were. Worried, you followed after her. “Grandma? Is something the matter—"

You panicked and shrieked.

“Zayne, Caleb! Grandma is smoking and drinking!”

Josephine mentally sighed as she sat in her bed, leaning back against some propped up pillows as she stared at the ceiling with a bottle of brandy resting on her chest.

You ended having to help him walk the rest of the way back to your scouted house. You shouldered the responsibility without question, of course.

He was your partner of nearly six years, ordinarily your closest friend, and in all, someone you loved intensely.

But you were still on edge.

Each snap of a twig sent your head on a swivel. Each time Leon’s boot caught a rogue tree root, you’d choke on your own breath.

Luis would call back to the both of you occasionally. You still weren’t entirely sure if it was an act of sincerity, of checking in, or if he was prodding for an escape.

But really it didn’t matter. Luis was the last of your problems.

Leon was sweating like crazy. It practically poured from his hair line. When you first noticed, you also saw the way his eyes threatened to roll back.

“Hey, hey, hey.” You were quick to tap his cheek. “Hey, don’t do that, okay? You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Leon’s mangled groan made you wince.

“Just a few more feet. Just a few more feet then you can lie down, okay?”

Part of you expected him to collapse right there.

He didn’t—thankfully—but he was still sweating, he was still pale, and he was starting to look like death.

“Come on, Leon, just a little more,” you mumbled.

Suddenly, the man in question was burying his face into your hair. You felt the bridge of his nose scale the tip of your ear, and the curve of your skull.

“Leon—“

“You smell good. …‘S so unfair.”

You were struggling to hold him up at that point. “Leon, honey—please, work with me here.”

It wasn’t until you were standing on the back porch of the house, that Luis finally decided to help you out.

You had watched, rather helplessly, as Luis carried Leon to the far back room. You didn’t have the heart to follow either of them in. You just sat out on that porch for an hour or so, frozen, with tears in your eyes.

That was last night.

Now, as the dawning sun began to crest over the horizon, you were terrified of what would come next.

“What did they do to him?”

You look to your right, at the slumped over man. Luis had woken up only moments earlier, having yet to rub away the sleep from his eyes.

“¿Cómo?”

You huff. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Ah. Las plagas,” Luis yawns.

“What?”

Luis stands up and stretches. Faintly, you hear the popping of joints. The man then follows your stare to the door in front of you.

Turning back to you, he lets out another yawn. “It’s a…a virus. Some kind of disease that’s meant to make you do whatever they want.”

Just when you’re about to interrogate him further, you hear a loud groan echo from the room. Immediately, you sit up, while Luis shifts nervously on his feet.

When the quiet returns, you clear your throat. “Luis, I need you to be honest with me right now…”

Luis has slunk back to the wall. His eyes narrow on you for a moment before quickly looking away.

“Is Leon going to be okay?”

Luis sniffles. He wipes at his nose while looking down at his feet. “…Eventually, if we get our hands on my cure.”

“But not now,” you confirm.

The man shrugs. “It’s different for everybody. There’s really no telling how he’ll react.”

More noises come from behind the closed door then. One in particular makes your blood run cold.

It’s fairly muffled, but you’re still able to pick up on what sounds like the whine of an injured dog.

Then there’s a bang. A loud, abrupt thud to the door itself.

Your body works faster than your brain, legs carrying you to the door before you could even think twice.

Luis though is closer to the door than you are. Stepping in front of you, he raises his arm to block you. When you step forward anyway, Luis pushes back. “Stay put.”

You almost bite back. Almost.

Of all people, it isn’t Luis’ place to tell you what to fucking do, and it sure as hell isn’t his job to protect you against your partner. But for once, you opt to bite your tongue and listen.

Slowly, Luis pries open the door.

You try to look over his shoulder, but Luis is quick. Quick to slip into the room and close the door. Quick enough to know he should hold onto the doorknob so that you couldn’t open it.

“Luis.” You try the handle again, to no avail.

Still no response.

But you do hear voices.

There’s the melodic, almost spindly voice of Luis. It’s much louder and more pronounced, a little distracting as you try to listen closer. Eventually you hear a hushed tone—Leon’s. His voice is dull, imperceptible even, until it turns into sharp groans.

“Luis!”

The door suddenly pops open, and Luis slips back through before closing it again.

“Luis, what the fuck is going on? You better start talking or I swear—“

The man pushes past you, crossing the small kitchen to the back door.

You stare at him in disbelief and in restraint.

“Luis—“

“Señora, relax.” With an open palm he gestures vaguely to the closed door. “Your boyfriend is going to be alright. He just has the ‘fever’.”

Your mind blanks, tongue preemptively tying itself up in knots. “Boyf—what? No, Leon is not my boyfriend.”

Luis laughs, almost maniacally. “That’s what you’re focused on?” If you weren’t so stunned, you probably would’ve pummelled him into the floorboard.

You roll your shoulders and strain as if it’ll completely reset the conversation. “Luis, what do you mean by ‘fever’? …Is-is Leon going to…”

“Oh, no, no. Not from this, at least.”

Another pained sound echoes. Your fingers twitch at your side.

“So, it’s like the flu? Leon’s just sick?”

Luis shakes his head, and you deflate a little. “The ‘fever’ is just what we call it. Mainly refers to…to the increased body temperature, the…” he abandons the thought with a smirk. “It won’t kill him, but it’ll feel like hell for the next few hours if he doesn’t take care of it.”

You mull over his words carefully. “Okay, so, how do we take care of it then?”

“Love and attention—that’s the only way to fix it.” Luis then steps onto the porch, shooting you one last look over his shoulder. “I’m going to find us all something to eat. I should be back in a few hours.”

And with that he’s gone, off to god-knows-where.

Though, at the moment, that hardly matters. Because with Luis gone, you’re free to look after him.

As softly as you could manage, you knock on the door. “Leon.” Silence. “Leon, are you okay?”

This time, there’s a reply. It comes out choked and sounds a lot like a version of your name.

The door creaks on its hinges as you force it open. Instantly, you’re hit with stale air, and dust, and the harrowing sight of Leon curling in on himself.

“Leon…?”

A mop of mussed-up blonde hair slowly rises from the floor. Through the fallen strands, you find a familiar pair of eyes. In a way, he looked much more alive than he did yesterday. But your relief was only momentary. It didn’t take long to notice the web of black veins mapping out his face.

Leon groans again, flopping forward and on his side.

Despite how sick you felt, you made your way to him anyway. With a careful hand, you reach for his face.

The second the tips of your fingers graze his cheek, Leon flinches. He sits up quickly, backing into the wall, with his eyes closed and his teeth clamped down on his lip.

“Don’t-don’t touch me, please.” Hesitantly, you let your hand fall back into your lap.

You take a moment to regain your composure. “Luis says that you’re gonna be okay. Eventually. Um…apparently this is just—“

“A fever,” Leon mumbles. “Yeah, he told me.”

You nod, mainly to yourself.

At his request, you keep your distance, but you can’t help your wandering eyes.

There’s an arm strewn tightly across his stomach, holding onto his shirt like a lifeline. At his side, his other hand flexes. His knees are bent, pressed close to the rest of him as he continues to shrink in on himself.

You shift uncomfortably.

“Is there anything I can do?” Leon shakes his head. With a frown, you inch toward him. “Leon—“

“Please,” Leon groans your name. “I just need to wait it out. Just-I’ll be okay. Just please leave.”

“You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here for you, okay? Please, Leon, just let me help.”

Whatever you were maybe expecting to come next, it certainly wasn’t the sight before you.

Leon’s limbs unfurl as he tries for a new position to wilt into. And there, right between his splayed legs, you see a pronounced bulge. So stiff, it looks painful.

You don’t notice Leon’s eyes open, or how they find you: frozen, eyes wide and fixed on his erection.

You gape like a fish. “Leon…”

The man in question immediately shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I-I’m so sorry, this…” he looks up to ceiling, blinking and worrying his lip. His chest expands with a shake. “Luis said that…that this was normal. Sort of. That it’s just the virus reacting to me.” He forces a laugh. “Just my luck, right?”

Your thighs press together on their accord, and for the first time since you rescued him, you force yourself to look away. A certain kind of heat has started to creep up your neck.

Here’s your partner confiding in you about the incredible pain he’s experiencing and all you can focus on is the size of him.

You feel horrible. Gross. Perverted.

You then hear Luis words in your head like some sick call-and-response: “love and attention—that’s how you fix it.”

The words, and their premonitory meaning, finally settle within you. They pull on your lungs, and the cavity behind your ribs.

With the sharp press of your nails to your palm, you take a breath and ignore the flutter in the pit of your stomach.

“Leon…” The man sighs again. Carefully, you inch closer to him. “Luis told me how we can make you feel better.”

He grits his teeth. “I know. He told me that, too.”

You swallow hard. “Leon, I…if you want, I can help you.”

He gulps and shakes his head. “I can’t ask that of you.”

“You wouldn’t be,” you say. “I’m offering, Leon. You’re my partner, a-and this is what we do—we help each other.”

Leon sits up a bit more, facing you almost directly. “I can’t ask this of you because this isn’t how I wanted it to go.”

“Well, obviously,” you almost laugh. “This isn’t, you know, an ideal situation—“

“No.”

That single word sends a rush of blood down to your cunt. You try to be subtle when you shift, not wanting to draw attention to yourself.

“When I…when I was going to tell you about how I feel…about you, I wanted it to be—I don’t know—romantic? Definitely not like this.” He chuckles around the words like they’re a loose canon in his mouth. And perhaps they are.

His eyes flicker with something unknown—something wilder and unkempt.

It makes you want to take a risk.

“Leon, I want to help. I wanna make you feel better…” the words die in your throat, but you know he understands. “But I need you to be sure.”

Of this, you mean. Of me.

Leon doesn’t say anything for a moment. Instead he just stares. His eyes trail over your face, they drag down your body, then back up to your mouth. His chest heaves. On his thigh, his hand is balled into a fist, white-knuckling the fabric.

Whatever little composure he had been holding onto unravels then.

“Fuck, —, I need you. I need you more than anything. …And that’s not the disease talking, either. I want you all the time.”

When you touch him, he flinches again. Except this time he doesn’t retreat.

Rather, he melts. He melts and molds and he pushes his cheek into your palm with his eyes screwed shut. He hums, and you feel its vibration throughout every part of you.

It’s a shock to your system that makes you clench around nothing.

You remember then to pace yourself. You both have time.

Moving your hands to his face, you start to inspect him. “Shit, you’re burning up, Leon.”

“Mhm, just—agh—just my love for you.” Another cramp rolls through him, but he manages to still offer a smile. For you.

“I think that might be the disease talking,” you tease before pressing your mouth to his.

Leon immediately whines. Upright on his knees, he leans over you, hands sliding up your bare arms, over your shoulders and settling on the junction of your jaw. He pushes forward with the kiss, nearly knocking you backward.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He’s sheepish now, all rosy-cheeked and doe-eyed, much like how he was when you first met some years ago. You smile into the kiss, keeping still while he chases your lips.

He’s incessant with it. He’s all tongue and teeth, already panting into you. You let him have his way, until he breaks free and starts to mouth at your pulse.

“Leon,” you sigh. “Leon, stop.”

With a firm hand to his chest, you try to hold him still, to get him to look at you. His bruised lips are wet—spit-covered and plump. He blinks quickly at you, like the refocusing of a camera lens.

“It’s not about me, Leon. This is about you. About making you feel good.”

You sit up to meet him, carding your fingers through his hair. With the new angle, you start your assault on his neck. You don’t really kiss him—moreso just drag your lips against the thick cords of his neck. When you reach the spot just below his ear, he huffs and nearly sinks back to the ground. Ever the observant one, you choose to suck at the skin there.

“Baby—“

His hands—erratic and hot-to-the-touch—grab onto whatever they can. Your shoulders, your waist. It’s as if he can’t makeup his mind. It’s only when you slightly stumble into his lap, when he grabs onto the beltloop of your pants to stabilize you both, does he finally settle. With one hand curving around the meat of your hip, another reaches up beneath the loose fabric of your shirt, until he’s lifting your breast out of the cup of your bra and palming it.

He’s spurred on by your sighs. The sound, which makes his cock twitch, has him further kneading the flesh and kissing the top of your head. Your mouth moves down to his collarbone, exploring, tasting, and learning every inch of his skin.

“Fuck, —.” His breath is hot on your scalp. “Shit, you’re—fuck—you’re something.”

You take the chance then to start working away at his clothes. Nimble fingers make quick work of his shirt, untucking it from his pants and lifting it up and over his head.

Gently, you rake your nails across his skin. You just can’t help but touch him. Everything from the swell of his shoulders and biceps, to the soft lines of muscle along his lower abdomen.

As you move lower, Leon’s grip on your body tightens.

Against your lower stomach, you feel the hard press of his bulge—over and over again. He holds you in place while he searches for friction. Into your shoulder, he groans.

“Fuck, baby. Shit, I’m sorry. I-I needa—“

Climbing onto his lap, you grab his waist and push his hips into yours. “‘S okay. It’s okay, honey, just let go.”

Almost immediately, Leon comes. The whole thing is over quickly, with hardly any recovery time on his part—an effect, you assume, of the ‘fever’.

He stays close to you; grinding and squeezing, panting into the side of your face. “Please, —.”

You lean back as much as Leon’s frenzied hands will let you, until you’re able to snake your hands down to his belt. Once the buckle is undone, you’re tugging down the zipper. Leon lifts his hips for you as you remove his pants and the stained fabric of his boxers. “Leon,” you kiss him again. “Lay down for me, honey.”

He does as you ask—almost embarrassingly fast.

Shuffling down his body, you come face-to-face with his cock. He’s so very hard, leaking and flushed an angry red.

Sitting comfortably on his thighs, you roll your shoulders back and find Leon’s eyes. Instinctively, you reach to slick his hair back off of his forehead. You want to see all of him. Selfishly, you need to see him fall apart. Leon takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together and mouthing at your knuckles.

“You’re sure about this?”

Leon nods quickly. “Need you. How-however you want, please, just, fuck, please.”

With your other free hand, you stroke his hip—at the indent that runs along his pelvis and down to the tuft of hair trailing to his base.

That’s how you start with him. Experimental.

It doesn’t take long for Leon to start bucking up into your closed fist. You spit, and with a slow, purposeful pump, spread your saliva all over his cock. One particular tug has his head falling back to the floor. The valley of his chest on full display, falling quickly as you continue to work him.

Leon comes again with a low whine. The sound has your head spinning, and slick pooling between your thighs.

While Leon comes to, you quickly discard of whatever clothes you had left on, chucking them to the corner across the room.

“You’re so beautiful,” Leon says wistfully.

Despite having just jerked him off, his words are what turn you shy. Averting your gaze, you focus on lowering yourself back into his lap.

“I mean it.” Leon sits up, hands snaking behind your back. He pulls you to him and mouths at your chest. “You’re gorgeous.”

In a moment of clarity, you grow curious, and press the back of your hand to his forehead.

“You’re still super hot, baby.”

Leon bites at the side of your breast. “I’m glad you think so.”

Your groan isn’t the sexy kind. “That’s not what I meant.”

Between your breasts, Leon looks up at you. “I know. Think I have an idea about what could help though.”

You kiss him deeply. With one hand you tug on his hair, exposing more of himself to you, and with the other you take a hold of his cock and start to drag it between your folds.

Leon whimpers—fucking whimpers—and ducks his head to look down to where your bodies meet.

He steadies himself as he lines up with your entrance. You hold your breath as his head catches against your walls, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated inside you.

Leon shakes beneath you. Knowing, but breathless, you simply give him a nod before you start to move.

With your knees to the floor, bracketing his hips, and his already-convulsing body, you slowly lift your hips, up and forward, then all the way back down until his pelvis is flush against yours.

Your hips roll, over and over, testing the waters—the speed, the angle—until finally, with your back slightly arched, you feel him notch deliciously against the spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

This time you’re the one panting. Breaths that only become more ragged as you chase the feeling.

At that point, Leon was practically apart of you. Combined sweat glued you to each other; the firm grip of his hands nothing more than an aid for your hips, and a lifeline for him.

A tangible, tactile reminder that you weren’t a hallucination. You were very much real, and you were very much there.

There with him, making the prettiest sounds he’s ever fucking heard.

Leon tried to speak—he wanted to. He needed to tell you again just how beautiful you were. How pretty your pussy was, how much he appreciated you, loved you, how he was convinced you were made for him.

But he couldn’t.

The disease had already made his mind a little fuzzy, but you had completely melted it to nothing. All that existed was the feeling of you.

Wrapping both arms around your waist, Leon continued to mouth at your chest. He felt his hips start to move on their own—a little absently, mind you—and you reacted instantly.

You let out a cry, and held on tighter to the broad expanse of Leon’s shoulders. Taking the opportunity, he started to fuck up into you with short, rapid thrusts.

“You feel so-fuck. You’re so good for me. So, so good for me.”

The sound of his thighs meeting your ass, your gasps and his moans, had consumed all of the air in that little cabin.

You were starting to lose control—both of you were—as the coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter. No longer were you focused on maintaining a rhythm. As your legs began to give out, Leon sat you down onto him as far as he could, before lying back down. With you caged to his chest, he planted his feet and began to pistol into you.

“Umphf! Leo-oh, fuck.”

Your jaw had fallen slack against his shoulder, eyes glazing over. Your heart hammered in time with the weeping throb of his cock.

Leon held his open-mouth to the side of your face. “Need you to come for me, baby. Wanna feel you cum on my cock. Please. Please, need to feel you.”

Each plea of his was accentuated with a breathy whine to the shell of your ear—a promise only for you.

That alone was enough to send you over the edge.

The coil had snapped, leaving you to shudder helplessly against him. With your senses completely shot, you weren’t sure when exactly Leon announced his third and final orgasm of the night.

You only knew it happened really when the space between your hips grew wonderfully warm. Leon had slowed to a stop, too—completely spent, and heaving.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched as the inky veins along his cheek slowly began to lighten. Some of them even had completely disappeared.

You knew deep down he wasn’t cured for good—that was still another bridge you’d have to cross.

Someday, but not right now.

This is the last time you have sex on a weekday.

When Zayne left your apartment last night, you tried to write while the aftereffects of everything he did to you- everything he watched you do- still lingered. But you were beyond distracted, unable to even sit still without being assaulted with vivid flashbacks, a mix of mortification and lust coursing anew. 

You shut your laptop and scream into your pillow. 

Only after feeling sufficiently lightheaded do you shut off the lights and try to sleep, but the damned thing avoids you like the plague, and you stare at the ceiling for an untimed eternity. Everything feels wrong. Your blanket feels too thick, your skin too tight, the entire room too warm, too empty.

You don’t get more than three hours of sleep that night.

But it should be common knowledge that hospitals rest for no one, and you jolt out of bed to the sound of your pager beeping, rushing in while the sky is still dark.

The ambulance pulls in at the same time you do and the paramedics are already yelling out the status to everyone at the bay: forty-three-year-old male, chest trauma, performing CPR. It’s a race, a rush and rhythm you know well. You’re scrubbed down and entering the operating room alongside two other surgeons. The patient is intubated and they give the countdown before cutting him open.

It took two and a half hours to perform the surgery and stop all the internal bleeding, and by the end of it, you were exhausted, both physically and mentally. 

But this was the most in control you’ve felt for a while. A sharp sort of stress that forced your hands into a trained precision and your mind into a rigorous sort of calm. It was almost as though you became a different person entirely, one you both admire and hate. 

She’s calm and collected, only speaking when needed in commands to the operating room. She demands respect. She is who your mother is proud of, who you were supposed to be.

You’ve only just washed your hands and finished debriefing when you feel that half of you begin to slip away once more. And as the stress leaves, your mind wanders back to last night. To Zayne.

Thoughts that haunt you for the rest of the morning.

Finally, the clock hits eight and the ER is busy with the morning crowd. You do what you can until the other residents clock in, leaving to finally eat breakfast and get some sort of caffeine before your headache gets any worse. 

Luckily, the vending machine has your favorite melonpan and green tea, and you get two of each. Sitting down, open your laptop and begin eating in the hallway outside the surgery bay, your manuscript staring right back at you, mocking.

Your eyes burn holes through the cursor blinking at the top of the page, and you try to will yourself to just type something, anything, but it doesn't work, and you end up slamming the computer shut with a sigh.

Unintentionally, your male lead has begun to resemble Zayne more and more- not physically, at least- but in his little mannerisms, his overly formal speech habit, and even his uncharacteristic love of sweets. Your lips quirk up at the memory.

But speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Zayne comes from the other end of the hallway, looking like he also might be coming out from a surgery. He’s only meters away when his eyes lock onto yours.

You straighten against the chair, a shiver of heat racing down your spine as his mere presence sends an onslaught of flashbacks that are nothing short of sinful.

Stop. What happened last night is part of a professional, mutually beneficial deal. Zayne is still your mentor— your boss too, in some contexts— and you refuse to have these thoughts about him in your place of work.

Smiling, your fingers still against the keyboard as you hope the whole thing doesn’t look as strained as it feels.

Zayne looks the opposite of amused. If anything, he appears pissed.

His gaze narrows on you, and for a second, you think you spot something else behind the cold indifference. But the look passes as quickly as it appeared, his face back to its usual stony expression, and you must have imagined it.

“Good morning, Dr. Zayne,” you say.

Zayne stalls, shoulders tensing for a moment before he nods and continues walking. He doesn’t spare you another glance as he passes, doesn’t say another word, the awkward tension so thick it almost makes you choke on your melonpan.

Your eyes trail after him until he rounds the corner.

Well, that went splendidly.

You try to type again, but it turns out your brain is a useless lump of flesh because no matter how many times you read over the paragraph, the words fail to register. You huff out an exasperated breath, slam the laptop shut, and drag yourself to your office to prepare for rounds.

Even so, you go through your morning routine with a strained smile, a newfound weight pulling against your chest, a sharp sort of pain between guilt and longing you’ve never felt before. 

Zayne is going to lose his fucking mind. 

He is an adult, he reminds himself. A well-mannered, respectful, professional adult. 

So why can’t he stop imagining your face underneath him as you come undone? Why can’t he get the memory of every sound you made, the overly sweet way you said his name, the very cadence of your voice out of his head? 

And the way you said please. 

Zayne grinds his teeth hard enough that something clicks in the back of his jawbone, his usual flat expression twisted with a scowl that sends other doctors and residents scrambling out from his path. His clipboard groans under the pressure from his grip, and Zayne can’t make it to his private office fast enough before he slams the door shut and drags his palm down his face. 

He sees you every time he closes his eyes.

“Fuck.”

Zayne swore to himself that helping you would change nothing in the workplace, and yet clearly, only one of you was mature enough to hold that part of your deal up.

This must be a new level of depravity Zayne never assumed he would stoop to.

But it had been torture to only watch you last night. A beautiful, painful torture he would subject himself to again and again and again just for the chance to have you writhing against him like that once more. 

The way your doe eyes had practically begged for him to fuck you all on their own when he forced you to look up nearly made him come in his trousers. And thank god you were too far gone to notice how desperate he was, grinding insistently against your bedsheets while you came around his fingers. And now… 

And now Zayne was fucking hard again in his office of all places. 

It was a wonder he got anything done anymore.

Zayne hasn't had a lover in years and it's beginning to wear him thin. And yet, the idea of finding someone else to satiate his needs doesn’t appeal to him in the slightest. Not when his mind is so consumed with the thought of you, and the sounds you made, the way you looked at him, the way your eyes would roll to the back of your head every time he curled his fingers into that spot inside of you.

God, he should have just asked you out on a date first. 

Restraint had come easy to him. Zayne was practically raised on it, his very life dependent on his ability to restrain his Evol, the lives of others dependent on his patience and restraint in the operating room. 

But no, when it came to you, everything failed him. 

Maybe he had been a little harsh this morning. Zayne doesn’t know. He doesn't want to think about it.

Running a hand through his hair, Zayne imagines bumping into you again. Would you still be happy to see him, smiling as you did this morning, or would you ignore him just as he did you? 

“About this morning,” Zayne stops, restarts. “I’m sorry for avoiding conversation earlier today.” A groan, “No, I can’t begin like that. This morning I wasn’t myself, there was a patient who required percutaneous coronary intervention and the stress must have gotten to me.” 

He tries again, and again, gesturing to his empty office before dragging a palm down his face. “I must be going insane.”

Zayne has never felt more foolish in his life.

He doesn't even have the excuse of a lack of experience in this field. In his previous relationships, he was always the one to initiate dates and intimacy, and it was the same with any relation that had lasted longer than one night.

But you are different.

The thought of taking his time with you makes him weak. To finally have your legs wrapped around his waist, to finally hear his name on your lips, to finally have your body pressed flush against his and hear you beg for him once more.

He wants to do so much more for you, wants you to use him as you need, to take and take everything he has to give. Wants to surrender to your every whim and every outrageous idea you’ve ever had floating around in that unpredictable head of yours. Wants to taste you, and see if you taste as sweet as you sound when you beg.

Wants to know how your cunt feels and what face you would make when he finally, finally fucks you.

God, Zayne wants to ruin you.

He wants so badly it drives him mad.

Zayne can't avoid you, and he shouldn’t. There are still matters to discuss for your novel and a deal to hold up. He is a man of his word.

A date.

That could work. Just a way to get closer, as colleagues, as partners. 

You would have to spend time together outside the hospital, where the air is clear of any distractions and expectations and Zayne can get his head on straight. Even moreso, it should be something nice, something that will hopefully take your mind off your impending deadline. 

Right, that would be perfect. An opportunity to simply be providing you with the proper inspiration and guidance, as a good mentor should, and keep his end of the deal should you ask for another inspiration session.

Turning back in his chair, Zayne begins filtering through his email and paper files, until something slips from the growing stack. 

The annual charity gala.

As a resident yourself, you were likely already invited, so proposing the two of you go together shouldn’t be too ostentatious, right?

Zayne stares down at the gilded gold lettering.

No. It was definitely out of line in so many ways. But the only other option was to continue down this path, to continue fooling himself that he only agreed to be your fuck buddy out of courtesy and care, and not these wretched thoughts that plauge his every waking moment. 

It would mean he’d be completely at your mercy for seeing you next, whenever you needed him. Or his body, at least.

Zayne doesn’t have the willpower to last that long. Besides, this is more efficient.

So, Zayne opens the letter, pulls the invitation card from its envelope, and begins drafting an email to you in hopes of preserving a little bit of his dignity. 

He didn’t even have to wait an hour to get your response: you said yes. 

______

Zayne opens the car door for you, ever the gentleman. 

Sliding into the passenger seat, you take extra care not to snag the hem of your cocktail dress on your heels or the door. By the time you buckle your seat belt, and the car roars to life, dashboard glowing a soft orange.

"Ready?" Zayne asks, adjusting his cuff as he begins to reverse out of the parking spot.

It’s the first time Zayne has formally invited you to be his plus one, and the thought of being seen beside him like this- at such a formal gala, no less- is all at once thrilling and nauseating.

Zayne steals another glance at you, and where your hands lay clenched in your lap. "It’s just a hospital event, you may very well see other residents there."

A laugh. "I'm not sure if that makes me feel better or worse."

Even without the extra stress from attending this gala, your stomach has been in knots all day long-- your manuscript is due in less than a week. You’ve written a lot, and Zayne’s hands-on “experience” helped you get ample inspiration for most of the main scenes. Yet you can feel the deadline creeping up, the sense of impending doom looming over you.

Of course Zayne notices. "We'll try and have fun, it's just a couple of hours. I heard they also have billiard tables, if you’re interested?” A tap on the steering wheel, then he adds, a little quieter, “Your dress is nice. The color suits you.”

You smile, but your eyes don’t leave the road. Instead, you seem to zone out on the row of streetlights, shadows cast over your face as they pass by, one by one. 

“You clean up pretty well yourself, doctor.”

Zayne continues. “Tell me more about your novel’s progress, then. If you need any more assistance…” he trails off, and you feel a prickling heat creep up the back of your neck. Finally, you look away from the window, and Zayne relaxes against his seat. 

So you begin to tell him about the newest trope your editor wants you to include, a classic in enemies-to-lovers books: forced proximity. “The concept is great. Who doesn’t love it when the two characters who swear they hate each other accidentally get stuck together and turned on at the worst possible time?” 

You ramble, propping your arm against the car armrest as you turn to face Zayne. "So,” you say, ”I'm trying to think of ways they could find themselves in such a situation. Maybe they're cornered by guards or captured by a mutual enemy, or we combine the classic injury trope so they can’t move.” 

"That is one option," he says, eyes still on the road. A turn, and Zayne shifts gears as the car speeds ahead. 

“A classic my mind says no, but my body says yes dilemma.” You debate telling Zayne about the premise around aphrodisiacs and sex pollen, but you think that really might be pushing him too far. You are in a car, after all, and an accident is the last thing you want. 

Instead, you ask, "Have you read any enemy-to-lover books?"

He shrugs. "I've had some experience."

"I'm sure you have."

Zayne shoots you a sharp look. Your smile grows, slow and wicked. 

"And I've done a bit of research," he clarifies, voice flat just to prove a point.

"Right, research."

"Well, to best help you, I thought…” Zayne’s brows furrow as he merges lanes, letting the blinking of the indicator fill the silence before clearing his throat. “I thought reading a book or two in the same field would help me understand your own book better. I must say yours is far better written than some of these popular novels.” 

The mental image of Zayne sneaking a read at some filthy romantasy book has you giggling.

"And you’re sure that's the reason?”

"Of course," he says, though his face is slightly pink.

You feign suspicion, poking at Zayne’s arm. "What if this whole time, you’ve been hunting me down as a means to read my unreleased books?  Then the only reason you agreed to this arrangement is because you're secretly a stalker fan."

"Interesting theory,” a smirk, one you see pull at the corner of Zayne’s lips. “But not the only reason."

"Oh? What’s the other then?"

Zayne smiles, the dim light from the dashboard sharpening his features. Another turn, you spare a glance at the GPS only to see you’re nearly at the gala venue. But still, no answer came, not as Zayne seemed to refocus on the road, shifting gears as the light turns green. 

You groan, “You’re not even listening anymore.” 

“I am.” Zayne shoots you a look from the corner of his eye, one hand leaving the wheel to rest against your thigh. “There is, however, a difference between listening and answering.” 

But now it’s your turn to stop listening. You can’t, not when his thumb does that thing again, tracing mindless circles against your inner thigh while he looks back at the road. 

It does something, to have his hand there, warm and heavy. Something that has your thighs pressing together, heat creeping down your neck.

Zayne catches the motion. Of course, he does. And he squeezes, just a little.

And then a brilliantly wretched idea hits you.

"Do you have any suggestions?" You ask, trying to keep your tone innocent, even as you part your thighs just a little further. "I mean, you did research and all. Surely, you remember something useful about the plots. Or the sex scenes."

"The sex scenes," Zayne echoes, his voice tight.

"Well, yes. They're kind of important. They're why people buy the books." You lick your lips. "For example, surely one of those books you read for research had interesting forbidden tropes?"

"It's likely." His jaw ticks. "You'll have to be more specific.”

"Well..." you draw the word out, shifting in your seat. “You know where else would be a really inappropriate place for a character to get a boner?” Reaching over, you glide your hand up Zayne’s thigh, mirroring his placement on your own. “In a car, doctor.”

Zayne thanked every god for their mercy the moment he got to a red light, car jolting to a halt as he eyed you with a frown.

“Behave," he scolds. "This is beyond reckless."

The genuine frustration edged into Zayne’s voice makes you hesitate, and you move to sit up, retreating your hand from his thigh when it brushes past something unmistakably hard. 

You feel Zayne tense beneath you, the car jerking forward before speeding along as though nothing had happened. Oh, but your lips cracked into a vicious grin as you stretched your way fully over the center console, wriggling your ass in the air on the far side of the seat. 

Really, you should have realized that the stern, self-deprived Zayne gets off on scolding you as much as you did. 

You watch him closely, but despite his harsh words, he never moves to actually stop you. So you continue, scraping your nails up his trousers as your mouth follows, hot breath leaving damp spots against the expensive cotton as Zayne’s thigh jumps under your touch. 

God, the click of his belt coming undone elicited a nearly Pavlovian response at this point, the sound of metal on metal making something in your core flutter. You waste no time going for his zipper, palming at the bulge straining into your touch as it pushes out from between the metal all on its own.

Zayne laments all the trust you placed in him as a driver. Despite being only minutes from the venue, he swore he was gripping the steering wheel hard enough for it to snap. A car behind him honks and Zayne swears under his breath, thoughts clouding over as your hands finish sliding his zipper down, gently palming at his cock as he inhales sharply at the feeling of your hot breath over clothed skin.

And the moan Zayne lets out when you lick the head of his cock is enough to have you gushing. But you never take him any deeper, blocked by your position over the passenger seat, settling with unsatisfactory kitten licks up and down his length, leaving sloppy marks without ever speeding up. 

Zayne shudders, huffing in frustration and restraint as he unconsciously tries to buck himself into your mouth, failing due to the awkward side angle you placed yourself in. Instead, you splay your hands over his lower belly, untucking his shirt as your fingers rub against his v-line, as you begin to suck just barely over this throbbing head. 

“You shouldn’t– fuck." His jaw flexes, and his fingers are white-knuckled, the veins in his forearms standing out with the strain.

The shock of hearing Zayne curse was almost a physical blow. The word was spoken more like a prayer than a profanity, something desperate and violent caught in his throat, a warning and plea all at once. It made something hot coil deep in your gut.

It made you want to push him further.

You must have made some type of sound muffled over his cock because Zayne hisses, his hand coming down from the steering wheel to grab at your hair, fingers threading into your scalp and pulling, just enough to hurt. 

"You are absolutely insufferable." Zayne's voice breaks into a moan. "Stop teasing me."

You pull off of him with a wet pop, sitting up and wiping the drool from your chin. "But I’m hardly doing anything. Don’t tell me you’re getting so hard just from a few kisses."

"Reckless. Lack of foresight. Do I need to teach you how to behave like an adult?" Zayne's grip on the steering wheel tightens, his jaw clenching. You can practically feel the heat radiating off him.

"No," you lean forward and kiss the head, lips wrapping around it as you swirl your tongue. Zayne's foot presses down on the gas and the car jerks forward. "But maybe I could use some help learning my lesson."

You swallow him down, and his hips jump. Humming around him, Zayne’s cock twitches, and before you can stabilize yourself he’s pushing your head down further. You don’t think he realizes he’s doing it, not with the way his hips stutter upwards, thickly corded muscles of his thighs tensing as you nearly choke. 

Another broken moan fills the car alongside the wet sounds of your mouth, drool leaking from the corners of your lips as his cock bumps the back of your throat. You gag, and Zayne’s grip on your head finally loosens, the wheels spinning over loose gravel as you pull off just to breathe.

You can't see him, not with the angle, but the feeling of his eyes on you, burning into the side of your face, and the heavy throb of his cock against your tongue was enough to know just how close he is. 

You're so distracted, tears blurring your vision, that you don't notice the car has stopped, not until Zayne's other hand is reaching over to cup your jaw, forcing your mouth off his cock and forcing your head up to look at him.

The moment your eyes meet, he frowns, thumb rubbing across your bottom lip, cleaning your smeared lipstick and spit from your ministrations. "Look at you," he hums. "What a mess."

The nearby spots in the lot are empty, but you’ve arrived early, and you can see cars parking close enough to send your heart racing. 

You glance at the clock- seven forty-six- and you know despite how Zayne’s windows are tinted, it would take someone looking over from a meter or so away to see the two of you, to see the way Zayne's hands are fisted in your hair, to see you arched over the middle console, to see how hard he was and hear the slick, wet noises you made around his cock.

You nearly yelp as Zayne pushes you off his lap, messily tucking himself back into his trousers before climbing out the door. It shuts with a bang and you’re about to scramble up when you hear the passenger door open and are roughly hauled out of the car and slung over Zayne’s shoulder.

You don’t even have time to scream. The next thing you know, you're being tossed on your back into the back seat, barely having time to right yourself before Zayne follows you, door slamming shut. He's pulling at your dress, bunching the fabric up and around your waist before dragging you under him.

“Did I not satisfy you thoroughly enough last time?” Zayne scolds between breaths, teeth scraping over your pulse point before he bites down. “Or perhaps what I should have realized is that you’re simply a filthy little girl who gets off on being punished?”

The sound you let out is obscene, a whiny moan that has Zayne groaning as he pulls away, his mouth slick and shiny with spit. He grinds his cock against your stomach, his hand coming around your throat and forcing you to face him.

It’s almost effortless, the way he holds you against him, folding your thighs to your chest as he bends to avoid hitting the roof of his car. His cock is still rock hard and pressed against the back of your thighs, only the thin slip of your dress shielding you from his greedy eyes.

"Zayne- fuck, we're gonna be late." You choke out, a gasp following as his hips grind into yours.

“Answer the question.”

Another bite to the plush above your breast and you cry, fearing more for the possibility that he leaves a permanent mark more than anything else. As if hearing that, Zayne bites again. Harder. 

“Yes!” You thrash, trying to kick him off you but there’s little room in the back seats and the leather sticks to your sweat-slick back as Zayne works to pin your hips. “Yes, I’m sorry. I only— I wanted to see how long you’d last.”

A laugh, short and cruel. “How long I’d last?” 

Zayne grabs your wrists and holds them over your head. He leans close, so his lips brush yours when he speaks, and the words are low and soft. Dangerous.

"Well, then. Allow me to return the favor.” Zayne lifts your leg, pressing a kiss to your calf as your foot hits the window, one heel falling off with a thud. “If memory serves me right, isn’t this a trope too?” 

It’s almost effortless, the way he lifts your hips all the way up, your legs kicking helplessly over his shoulders as they’re forced up against the roof of the car. Shifting his weight around in the tight space, Zayne coaxes your calves to cross behind his neck, giving a small grunt as his face is pressed into your inner thighs, one arm straining against the leather of the car seats. 

“Where they’re stuck in a small space, right?” Zayne’s eyes never leave yours.  “Maybe a cave,” his tongue trails up the bare skin of your quivering thigh, “Under a desk,” licking his way up, “in a car?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer, not when the heat of his mouth presses directly onto your clothed clit, licking over the lace of your panties as you arch off the leather seats.

You’re already a dripping mess, writhing against the leather of the seats and the hard muscle of Zayne's shoulders, the sensation of his hot tongue pushing against your clit through the lace a painful sort of pleasure. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

Zayne pulls off and stares at the string of his spit and your arousal, warm and sticky, against the soaked patch of cotton between your legs connecting to his lips. Involuntarily, he bucks into the cold emptiness underneath you.

Fuck, he’s so hard he might come from this alone.

You hardly notice, not with the way every muscle and nerve quivers and begs for release, jaw falling slack as Zayne’s lips are quick to tease you again, this time pressing his tongue flat against the crotch of your panties and laving across the entire seam. The gorgeous arch of his nose presses up into your clit, and you moan, one hand flailing backways as it slides against the fogged-up window. 

"Zayne, fucking hell, just eat me out properly!" The curses tumble out of your mouth before you can think of the repercussions, but there was no way he could keep eating you out through the material, no matter how good it felt.

"So desperate." Zayne mumbles between open-mouthed kisses to your cunt, "So needy."

"Fuck- please," You draw one hand through his hair, pulling his face closer. "Please, please, please-"

"Poor thing. I suppose it would be against my oath to leave my patient in such pain." And he roughly presses his thumb up against the hood of your clit.

You sob, hands scrambling for something- anything- to hold on to as they slip down the window and dig into the leather of the seats. But Zayne was nothing if not observant from your last night together, and it doesn't take long for you to cum as soon as his mouth latches onto your poor neglected cunt through your panties. 

Still riding out each trembling wave of your orgasm, Zayne doesn’t fight the way your thighs clench around his head, kissing you through it until he readjusts your legs against his shoulders, forcing you higher onto your upper back. His fingers toy with the edge of the fabric, pleased with the way it sticks to your skin. 

All you can focus on is his breathing, heavy and fast, as he stares down at your cunt so intensely it makes you blush, helplessly exposed with your thighs pinned across his broad shoulders. Spread for him like every inch of the offering he intended on devouring you as. His goddess, his sacrificial lamb. Gods, he wants to know how every part of you tastes.

Zayne’s cock twitches again, and he shudders violently, a fat glob of precum falling onto the leather seats below, mixing with your slick that has already slid down his chin and your thighs.

If left alone, no doubt it’ll stain. 

“Look at the mess you made.” Zayne scolds, forcing your jaw to the side so you can see the puddle staining the seats. You whimper, and Zayne shakes his head.  “Well, we can’t just leave it. I suppose I’ll have to teach you to take responsibility for your actions.” 

Your hips jump. It's so hard to focus when he's talking like that, and the only coherent thought you can muster is that Zayne would be a fantastic writer if he ever decided to switch professions.

But he begins to shift you around, and your brows furrow as Zayne’s hand dips between the two of you, down to the leather, sweeping across the splattered mix of cum with two fingers before forcing your jaw towards him again. 

“Clean up your mess.” 

You think something is permanently fucked in your brain with the way your cunt flutters at that. 

Zayne’s unyielding face stares down at you, his dripping fingers pressed against your lips as you wrap around them and suck. It’s heady, the scent of sex overwhelming as Zayne practically fucks the digits into your mouth, sliding them against your tongue until you gag, thumb tracing loving circles against your bottom lip as though coaxing you to take them deeper. 

Only after gagging twice more does Zayne take mercy on you, withdrawing his fingers from your mouth. Instead, the pads of his fingers press against your tongue, and you take the hint, beginning to suck at them until the taste of you disappears. 

His fingers slip from your mouth, a trail of spit connecting his fingers and your mouth before Zayne breaks it. Your tongue flicks out to swipe at the excess drool, and he wipes your bottom lip. 

“Good girl, tasting just how desperate you are.” Every word of praise Zayne whispers goes straight to your cunt, nearly making you dizzy until he finally sits back. 

“And now…” he finally moves to push the ruined fabric to the side, “I get to taste, too.”

The feeling of his hot tongue directly on your slit nearly has you in tears, and your hand lurches into Zayne’s hair to force him closer. 

“No pulling. Behave,” Zayne warns. “This is still meant to be discipline for your earlier stunt on the road.”

Whimpering, you nod, parted lips swollen and shiny from the abuse Zayne put them under with his fingers. Satisfied, Zayne finally gives you what you need, kissing the swollen flesh of your clit directly before curling two fingers into your aching cunt. 

“Zayne-”

He’s addicted to the way you say his name. He’s addicted, and he’s going to come in his pants if you don’t stop. 

You begin begging again before Zayne covers your mouth with the palm of his hand, muffled cries still enough to drive him insane as he focuses on getting you past that high. 

Despite his threats, you can’t help but tug at Zayne’s hair, needing him against you as your hips began moving or their own accord, bucking and grinding senselessly against his face until you were practically riding his tongue. Chest heaving, you looked up to see him staring directly at you, silhouetted from the car window, green eyes nearly aglow with wretched desire.

Just like that, you’re coming, hard, thighs clenching down around Zayne’s head until he’s certain you’re trying to kill him. But gods, he never wants you to stop.

Addicted, Zayne presses open mouthed kisses to your cunt, swallowing everything you give him as his eyes roll back.

Desperate, you try to crawl away from him, but there’s nowhere to go. Your head hits the car door before Zayne drags you right back, forcing your hips up higher as your back is arched into the air, nearly perpendicular as you sob, legs kicking over his shoulders. 

But still, Zayne continues, and he knows. He feels it the moment your thighs lock up, the way your stomach goes tight and the way your senseless pleading still muffled by his palm reaches a higher pitch. And he takes advantage, not letting up as he curls his fingers until your cunt clenches down on his digits and tongue, squirting into his mouth.  

Almost in apology, Zayne finally withdraws his fingers as he opts to instead clean you directly with his tongue, nose accidentally overstimulating your swollen clit as you weakly fight to push his head away.

Zayne takes the hint this time, lowering your sore legs onto the seats below, finally set on a solid surface after being held in the air for so long. The slit of your dress is askew across your stomach instead of thigh, and Zayne gently tugs it back into place.

Leaning down, he picks up your forgotten heel before slipping it back into your foot, buckling it as you shiver every time his fingers brush your ankle. 

When Zayne finally faces you again, the lower half of his face is a complete mess, and you should be mortified never having squirted before let alone on your mentor’s face. 

Lonely star, who do you shine for?

The weight of all your pasts- of all your futures- the guilt and pride you carry will only cause you to collapse, and all that will be left will be an all-consuming black hole. 

Your desperation won’t bring your sun back. 

Lonely king, don’t you know a kingdom devoid of life is a crown devoid of purpose?

You were the fire that left them, and all you have to show for the betrayal is a drowned memory and a heart wrenched from your chest, a broken promise and a forgotten story. 

You’ve changed with each lifetime, but you’ll forever be at the mercy of fate. 

And you? You’re the very curse that haunts them. 

Claws, so cold they burn, emerge from the darkness before piercing through flesh, tearing through muscle and bone as they dig into your ribcage, dragging you down into the shadows. Drowning, falling. You’re spiraling through lifetimes of failure, lifetimes of pain both your own and not, all while the claws dig closer and closer to your heart, clutching the muscle like a songbird in a cage. 

It’s the price, the price you must pay for all this pain you’ve caused, for dooming a star and killing a god. 

The clawed hand wraps around your heart, the piercing into the fluttering pulse faster and faster until—

You wake up crying. 

A hot trail of tears slides into the pillows, and a sniffle rakes through your body, the sudden movement causing a subtle disturbance to the two forms still sound asleep on either side of you. 

Funny, you can’t remember a thing, but there’s a painful throb in your chest. You’ll take another dose of your heart medicine in the morning. 

But for now, your bedroom is still dulled by the pale blue moonlight filtering through the curtains, and you’re in no hurry to get out of the warm covers and their embrace. 

The nightmares have become routine at this point. You never remember what they are, but you wake up with a sense of fear and dread, as though you can feel the pain all over again. It’s best not to think too much about it.

Taking a deep breath and closing your eyes, you inhale shakily one last time, trying to shake off the looming feeling when the arm around your waist shifts, tugging lightly at your loose sleep shirt before slipping under to massage the skin beneath. You let out a soft sigh, a light shudder going through your body as the gentle hands work away the tension.

“The same?” Rafayel’s words are slurred with sleep and concern, hot breath dancing along the crook of your neck as he props himself up on his elbow. You nod.

Rafayel makes a small, displeased noise before his other arm pulls you closer, his bare chest now flush against your back. The sudden movement forces Xavier, who was once tucked against your shoulder, further away, grumbling at the loss even in his sleep.

His face scrunches, brows furrowed together before the corners of his lips turn downward, and he blindly reaches for you. He eventually finds the curve of your waist, and his hand tightens on the fabric of your shirt as it slides in above Rafayel’s.

A huff, and Xavier buries his face back into your chest, his warm breath tickling you. And then, gentle snores— you should've known better than to think that would be enough to wake him.

Rafayel, still pressed firmly against your back, begins to move, propping his body up just enough to look you in the eyes as he wipes a stray tear from your cheek. "Wanna talk about it, cutie?"

“I… I think you were there, both of you. But it felt lonely, painful.”

Rafayel's face contorts into a worried expression, his hand moves down your cheek, cupping your jaw, and you lean into his warm caress with a sigh.

You place a kiss on his palm. "It's okay, just a scary dream. Nothing real. Nothing to worry about." You repeat it, more to yourself than Rafayel, but his arms wrap around you anyway.

And yet Rafayel looks at you with a deep furrow in his brow, a seriousness you’ve almost never seen on him.

You give him a questioning look, but his lips press to yours in a searing kiss, stealing the air from your lungs. He pulls away only for a second, whispering sweet nothings against your skin before returning his lips to yours, the hand cradling your face slipping down to rest on your hip.

He kisses you softly, gently. First pressing a trail of light, chaste kisses along your jaw, the corners of your mouth, and nose, then moving back to your lips. “We’ll never leave you. We’d tear through every universe, every destiny to get back to you.”

Strange, how Rafayel says it with all the reverence of a vow. 

You want to tease him for the sudden declaration, for making all this fuss over a stupid dream, but you never have the opportunity, not when Rafayel's signature smirk settles back onto his lips. 

His hand slides down to your thighs, fingers teasing around the band of your sleep shorts, toying, pressing, but never crossing the self-imposed boundary of your clothes. “Unless, you’d prefer it if I proved it to you?”

“Rafayel,” you warn, hoping your narrowed glare would dissuade him.

Of course the man only seems to take that as a challenge, smile widening as you flinch at the cold touch creeping under your shirt. One palm traces up your ribcage, long, nimble fingers rubbing circles against your skin until he brushes the underside of your breast. 

You shudder, hissing out another string of curses before turning around so your back is to Rafayel. 

Really, you should know better than to think that alone would be enough, and a hot trail of kisses now joins his wandering hands down your shoulder blade. They start innocent enough, sweet, lingering touches along the hem of your shirt, but that quickly changes when Rafayel’s arm under your shirt practically yanks it up, sucking wet, messy kisses into the bare curves of your chest.

Each nip against your sensitive flesh forces the possibility of sleep further and further away, and you resort to distracting yourself with the motionless silhouette of Xavier. Petting through his hair, your rhythm is jolted every time Rafayel decides to leave a mark, nails pulling through Xavier’s locks as you bite your lip on a moan.

You don't miss the curve of his smirk against your skin, and the next kiss is accompanied by a bite, hard enough to elicit a sharp gasp that stirs Xavier. Tense, you scan the blonde's face, but he's nothing if not a heavy sleeper, and he nuzzles further into your touch, still unconscious as his head tucks under yours.

You don't get to sigh in relief. Instead, a whine builds in your throat, the wet heat of Rafayel's teeth tugging on the strap of your underwear as he fists your sleep shorts down.

"Rafayel, stop it,” you hiss as his hot breath hits the already embarrassingly damp center of your underwear.

His smile grows, lips brushing against your clothed core as he tilts his head. “Hmm? But you don’t sound like you want me to stop. And she certainly doesn’t sound like it either.” Two fingers dip under the band, and he parts your cunt with a lewd click.

Your face flushes in embarrassment, refusing to acknowledge just how easily your body gives in to them. One hand leaves Xavier, roughly fisting into Rafayel’s curls as he groans from the sharp pressure. “That’s because you and Xavier refused to wear protection!” 

The accusation earns a hushed laugh, his shoulders shaking against the insides of your thighs. It would have been innocent, the same contagious sort of smile gracing Rafayel’s face, if not the shadows cast across his face in the dark, teeth gleaming like fangs as he traces his tongue up the entire length of your clothed cunt. 

"M’sorry, we thought you'd enjoy the mess," he says, words muffled over your thighs, nose practically buried in between. "How can I make it up to you, cutie?”

You don’t get a chance to respond, not when Rafayel’s tongue dives into your clothed cunt, moaning against the soaked fabric as you gasp and force him closer by his hair. To muffle his sounds, you tell yourself. A pathetic lie considering how much louder he gets now, nose grinding up against your clit as his tongue tries to press into your fluttering cunt even with the barrier of cloth in between. 

God, he’s addicted, and it doesn’t take long until Rafayel’s spit and your slick soak through your underwear, the near-translucent fabric sticking to your lips as the bare minimum friction nearly drives you insane. 

“Say it,” Rafayel whines, nuzzling his face against your inner thigh. “Please, just tell me how badly you want me. Tell me, and I’ll do anything you ask.”

Like he wouldn’t already.

But how could you ever deny him when he begs so sweetly? 

Your palm cups his face, watching his near-wrecked expression and flushed skin tremble beneath your fingers.  “I’m yours, Rafayel.”

And the fabric is ripped into pieces. 

Refusing to even breathe, Rafayel places an opened-mouth kiss on your cunt, lapping up your slick with the most satisfied moan. He doesn't waste any time, not while your confession coated his mind with the sweetest type of intoxication, eating you out like he was depraved.

He might as well have been with how he moans, hips grinding desperately against the edge of the mattress, his not-entirely human tongue curling in and out of you as it writhes with terrifying accuracy against your walls.

It feels too good to be ashamed of the noises you make, gasping and crying out until you slam your palm over your mouth, biting down hard as the other claws into Rafayel’s hair. You can barely control yourself, half fighting to squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure, half rocking your hips up and down his face as you jerk him closer. 

“Mhm, greedy.” Fucked-out, broken little grunts leave his throat before his words are muffled into your cunt, not baring to part for even a breath. “Pull on it, please. Harder.” 

You tug Rafayel’s hair almost in vengeance when he purposefully kisses away from where you need him most, licking and sucking obscenely into your thighs just to hear your frustrated cries even over your hand. 

He loved being used like this, so long as it was you. 

So long as it was him that turned you into such a beautiful, pathetic mess. 

It's not long until Rafayel pulls you close to the edge, nose pressing against your clit while thrusting his tongue into you, eyes rolling back from the taste and from the thought of your tight heat fluttering around his cock instead. 

And then, he stops, pulling away and leaving you gasping into the tear-stained pillow.

You bite back a sob, releasing only a choked little noise that has Rafayel's eyes flicking up to your face, the soft, concerned look in his eyes melting into something far more dangerous.

With viciously dilated pupils and your slick dripping from his mouth, Rafayel stares you down as every inch the dangerous siren the legends claimed him to be. He smiles, tongue raking over his teeth as though he couldn’t get enough of your taste, and you swear you’d let him eat your heart and soul. Gods, you’d let him eat you whole. 

You realize you must have made a sound, because Rafayel hushes you, pressing quick kisses to your knee. "Aw, what happened to being quiet? Aren't you afraid we'll wake the poor sleeping bunny?" 

At the mention of your other partner, you turn to where Xavier’s nuzzling his face further into your side, each warm breath damp against your feverish skin, still lost to the realm of dreams.

Not that Rafayel allows your attention to turn away from himself for too long. 

He leans over Xavier, the hand that wasn’t supporting his weight cupping your face, and his lips are crashing into yours with all the viciousness of a summer seastorm. Your lips part, and Rafeyel fucks his tongue into your mouth the same he did your pussy, wet and desperate, the taste of yourself enough to make you dizzy. 

"Tell me,” Rafayel’s tone dips into something darker, kissing down your throat and stomach as he eyes Xavier. “Who’s the better lover?" 

Xavier's fingers flex, the tips brushing against the curve of your breast as he sleeps, and Rafayel's smile is almost predatory.

"D-don't ask stupid questions you dumb fish," your voice cracks as Rafayel's mouth ghosts over your cunt, teeth bared to your thigh, threatening to bite. "I chose you both."

The confession, as expected, doesn't please him. If anything, he seems overly offended, pouting and huffing a cold breath of air right against your aching core. The chill makes you squirm, trying to force him back to your center with the grip you have on his hair.

"No. Nope. That's not an answer."

"Raf–"

His name breaks off in a moan, sound ripped from your throat as Rafayel's thumb starts rubbing firm circles around your neglected clit. He doesn't relent, the pressure too much, too quick, your body already trembling from the pleasure Rafayel knows how to torture you with.

Only, it seems that all your sudden noise and movement have finally begun to affect Xavier. Not enough to wake him, but enough that you can hear his breathing become heavier, following your every twitch and buck from Rafayel’s onslaught as his body begins to grind into yours.

Mumbling into your neck, Xavier’s hand tightens around your waist before slipping under your shirt to palm your breasts, squeezing and kneading until the touch has you keening.

Xavier's still fast asleep, nonsensical words slurred against your skin, and yet his body is now far from it. His erection is thick and heavy against your hips, grinding desperately into your warmth almost in time to Rafayel’s ministrations, whimpering under his breath with every forceful thrust. 

Rafayel notices too, his gaze drifting up to the blond. You can't see his face, already busied between your legs once more, but a pleased hum vibrates through his entire body, fingers finally slipping into your cunt as he curls them just right, your back arching off the sheets with a silent scream. 

Xavier whines at your sudden thrashing, tugging you closer and unknowingly forcing you immobile and at complete mercy to Rafayel’s unfairly skilled fingers. "Mhm, so warm. Please, m’want to..." Another needy, slow grind against you follows his sleepy request. 

"Rafayel," you choke out a muffled plea, but his eyes only narrow, taking a breath as his free hand grabs at Xavier's ass, the touch just light enough to tease and make him rut harder against you.

"What is it, cutie? Don't pretend like you don't want more, not when your pretty pussy's drooling for his cock. She’s so needy, am I not enough?”

Rafayel rests his head on the inside of your thigh, fingers thrusting roughly into that sweet spongy spot inside you just as his other hand wraps around the base of Xavier's cock through his boxers, thumbing over the pre-cum staining the dark fabric. 

You're forced to bite down on the pillow beneath your head to stop the desperate cry tearing itself out of your throat. "This isn’t- ah- isn’t right."

"Isn't it? You’re dripping and the little bunny’s still asleep, yet look how desperate he is, rutting against you." Rafayel's voice dips, a raspy edge from his throat still fucking into you making it even more sinful, slurping everything you give him around his fingers before it drips down his wrist and into a puddle below. A huff, “I should get rewarded with how much effort I’m putting in.”

You cry out, legs trembling as his thumb begins its relentless attack on your clit, tracing mindless circles just random enough to keep you on edge. You're close, and Rafayel can feel it.

Xavier isn’t faring much better, whimpering a string of incoherent pleas into the crook of your neck as his hips keep rocking into the fist around him. He doesn't take his mouth away from the skin of your shoulder, biting down on it as he cums, shuddering and whimpering as the mess splatters down Rafayel's knuckles and onto your thighs. 

“You’re next. If you won’t be honest with me, I’ll make your body is.” Rafayel’s taunt is the last coherent thing you remember before you come. Hard. His words ring against your skull as his fingers pump into you faster, and the pressure against your clit becomes almost unbearable, and you're falling apart, crying and thrashing, the only thing keeping you grounded is the feeling of Rafayel's weight and the scent of Xavier's strawberry shampoo, and then—

Rafayel finally shuts up to let you ride his face through your high, letting you use him as your thighs lock around his head, grinding desperately as though he were no more than a toy. No chance of breathing, no chance of escape. 

Not that he could care less, not as long as he could keep his lips around your gushing cunt, humming and sucking into your release as cum sprays over his tongue and down his chin. Gods, he could never get enough of this.

You're still shaking through your orgasm, pliant and stupid from the dizzying pleasure, that you don't notice the rustle of sheets until a second pair of hands slide down your thighs. 

"You’re doing this without me?" 

Xavier’s voice is a whisper, husky from sleep and his orgasm as he presses a kiss right below your ear, fingers squeezing rougher against your breasts.

"S-sorry. Didn't want to wake you," you try, biting back a gasp when his thumb flicks over a nipple. Rough. Mean. 

Rafayel snorts. "I think it's a bit too late for that.” A glare at Xavier over your leg, showing off your cum still dripping from his lips and fingers. ”Besides, I didn't need you."

You want to argue, really, but then Xavier is grabbing a fistful of your hair, tugging just hard enough to push your head back, coaxing a moan from your throat as he marks down your neck with kisses intending to bruise. He’s pouting, grabbing your jaw as he forces your gaze away from Rafayel, nipping your bottom lip until you surrender to his drowsy advances.

“Why…” Another kiss before Xavier's licking desperately into your mouth, “Why didn't you wake me?"

The question comes out a little breathless, almost petulant, eyes hooded and dark as he looks over the mess Rafayel has made of you. He can't tear his eyes away, watching Rafayel even as he kisses you. His fingers flick over your nipple again, twisting and pinching until you're shaking, your thighs squeezing Rafayel's face, all while Xavier watches.

Said man only smiles, all smug arrogance. "Didn't you hear her, Xav? She said she didn't want to wake you, so don't blame me."

Rafayel drags a wet, open-mouthed kiss over your cunt, the overstimulation making you break the kiss with a gasp.

"Liar." Xavier's voice trembles, and you can't tell if he's referring to Rafayel's words, or the way he's staring longingly at Rafayel's lips now, still slick with your release. "You just wanted her all to yourself."

He doesn't bother giving Rafayel a chance to retort, taking the punishment out on you as he dips his head underneath your folded-up shirt, groaning as his hot tongue rolls over your nipple, sucking at the stiff peak as his hand continues to assault the other. The onslaught has you whimpering, pushing and clawing against Xavier’s shoulder to try and fight him off as he refuses to let go for even a moment. 

Rafayel's not one to be ignored, not when he has the advantage, and his tongue is back to fucking into your cunt with no reprieve, a cruel smirk on his face as you writhe and beg for their mercy.

Your hips roll, torn between pleasure and oversensitivity, unable to escape either of the men. It's overwhelming. Too much, too quickly, you only just came and you're already getting dragged back.

"Ah! Stop, I'm already mhm—"

You're interrupted by Xavier's tongue slipping into your mouth, a filthy, lazy slide that makes you grind up into Rafayel's tongue. It's like he doesn't even need to breathe, the wet, sloppy sounds of him eating you out drowned out only by the sound of Xavier kissing you senseless, pausing just to nip and suck at your breasts as though he'll get rewarded if he just tries hard enough. 

"You want him to stop? Is the mermaid not enough to satisfy you, princess?" Xavier taunts, lips brushing against your ear as his hips push up, grinding his cock against your thigh. "If that's the case, perhaps we should switch. I can give you exactly what you want, remember?"

“Shut up, I’m the one making her cum.”

“Only cause I wasn’t awake yet.”

“You snooze, you lose. Whose fault is that? Oh ya, yours.” 

They're at each other's throats yet again, practically clawing and snapping at each other, and you're helpless to try and intervene when they take their faux anger out on your poor abused body. 

You can't think, can't focus, can't do anything but shake and pant and sob into the pillow, their combined weight on top of you, forcing your pleasure higher and higher. 

“Xav—" He cuts you off with a kiss. 

“Shh, just take it."

You can't even tell who’s sloppier anymore- Xavier fucking your mouth with his tongue or Rafayel still eating you through your second orgasm, the sudden hit of it thundering down your body. 

“You look so pretty when you come," Xavier moans into your lips, his eyes half-lidded and glazed, hand coming up to stroke your cheek as he watches you, a sharp contrast to the other still rolling against your swollen nipple, loving the way you jerk into his touch. Then a glare to the man below. "My turn.”

Your body is still trembling, Rafayel's merciless fingers not allowing you to come down from your high, aftershocks of hypersensitivity crashing down your spine as every muscle spasms. No more. No more, please. You can’t possibly come again. 

You don't realize you’re begging out loud, not until Xavier shushes you with another bruising kiss. 

But it doesn't seem like Rafayel has any plans on stopping, not until Xavier’s hand skims down your thighs and yanks him up by the chain of his necklace. 

Rafayel growls as he's practically forced off your weeping cunt, eyes bleary and unfocused as he fights the blond's grip. And god, he looks absolutely wrecked, spit and cum dripping from his mouth and chin, connecting his lips to your pussy in sticky wet strands before they break, and you feel the unmistakable bulge of his cock straining against his soaked boxers. 

Xavier yanks him forward, pulling the necklace chain until he crashes his lips onto Rafayel's, all teeth and tongue, desperate to get a taste of your cum from his mouth. It's filthy, and Rafayel is the first to give in, still drunk off your taste and now Xavier's too.

"Mhm, you taste like her," Xavier whispers, pulling him closer until their bodies are pressed together, his mouth still moving against Rafayel's swollen, parted lips.

"Ya?" Rafayel’s grin is predatory, all fang and sin. "You wanna try too, don’t you? Give in then, bunny, lie down for us.”

"I don't take orders from you." 

Xavier scowls against Rafayel's lips, but you can feel his resolve breaking, his arm trembling where it rests against your thigh. 

"No, you take them from her, and she asked us so, so nicely to make her come. You wouldn't dare deny her that, would you?”

The Lemurian is nothing if not dangerously persistent, one hand coaxing Xavier backward so gently you don’t think he realizes how easily he’s falling, the other clawing down his abs as Rafayel bites against the erratic thud of Xavier’s pulse. Sharp and bruising, a silent promise for what to come. "Or do you wanna eat her out like I did? Have her ride your face while I fuck into her poor, desperate cunt? I can't decide, there are so many options."

“No.” It’s more a plea than a demand. Xavier's voice shakes with need, and you watch, dizzy and panting, as Rafayel's fingers slip underneath the waistband of Xavier's boxers. His fingers, still dripping with your cum, brush down the length of his cock, thumb circling the sensitive head and smearing the copious amount of pre-cum leaking from it. “You had y-your turn.” 

He can hardly finish his objection, not when Rafayel’s thumb comes up to abuse his leaking slit, Xavier’s words slurring into a desperate whine as he practically collapses back onto his elbows. Immediately, Rafayel is atop him.

"A competition, then." Rafayel leans down to whisper into Xavier's ear, but the words are purposefully teased out loud enough for you to hear, “But you lose if you cum first, and I get to fuck her.”

It's a low blow, a challenge he knows Xavier can't turn down. 

A challenge that somehow has you poised once again as the torment and the reward.

And it's true, because the second the words register, the blond's eyes shoot open, and his cock jerks violently against Rafeyel’s palm, a broken sound leaving his lips as his eyes lock back onto yours with all the promise of a starving hunter.

"Deal.”

Xavier doesn't allow the agreement to go without a price. Something snaps, the bedroom flickering with a sudden darkness as all the light vanishes. 

One moment, you’re lying against the bed, and the next Xavier manhandles you to your knees, one hand forcing your arms behind your back as he tugs you against him, the other pinning Rafayel to the mattress.

Rafayel’s the very picture of smug sin, the feral expression far more genuine, less threatening and much more amused as he nestles further into the pillows, one arm tucked lazily behind his head. 

Cold fingers dance up your hips, and Rafayel drags your bare cunt over his thighs and onto his lap, a pleased sigh escaping his lips as you're pinned deliciously between his cock and Xavier's sculpted back.

"So needy, little bunny."

"Shut up. I'm not the one who's leaking."

Rafayel snorts, and before the two can start fighting again, you're leaning forward, a hand resting against Rafayel's abs as you cup his erection through his boxers. And when he moans you believe every myth, every fairytale singing the doom of sailors to a siren song, because every sound he gives you is addictive and sweet enough that you’d drown to hear it again. 

Pulling Rafayel's cock out from his boxers, you’re stunned yet again by the slightly non-human beauty of it, heavy and thick in your palm, the flushed, ruddy tip already drooling precum as you thumb at it in vengeance. You know Xavier's watching from the way his own cock twitches against your back, hands digging bruises into your hips. Then, the warmth at your back disappears. 

Instead, a pair of hands drag your ass up, forcing you into a deep arch as you scramble for purchase against Rafayel’s thigh and the bed below.

“Closer.” Xavier’s hand laces into your hair as he pushes your head down, forcing your mouth to nuzzle against the base of Rafayel's cock. 

The movement pulls a gasp from both of you, your hot breath teasing the sensitive skin of Rafayel's shaft and forcing a shudder from his entire body. 

Seeing the two of you completely at his mercy does terrible, horrible things to Xavier, and his fingers dig bruises into your hips as it takes him everything not to forgo the competition and fuck you right there. 

"Good girl,” he hums, voice trembling as his grip tightens against your hair, giving you a harsh glare when you whine and squirm in his hold. "Now open."

You can't bring yourself to say no, not when the sight of Rafayel's eyes rolling back the second you do makes your stomach clench. His cock twitches against you as you lick at the copious amounts of cum leaking from his tip, then obediently wrap your lips around him.

With a smile that would have you shaking, Xavier leans down, barely able to continue guiding your head as he’s entranced with the mess between your legs, licking up the slick dripping down your thighs as he sucks against the delicate flesh, marking right over the sensitive bruises Rafayel had only just left behind. 

 “This- hah-” Rafayel curses under his breath, the single word breaking off into a moan, the sound muffled by his palm as his chest heaves. “This is hardly fair.”

But his complaints feel half-hearted, not with the way he’s already rutting into your mouth, Xavier’s iron grip keeping you in place as Rafayel thrusts himself into your mouth in one breath. You yield pathetically quick, flattening your tongue against the slick underside of his cock, another stream of pre-cum flooding your mouth as you nearly choke on it all, unable to pull off to even take a breath as Xavier guides your head up and down in a steady rhythm that has Rafayel falling apart. 

It’s cruel, but you can't help each pathetic moan that gets muffed onto Rafayel’s cock, the vibrations forcing his back to arch off the bed, head rolling back as it thuds against the pillows, Adam's apple bobbing as he gulps in shallow breaths.

You almost wish he would let you see his eyes, but then you'd miss the view of his chest, every muscle tight and twitching under his skin, the mesmerizing sight now blurry from the tears forming in your eyes. You can't resist reaching up, dragging your nails down his abs, watching his body jerk against every new line of red.

"Please,” you're not sure if the broken whimper belonged to Rafayel or yourself. “Please, I can't wait anymore, wanna feel you— fuck— wanna fill you up again, please let me cum." It's like just the very thought has Rafayel keening, his hips jerking up into your hot mouth with reckless abandon as Xavier forces your spine up into a deeper arch.

You're nearly bent in half, the new angle leaving no part of you hidden from Xavier's hungry gaze as he watches you practically drool over Rafayel’s cock, lips meeting his pelvis as he breaches your throat. 

Xavier’s going to win. He needs to win. 

The thought makes him frantic, tongue fucking past the tight resistance of your cunt, his hand sliding up to tease at your clit. He won't be the one to finish first, not this time. Not when he's wanted nothing more than to feel your cunt gushing around him ever since Rafayel woke him up, ever since the two of you had the audacity to start this without him.

Rafayel can’t last much longer, especially not when you bring one shaking hand down to massage his swollen balls, hardly in control of your own movements as you feel dizzy on the addictive combination from the lack of oxygen and pleasure as Xavier begins to eat you out like a man starved. 

The room’s filled with the sounds of each slick, messy movement, whimpers from the man beneath you and breathless pleas from the one behind, bed rattling with every thrust. 

And yet you’re still so painfully empty. So, so, empty as your cunt flutters around Xavier’s tongue before he relents to kiss your clit once more, dragging a dissatisfied whine from you as you fight yourself off Rafayel’s cock. 

"F-fuck me. Please," A sob, and you feel both Rafayel and Xavier shudder. "It’s not enough. Want your cocks inside me, wanna cum on it. Need it, please-"

Oh, and when you beg like that, they should have known they never would have stood a chance.

"Shit."

"Ah, please-"

It's a blur. A rush of hands, of pleasure and pain, all of it colliding and dragging you to the edge. The room spins, the ceiling above you falling until the familiar, comforting feeling of slick muscle embraces you, grounding you as you focus on the erratic heartbeat between each ragged exhale. 

You're still sandwiched between them, lying on Rafayel as Xavier's weight drapes across your back, head propped up on the former's chest as you stare blearily at his silver pendant, unable to move. You're not even sure if you can, not with the way Xavier's still gripping the backs of your thighs, spreading you open as he forces one leg higher up.

Then, the blunt head of his cock grinds between your folds.

Xavier’s pressing his forehead against your back, wrapping his arms around you before biting into the crook of your neck. "You mean it? You’ll let us come inside again?"

Rafayel laughs, a raspy sound still raw from his orgasm. "Well, we both lost. Now what, bunny? We can't just leave her like this, poor thing is trembling." 

"Mhm,” Xavier forces you up, “We both fuck her then."

His words only make you whimper, body jerking uselessly against Xavier's grip. His hands lift you as Rafayel flips you around so you're now facing the blond, flinching violently as his cock brushes your swollen clit, any semblance of protest quelled as Xavier pulls you into another messy kiss. 

It’s demanding, Xavier mumbling achingly sweet praises into your open mouth as he begins to press you down, faster, harsher, forcing you onto Rafayel’s lap in a reverse cowgirl as you slide down slowly, taking inch by inch of Rafayel’s throbbing cock. There’s hardly any blue left in Xavier’s blow-out pupils, too mesmerized by the slick mess you’re gushing down their thighs. And just when you begin to squirm, impatient and desperate, Xavier slows their pace even more.

"Shhh, we need to make sure you'll be able to take both of us."

Rafayel's hand is wrapped around your waist, thumb rubbing small circles into your stomach, and if it weren't for Xavier's arms locked around you, holding you upright, you would have collapsed the second Rafayel pressed into the spot his fingers had found.

"Look at you," he purrs, a low sound that has you gasping. "So pretty when you’re needy. Can you feel me?"

It's hard not to. Everywhere feels warm, and every slow thrust, no matter how gentle, has a small burst of ecstasy building in your stomach, a wave crashing higher and higher as the two of them slowly fuck you full. Just as you’re nearly seated all the way onto Rafayel’s length, Xavier’s palms come up to the back of your knees, folding them up and forcing you backward until you’re practically lying prone atop of Rafayel.

Your head lolls uselessly against Rafayel's neck, gasping at the force of the new position,  and you're not sure if it's the tears in your eyes or the overwhelming pressure against your walls as they stretch around his cock that's making the world so blurry. Xavier soon follows you down, pressing you closer into Rafayel’s chest as his lips trail your jaw, your neck, your sucking against every sensitive spot behind your ears until you're distracted from the pain.

"You're doing so good, princess. Just a little more."

The sudden onslaught of pressure of both of you atop him has Rafayel flinching, and he hisses out a pained moan, hips jerking up into the slick heat of your pussy, and it's only Xavier's grip that keeps the two of you from slipping off.

"Hah- hurry up-" Rafayel's eyes are glassy, his head tipped back and face twisted in pleasure. 

Strings of incoherent pleas are whispered against your ear, Rafayel marking up the left side of your neck while Xavier’s still busy with the right, that is, until Xavier switches sides, biting right over Rafayel’s marks until he’s pulled up into a desperate kiss.

The wet sounds of their lips are filthy and obscene, each hot breath and moan brushing past your ear as you writhe, pressed between them. Rafayel's cock is already swelling, twitching against the fluttering walls of your pussy, unwilling to fully pull out, settling to just grinding up in slow, cruel thrusts before something in him snaps and he switches to pounding against your abused walls.

Every time you think you’ll finally come Rafayel switches pace, the obscene slap of skin on skin muffled only by your sobs and their kissing. 

You’re close, so so fucking close you feel your muscles begin to shake. Xavier only pushes you down further, every angle a new cruelty, smothering you between them, rendering you unable to do anything but take it.

Again, Rafayel slows, and you slur curses down at him as your thighs tremble from overstimulation, shaking violently until you feel something grab your calf. Xavier massages the quivering muscle, gentle until he’s suddenly pressing your knee higher and higher, going until it’s pinned to the mattress up against your head.

And now Rafayel is hitting impossibly deeper, abusing your poor g-spot with each thrust. 

Xavier kisses your ankle, then calf, making his way up your leg until he can nip at your inner thighs now folded over his shoulder. And then you feel the pressure of his cock at your already full entrance. Xavier’s hand dips down between your bodies, trying to bully himself in alongside Rafayel, but his cock slides past your navel, slick and covered in your combined cum. 

"No, no no, not gonna fit- ah- Xavier!"

Your words break off into a wail as he tries again, grinding closer so you’re tightly cradled between the two, Xavier leaning fully atop you both. A snarl grits through his jaw when his cock slips past again, readjusting you so your legs fall apart wider, the burn in your thighs turning delicious and overwhelming, pussy weeping around Rafayel’s cock as Xavier’s swollen, leaking head bumps against your clit. 

Xavier watches the mess, every thrust and messy squirt of cum, brows furrowed and flushed a deep red, as he whines into your shoulder, "Please- can't stop- please let me fuck you too, you'll look so pretty with both of us filling you up, taking us so good- don’t make me stop."

He’s reduced to babbling against your neck, biting down hard enough to bleed when your cunt finally yields to him too, cockhead bumping into Rafayel’s as he slowly pushes in inch and inch, trembling from the combined pleasure of your walls and the violent throbbing of every vein now grinding together.

It's too much, it’s not enough, the stretch and the friction and the pressure leaving you fucked stupid, hands scrambling for purchase. Rafayel grunts when your nails drag across his thighs, his own hands coming to latch onto your wrists, pinning them above his head, forcing you motionless between them.

You can do nothing but sob, tears streaming down your face as your entire body convulses. And when they finally, finally bottom out together, the world goes white.

"Shh, you're alright," Rafayel soothes, although his voice is trembling, the sound broken as he tries to catch his breath. "Doing so well for us, cutie, so perfect."

Xavier growls, his hands grabbing the headboard. He's barely holding on, not with the way Rafayel's cock twitches against his own, your hot walls clenched tightly around the two of them as you beg.

"Please, can't- too much, more, I need-"

There's a broken sob, and then Xavier’s slamming his hips forward, fucking into you with a brutality he usually saves for Rafayel, the force sending the three of you rocking against the mattress, headboard splintering under the strength of his grip. The other leaves to thumb at your nipples, lips following suit as he rambles, drunk off your pussy, "These would look s'pretty filled, even more sensitive. Bet you'd let us milk you, fill you up even more."

"And here, you'll feel us here too, won't you?" A hand moves lower- whose you no longer are coherent enough to care- brushing over the swell of your abdomen, the slight bulge appearing and disappearing where both of them are thrusting violently into you. "Be a waste not to. Imagine it, a painted mess filled with us.”

And you are. You can't think about anything else, not with the way they're stuffing you full— every time Rafayel's cock would settle near your g-spot Xavier’s would ram back in, forcing the former up against your cervix before pulling out entirely, repeating the vicious rhythm as the pain bled into pleasure. 

Tears stream down the side of your face, room spinning into dizziness until all that remains are the burning trails of their touch, the only things keeping you grounded. 

Rafayel's sucking into your shoulder, biting the sweat-slicked flesh, and you can feel his hips begin to stutter underneath you, already reaching his high despite Xavier still pounding into you with the same intensity, desperate to catch up.

The moment Xavier feels Rafayel's release, it's over. Your back arches up against him, convulsing against their hold, your abused walls clenching down so tightly that you’re practically begging for them to come inside, sucking them in deeper and deeper until it’s impossible for them not to follow.

It's a violent orgasm, hot squirt of your cum drenching Xavier’s abs, the intensity of it causing Rafayel’s vision to white out too, unable to hear the desperate sounds of your moans, not when his blood is rushing past his ears.

Then, the world comes crashing back.

Rafayel’s panting, still thrusting weakly into the slick, tight heat as he emptied himself inside you, the sheer overload of it gushing down your legs and onto the sheets. 

"Ah- Xavier," you whine, the sound muffled into his chest as Xavier continues to chase after his high, too lost in his late orgasm to pull out.

The overstimulation is torture, your body twitching and trembling with every sloppy thrust. The moment he finally pulls out, the mess follows, thick, white rivets leaking down your thighs, the sheer volume near damn concerning had you the capacity to focus on it.

Rafayel laughs, fingers swirling through the cum as though painting your thighs, "That's not going to be easy to clean up."

"S'gonna look pretty. Messy. Full." Xavier murmurs, still pinning the both of you beneath him as he collapses in exhaustion, fingers dancing over the small swell in your stomach. Pressing lightly, he watches in fascination as their mixed cum gushes out faster, and you whimper, gripping his wrists to stop before they get any more ideas. 

You're not sure what's worse, the fact that they're both still hard and the way they're looking at you, or the fact that their words have your exhausted body already trying to recover, a shiver running through your sore muscles as the room's cool air brushes over the slick, sticky mess between your thighs.

"You're both so disgusting," you groan, the words coming out slurred and barely audible. 

"You love it."

"Yeah," Xavier's agreement is soft and almost hesitant. "You love us."

"Yes, I love both of you. Now get the fuck off of me." A shove, your shaking arm barely affecting Xavier as he finally relents, a small smile on his lips as he rolls the three of you down into the bed, resting on your sides. 

The muscles in your thighs scream in relief as they’re finally placed down, every inch of your body sore and marked up in one way or another, every visible bruise and bite getting pampered in faux apologies by the two men snuggling up next to you.

It’s a tangle of limbs, Xavier already claiming your chest again as he nuzzles into your breasts while Rafayel simply curls himself around your back. A hand there, an arm there, and a little more muffled bickering. Yet you all fit together, and sleep comes easy now. 

₊❅˚⋆boyfriend!zayne who wouldn’t allow you to go into work on the first day on your cycle. he actually refuses to let you go because thats putting wayy to much pressure on your body and giving unnecessary energy burnout when you should be resting.

it actually surprises you how zayne is willing to not let you go in, knowing how he is about his own job and schedules.

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

you wake up to your work alarm blaring in the background. the moment you reach over to turn off your alarm you immediately feel that horrible groggy feeling start to settle in. oh you started..

you slowly prop yourself up on your arms, gathering the little strength you have to stabilize yourself.

you let out a small whimper, wincing in pain as you feel your cramps start to kick in.

zayne passing down the hall, hears your whimpers and see you start to curl in on yourself clutching your stomach from the doorway. walking into your shared bedroom, he worriedly pads in to your side.

“.. hey you feeling ok?” he whispers. so much care heavy in his voice. he places his hand on your hip rubbing you gently

“n-no… ugh.. i need to go into work today..” you mutter weakly, words barely audible.

zayne can barely look at the state your in. seeing you like this makes his heart wrench.

“look at you, you can barely get your words out...." his words trails off. eyes scanning your scrunched up face in discomfort. he sighs.

"you’re staying right here in bed, love.” he assures firmly, hearing the concern in his voice.

he kneels down to your level and gently pushes you back down in bed, lifting the covers over you and plants a small kiss on your forehead.

"you’re going to get your rest. I’ll call your boss and let them know. I’m going to take care of you today, okay?” he whispers reassuringly against your ear and gently cups your face in his hands softly stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“..zayne are you sure? I really ne-“ you start to protest but he shushes you putting a finger to your lips. “shhhh. no more talking.. just lie back and close your eyes.”

₊❅˚⋆boyfriend!zayne who would instinctively go into doctor mode when taking care of you. like you’re one of his precious personal patients. (you are <3)

he would regularly check up on you, remind you to change your pad/tampon/cup (whatever you use)to eat full-healthy-balanced meals and of course to stay hydrated by drinking water. getting the best and utmost care. <3

₊❅˚⋆boyfriend!zayne tries to make it a habit to take off when he can when you start your period. he understands how it gets. especially when it’s the first day. he can’t leave you at home feeling sick and lonely :(

he’ll spend the whole day taking care of you as he should.

running a nice warm bubble bath for you as soon as you wake up to soothe your cramps and your poor aching muscles. accompanying you beside the tub and help you wash yourself, slowly washing up and down your back with care.

and staying by your side and holding you as long as you want all day while your cramping. not caring if his arm goes numb.

₊❅˚⋆boyfriend!zayne who's pretty boastful about being a good massager. you’ve always considered him to be a professional massager and you constantly praise him for it.

always saying how he knows to hit the right spots, rolling out those hard kinks in your back muscles and releasing the pain in your neck.

so just imagine how useful those strong hands can be to relieve your cramps.

he would sit behind you and have you placed in between his legs with your back resting against his chest and wrap his arms around you and start to slowly work his hands.

his warm hands slowly massaging your tummy in circular motions right above your uterus, adding the right amount of pressure to not harm your inner organs.

you sit there comfortably in his embrace closing your eyes. letting yourself be ate ease focusing on his hands as you slowly start to drift off.

you would always massage yourself to relieve your cramps but when zayne does it its 100x better. it puts you right to sleeppp.

₊❅˚⋆boyfriend!zayne who uses to his evol mimicking an ice pack to help cool down your heated body during cramps. if your body is too overheated he’ll offer instead of typically using your heating pad. him running his cold hand over your stomach softly to soothe you in circular motions releasing the discomfort. 

₊❅˚⋆boyfriend!zayne who would of course make his famous red date tea he always makes for you. filled with all the good nutrients for relieving cramps and helps with blood circulation! the perfect tea to keep your body warm.

₊❅˚⋆boyfriend!zayne would definitely monitor your food intake throughout your period. those spicy chips you bought the other day and you were salivating to eat later? yea about that..

“zayne where are my chips, I can’t find them anywhere?”

“I ate them” he says stoically. straight forward.

"what??” you exclaim in disbelief. you were really looking forward to eating those :(

“its not good to eat spicy foods on your period they can worsen your cramps. so to prevent that from happening, I ate them.” he beams seemingly proud of himself.

but, oh, he knows he messed up. seeing how sensitive you were about it and walked away sulking. he would instantly go out to the store and replace your chips and buy you more chocolate and sweets.

normally he would advise against it, but he knows how you are on your period so he’ll let you get away with it.

he just hopes you don’t find out about your ice cream that was supposed to be untouched…

: ̗̀➛ a/n: ik this isnt about nanami but i started earlier this week and needed a lil something self indulgent 💔