♡

You noticed the shift in him later — not in words, of course, but in how his hand came to rest at the small of your back. How he guided you through the crowd with a little more pressure than usual. How he didn't quite smile when the man shook your hand in farewell.

Zayne said nothing until much later, until the house had gone quiet and the fire in the living room had burned low. You stood in the middle of his room in the glow of moonlight, slipping off your gown when he finally spoke from behind you, voice even but unmistakably edged.

“He seemed very taken with you,” he murmured, fingers brushing yours as he helped you slip on a robe — his touch too gentle to be casual. “Charming. In a practiced sort of way.”

You turned to face him, finding that composed expression — calm, always — but his eyes were darker tonight. Sharper. As if weighing something unspoken.

“Were you jealous?” you asked, half a tease.

“No,” he said softly, stepping in close. “Just... reminded.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Of what?”

“That others may admire you.” His hand settled at your waist, warm and grounding. “But none of them know how to touch you.”

His lips brushed your cheek, then lower, to your jaw. His voice was velvet when it returned.

“None of them know how you tremble when you’re about to fall apart. How you like to be kissed here—” a soft graze behind your ear, “—or how your breath catches when I hold you like this.”

He drew you closer, lifting your chin with two fingers, his tone still gentle. Almost reverent.

And then, the unmistakable warmth of his palm on your hip. The way he leaned in close and said, with deceptive calm, “How beautiful you sound when you scream my name,”

You smiled faintly, not answering, letting your hand drift over the buttons of his shirt. “You’re so jealous.”

“Am not,” he murmured, drawing you into his lap.

You settled there, straddling his thighs, the fabric of your robe slipping open just enough for him to slide his hands along your bare skin. He held you like something precious — like you might vanish if he didn’t. His thumbs stroked absent circles into your waist, his gaze fixed on you with quiet purpose.

The kiss was inevitable. Slow at first — almost tentative. But then deeper, drawn out, his lips moving over yours with the careful deliberation of a man who knows exactly what he wants and isn’t afraid to take his time claiming it.

Your hands buried in his hair as he pulled you closer, tongue sliding past your lips with measured ease. His grip firmed on your hips as he guided your weight into him, coaxing the smallest gasp from your throat.

He caught the sound — of course he did — and his mouth curled faintly against yours. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”

Your head tipped back slightly as he kissed along your jaw, his breath warming the curve of your throat. “You always know exactly what to do to me,” you breathed.

Zayne hummed low in his chest, mouth dragging against your pulse. “I study you,” he said softly. “Every sigh, every shiver. I could draw you from memory.”

There was a note in his voice then — something more than reverence. It sounded almost like a question he wasn’t quite asking.

You shifted against him, body arching subtly as his hands skimmed beneath your robe and slipped it off your shoulders. “No one else knows me like you do,” you said quietly.

He stilled, just for a moment, his hands pausing as he took you in.

Then, “Good,” he said. Not smug, not possessive in the traditional sense — just certain. A simple truth, spoken like a vow.

You kissed again, deeper this time, your bare skin pressed flush against the crisp cotton of his shirt. He eased you forward, holding you steady with one arm while the other slipped between your thighs. His fingers stroked you slowly, parting you with a patient, practiced touch. He worked you open in silence, save for the hitch of your breath, the soft wet sounds of his fingers circling your entrance.

“You’re trembling,” he said softly, brushing his knuckles along your inner thigh. “Already?”

“You’re too good at this.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “Only for you.”

You let your head rest against his shoulder as he slid two fingers inside, slow and careful. He knew exactly where to angle them, how to curl them just so, until your hips were rolling in time with his movements and your breath came out in stuttered gasps.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “No one else could ever make you feel this way.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement — and a challenge.

You whispered his name against his neck, voice breaking as he twisted his fingers just right. He exhaled through his nose, satisfied, and withdrew only to guide you onto him with practiced ease, the head of his cock catching against your entrance.

His hands held your waist, steadying you as he slid in, inch by aching inch. You buried your face in his collar, clutching at his shirt as the stretch overwhelmed you — so slow, so deep it nearly bordered on pain.

Zayne groaned softly, low and tight in his throat. “You’re always so warm for me.”

You whimpered, sinking fully down into his lap, the feeling of him rooted inside you sending shivers up your spine.

He didn’t move at first — just let you feel it. The way he filled you so completely. The way your body fluttered around him as if trying to draw him deeper still.

Then his hands moved again. One slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine. The other cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he leaned in to kiss you — slow, reverent, utterly consuming.

And then he began to move.

Measured thrusts, hips rolling beneath you with perfect control. He kissed your temple, your cheek, your lips — again and again — like he couldn’t get enough of your taste. Each press of his hips had your breath hitching, your body tightening, your hands clutching his shoulders as the slow build wound tighter inside you.

“Who else could possibly understand you like I do?” he asked quietly, lips brushing your ear. “Who else would know how to love you like this?”

“No one,” you gasped.

He picked up pace slightly, hips grinding up into yours with exquisite precision, dragging your pleasure out, teasing you with the edge of release until your thighs trembled around him.

“I don’t need to be told I’m the only one,” he whispered, “but it’s nice to hear it.”

You cried out when he hit that perfect spot again and again, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

“Say it,” he breathed.

“You’re the only one, Zayne,” you whispered, falling apart for him.

He followed soon after, clutching you to him as he spilled inside, burying his face in your neck with a soft, unsteady exhale.

And then he stilled, holding you there as the aftershocks trembled between you.

A long silence. Just the sound of your heartbeats, your breath slowing.

Then, as you traced a hand over the back of his neck, he murmured against your shoulder:

“I want to spend my whole life learning you.”

His voice was soft, measured — almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

You didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his chin up, pressed a kiss to his lips, and smiled.

“I hope you do.”

xavier. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁

You hadn’t even noticed Xavier at first.

You were in the hallway, still holding your mail, chatting with the neighbor from two doors down — the one who always seemed to be around when you got back from a mission. He’d asked about your latest patrol, complimented your boots in passing, made some offhand comment about how quiet your apartment had been lately.

It was all friendly. Harmless.

But Xavier stood just out of view, leaned in the doorway of his own apartment, watching.

His arms were crossed. His expression unreadable.

By the time you stepped back inside, the conversation already forgotten, you felt it — the tension. The presence. He was there, leaning in your doorway now, one shoulder propped against the frame.

“How long were you going to stand out there?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked. “What? I was only out there a minute.”

A pause. Then, calmly: “He’s interested in you.”

You laughed, but he didn’t. “He’s just a neighbor.”

“I’m not blind.” He stepped forward, slow and fluid, until the air between you tensed like a wire. “He smiles at you like he thinks you might invite him in one day.”

“He was just being polite, Xavi” you said, voice softening. But Xavier’s gaze didn’t waver.

“No,” he murmured. “I’m polite. He was imagining what your skin might taste like.”

You swallowed. Hard.

And Xavier’s smile — the one he wore only when he was angry in that particular, possessive way — made an appearance. It was faint. Crooked. Dangerous.

“You like being seen, don’t you?” he asked, stepping in closer. “All gentle eyes and soft smiles. So good. So kind. Makes men forget themselves.”

“Xavier—”

“Do you forget?” he asked quietly, hands finding your waist. “Who you belong to?”

You gasped as he pushed you back gently until your spine met the nearest wall. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like a caress. He leaned in, voice velvet-dark.

“Let me remind you.”

You were still catching your breath when he kissed you — deep, slow, unrelenting. Not angry. Not rushed. Just intentional. His mouth slanted over yours again and again until your knees weakened and your arms curled around his shoulders.

He carried you to the bedroom without a word. Lit only by the pale blue spill of Linkon moonlight, the room felt colder than usual. Or maybe that was just his restraint. He laid you down gently. Methodically. As though he was still trying to decide how best to ruin you.

He undressed you in near silence, his hands lingering longer than necessary. Touching places he already knew by heart, rediscovering them with maddening slowness. “He doesn’t know what you sound like when you beg,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over your ribs, “or how your voice breaks when I go deeper.”

You reached for him — too impatient — but he caught your wrists and pinned them gently to the mattress above your head.

“No rushing,” he said, his voice almost sweet. “You had time to smile at him. You’ll make time for this.”

His mouth followed his hands — kisses dragged across your collarbone, tongue teasing the underside of your breast, lips sealing around your nipple as his fingers drifted lower.

And lower.

Until they found you, already slick and twitching for him.

“Of course,” he whispered against your skin. “Always so wet for me, even when you pretend to be innocent.”

Two fingers slid in, slow and curling, hitting a spot that had you bucking beneath him — but he held you down, pinning you with nothing more than a look.

“Do you think he could make you feel like this?” he asked. “Does he even know where to touch you?”

You whimpered, arching into him. “Xavier, please—”

“Oh,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear, “I love when you beg, little star.”

He worked you open with patient cruelty, bringing you to the edge with agonizing precision — only to stop.

Again and again.

By the third time, you were trembling, nails scraping at the sheets, voice hoarse from whimpering his name.

“Just say it,” he whispered. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, without hesitation.

He rewarded you with his mouth then — hot, wet, relentless between your thighs. Your back arched off the mattress at the first flick of his tongue. He took his time, lapping and sucking with languid control until your vision blurred and your thighs threatened to close around him.

But he held you open. Watched you come undone.

Only once you were gasping his name like a prayer did he finally undress, movements slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving yours.

When he sank into you, it wasn’t fast. It was deep. He held your gaze the entire time, watching your mouth fall open as he filled you, inch by slow inch, until you couldn’t breathe around it.

“There,” he whispered. “No one else gets this. Just me.”

He dragged it out, every roll of his hips designed to torture. His hands never stopped moving — stroking your waist, brushing your hair back, pinning your wrists when you reached to speed him up.

“You’ll take it like this,” he murmured, “until you forget every other name but mine.”

You did.

When you came again, it was with your legs wrapped around him, voice broken and high, clinging to him like you’d fall apart without his body tethering yours.

Only then — only then — did he let go, fucking you through your climax with enough force to shake the bed. He spilled inside you with a groan, head buried against your neck, breathing ragged and voice thick when he spoke again.

“No one gets to see this part of you,” he said softly, his hand stroking your stomach. “Just me. Only me.”

He looked at you then, hair mussed, eyes dark and hungry even after everything. “I don’t mind others seeing you smile,” he murmured, “but don’t let them forget who owns the rest.”

You pulled him in again, lips brushing his, breath still shaky.

“They couldn’t forget if they tried.”

sylus. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .

You didn’t mean to steal the spotlight.

The auction had simply unfolded that way — the room full of powerful people in fine suits and darker intentions, all turning to look when you walked in. Their gazes followed you like tides pulled by gravity, lingering too long. Some approached under the pretense of polite interest: asking for your thoughts on the collection, inquiring who you were with. You’d smiled, demure and polite, but it didn’t stop the way their eyes slid over you — speculative, appreciative, hungry.

You caught Sylus watching once from across the room — a glass of dark wine suspended in his hand, half-raised, half-forgotten. He didn’t look angry. Not even annoyed. Just still. Perfectly still. His crimson eyes held you like a blade pressed flat to your throat — silent and unmoving, but keen.

On the way home, he hadn’t said much. His hand rested on your thigh in the car. A murmur about the art. Something vague about the way the auctioneer’s accent curled. Polite, as always. But you felt it: the tension beneath his calm, like a storm pressed behind glass.

It’s only once the door closes behind you — the quiet of his penthouse folding around you, city lights flickering low — that he shows it.

He doesn’t let you get far.

His arm wraps around your waist and draws you back into his chest. You feel the heat of him before you hear the low hum of his voice near your ear.

“Still carrying all that attention with you, sweetie?”

You blink, about to ask what he means — but he’s already sliding your coat from your shoulders. Gentle. Reverent. His fingers ghost down the line of your back as he slips the fabric away, letting it fall to the floor.

You turn in his arms.

His gaze drinks you in — the line of your gown, the soft flush of your skin from the wine, the delicate rise and fall of your breath beneath silk.

“You looked…” His eyes drop lower. “…dangerous tonight.”

You raise a brow, lips tilting. “Dangerous?”

“Mmh.” His mouth brushes your jaw. Just a ghost of contact. “Pretty little thing like you — standing there with a thousand eyes on you, smiling like that.” His voice thickens, slow as honey. “Of course they wanted you.”

You laugh, soft and teasing — but he doesn’t. His hands slide lower, curve over your hips with more pressure. One lifts the back of your thigh, coaxing your leg around his waist. You let him. He carries you with no effort, steps sure and silent as he takes you to the bedroom.

“You’re being awfully sweet,” you murmur, hands brushing his chest.

He smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“Aren’t I always, kitten?”

He lays you down like you’re the most delicate thing in the world — not because you are, but because tonight he wants you to feel that way. Kept. Claimed. Cherished.

His jacket slips off. His shirt, undone with aching precision. As each button comes loose, you watch the careful reveal of his chest, the sharp cut of his abdomen, the faint line of a scar you’ve traced before. He watches you, too. Watches your hunger, quiet and reverent, like he needs to see it written across your face.

He kisses you with the same slow worship.

Not frantic. Not forceful. Just… knowing. Like he’s trying to wipe away every gaze that touched you, every word that wasn’t his, every breath you gave someone else.

His mouth trails from your lips to your neck, then down — lower, tasting the soft skin at your collarbone, the hollow between your breasts. When his fingers slide the gown off your shoulders, he moves like he’s unwrapping something sacred. Each inch of skin he reveals is met with his mouth, warm and lingering.

He doesn’t speak, but you feel the tension under his touch. The possessiveness coiled tight beneath the surface. It shows in how slowly he parts your thighs. How long he lingers at your knees. How his eyes lift and lock to yours before he kisses the inside of your thigh like a confession.

“I want to take care of you tonight,” he says, voice so low you barely catch it. “Will you let me?”

You nod, breath already caught in your throat.

His mouth lowers — and when he finally touches you with his tongue, it’s like silk drawn over a flame.

He takes his time.

Every flick, every slow circle of his tongue feels intentional. He doesn’t chase your pleasure — he builds it, patient and precise. His fingers curl against your thigh, anchoring you as his mouth works you open, lavishing you with long, unhurried strokes. When your hips twitch, he murmurs quiet praise against your skin.

“That’s it, sweetie… Just like that.”

He knows your body too well. Every tremble. Every soft sound. He listens for them like cues, adjusts with barely a shift, lips sealing over your clit just right, just long enough to make you sob out his name.

When the orgasm hits, it’s slow and shattering. Not sudden — inevitable. He pulls it from you like a string being drawn taut, then snapped, and when your body arches and your thighs quake, he doesn’t let go. He keeps you grounded with his mouth, one hand firm on your waist, the other stroking soft down your thigh.

When he finally rises, his lips are slick, his eyes molten.

He kisses up your stomach, your ribs, your sternum. Every inch of you loved, mapped, and claimed.

And when he finally pushes inside — slow, deep, deliberate — it feels like coming home.

“You feel that?” he whispers, voice frayed. “How perfect you fit me?”

You gasp his name, legs wrapping tighter around him. His hips roll slow, careful, each thrust brushing deep and smooth. He keeps you close — chest to chest, skin to skin — every movement drawing you tighter, closer.

“You’re mine…” he breathes against your jaw. Then quieter, almost too soft to hear— “Aren’t you?”

You freeze — just for a second. Not in fear. In knowing.

“…Sylus?” you whisper.

He lifts his head. Something flickers there. A softness cracking. A need barely hidden beneath all his polish.

You smile, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Are you jealous?”

His eyes narrow. Not angry. Just… caught.

“Tch. Don’t be absurd.”

But then he thrusts deeper. Slower. Possessive without force — just depth. Just heat. Your body responds instantly, moaning into his neck.

He leans down, voice low.

“Let me remind you.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re breathless. Until your fingers cramp from clinging to him, until your throat is hoarse from moaning his name like a prayer. His control never slips — but his need is written into every touch. Every inch of him buried deep in you, every whispered word brushed against your skin like a claim carved from silk.

And even when you’re both spent, your bodies tangled in the sheets, his hand never stops moving. Thumb brushing your hip. Knuckles tracing the curve of your waist.

He doesn’t say the word.

But in the way he presses a kiss to your temple. In how his eyes stay on you even after sleep begins to pull you under—

You know.

He needed this.

He needed you.

caleb. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁

You noticed it the moment his eyes cut across the room.

A too-familiar glance from a Fleet lieutenant. A compliment disguised as professional praise. A hand that lingered just a beat too long at the small of your back.

You brushed it off — but Caleb didn’t.

He didn’t say a word on the way back. No cold expression, no clipped tone — just silence, taut and simmering. And that was worse. That meant he was thinking. Feeling. Holding it in.

When the front door clicked shut behind you, the silence broke — not with words, but weight.

The air pressed down. Subtle, at first. Then heavier. Your breath caught.

“Caleb—”

“Stay there.”

His voice was calm. Too calm. He didn’t even look at you yet, just shrugged off his uniform jacket and let it hit the floor. “You always let them get close like that, honey?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it?” He turned finally, eyes darker than usual — not glowing, not angry. Just hurt. Like he’d seen a glimpse of something he wasn’t supposed to witness. “Pips… he touched you.”

“Caleb—”

“He touched you, and you smiled.” A step closer. “You let him.”

“I smiled because I was being polite. That’s all.”

His Evol pressed in tighter around your wrists, then your hips — firm, invisible hands holding you still. His voice didn’t rise. It dipped, lower, like it ached to stay steady.

“I’m not mad,” he murmured. “I just need—” Another step. Closer now. “I need you to remember whose you are.”

Then he kissed you — hard and deep, desperate, like he was trying to drown the memory of someone else’s touch with his own. He tasted like tension and guilt and need, his hands finally real where the gravity had only suggested — one cradling your jaw, the other gripping your waist tight enough to bruise.

He backed you to his bed without breaking the kiss, and you fell into the sheets with him following. His body covered yours like he couldn’t risk even the air touching you before he could reclaim it.

“Look at you,” he breathed, voice rough. “You’re always so sweet when you want something. But tonight…” His teeth grazed your neck. “I think you want to be reminded.”

You whimpered as he pushed your legs apart and settled between them, dragging your underwear down like it offended him. He slid his fingers through your slick folds with a sharp inhale, his restraint fraying at the edges.

“Fuck. Already this wet?” His voice cracked. “God, baby, tell me it’s not for him.”

“It’s not,” you gasped. “It’s you—only you.”

He exhaled hard, like he didn’t quite believe it, even if he wanted to. Even as he lined himself up and pressed in deep — one long, thick stretch that made your toes curl — his expression didn’t fully settle.

His rhythm started rough. Fast. Desperate. His hands held your thighs open, and every thrust hit deeper, firmer, like he was trying to bury himself so far inside you nothing could ever take you from him.

But even as he claimed you, his voice cracked again. This time not with anger — with fear.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

You looked up, startled — but he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. His hips kept rolling, skin slapping yours, sweat beading along his temple.

“Pips,” he breathed, and this time it sounded like a confession, a prayer. “I try so hard— I try to be everything—” His forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing. “But I’m not like I used to be. I know that. I’m not good enough for you.”

“Caleb—”

His thrusts stuttered just a little — not in weakness, but like the words hurt more than anything.

“But I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so fucking much it hurts. And I can’t— I won’t watch you slip away. I need you to want me like this.”

You whimpered as his grip on your hips tightened, dragging you into each thrust, his eyes fluttering shut like the sensation grounded him.

“Say it,” he begged. Not ordered. Begged. “Tell me I’m enough. Please, baby—just say it.”

“You’re enough. You’re more than enough—Caleb, please—”

You came hard, the wave crashing over you with a sob of his name. But he didn’t stop.

He leaned over you, still thrusting through the aftershocks, his voice unraveling completely now — soft, whiny, broken. Almost angry at himself.

“I don’t care if it hurts me, just let me stay like this—let me feel you, baby, please—”

You kissed him, trembling, and he kissed you back like he needed your mouth to breathe. His pace grew erratic, choked sounds escaping him as his hips lost rhythm.

“I’m yours,” he groaned, spilling deep inside you. “Yours, Pips. No one else. Just—just yours.”

He stayed inside you, still moving gently, too raw to stop.

And then he collapsed into you, arms pulling you close like if he let go for even a second, you might disappear. Voice barely audible, breath hot against your skin:

“I don’t know what I’d be if I lost you.” A pause. “Whatever you want me to be— I’ll be that. Just please stay.”

rafayel. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁

The gallery was full — too full — but Rafayel didn’t complain. Not out loud.

He watched from across the room, champagne glass untouched, as you laughed at something some man in a velvet blazer whispered near your ear. The man gestured vaguely at one of Rafayel’s paintings — a piece in pink and carmine tones, intimate, unmistakably you — and smiled like he thought he had a chance.

Rafayel’s jaw flexed. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t make a scene.

But oh, he watched.

And when the evening ended and the man dared to kiss your knuckles, Rafayel’s fingers were already curling around your wrist before the door even shut behind him.

He didn’t say a word as he tugged you down the path to his studio. Just smiled — a little too wide, a little too perfect — and pressed the buttons on the keypad with a single flick of his gloved hand.

“You’re quiet,” you said.

“Mhm,” he hummed. “Just thinking. About how pretty you looked tonight. Especially when you were giggling at his jokes. I didn’t know I had competition.”

Your heart fluttered. “You don’t.”

He smiled wider, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh, cutie. I know that. Now.”

The moment the studio door shut behind you, his mask cracked.

Rafayel was on you in an instant — hands in your hair, lips at your neck, hot and breathless. “Do you like making me suffer?” he murmured, tongue sliding along your pulse. “Because I was suffering. All evening.”

You barely had time to speak before he swept you up — literally — into his arms and carried you straight through the studio. Paintings lined the walls, moonlight casting shadows across the hardwood, and he sat you down on the edge of a velvet chaise like you were a centerpiece.

“I was good tonight,” he said, dragging off his jacket with a sharp flick. “So good. I didn’t even interrupt. I let him talk to you. Let him look at you like he had any right. And you—” He knelt between your legs, gripping your thighs possessively. “You just smiled so sweetly, like you didn’t know how insane that was driving me.”

You opened your mouth, but his fingers were already slipping under your dress, dragging your underwear down with a wickedly slow pull.

“Don’t you dare apologize, cutie,” he whispered, mouth brushing your inner thigh. “I don’t want ‘sorry.’ I want to hear how much you missed me.”

“Rafayel—” your breath hitched as his lips pressed hot and slow where you were already aching.

“Say it,” he murmured, eyes flicking up — those vibrant blues with their soft pink glowing in the dark. “Say you missed me.”

“I missed you— I always do—”

“Good,” he cooed, grinning. “Then stay still for me.”

And then his mouth was on you — lush and relentless, tongue flicking, curling, sucking until you were gasping. He held your thighs open with an iron grip, moaning against your heat like he was starved for it.

He didn’t let up when you bucked. Didn’t stop when you cried out his name. He just kept going — murmuring sweet, devastating things between licks.

“This is mine, cutie. All mine. You can let them look—but they don’t get this, do they?”

“No—nngh—only you—”

“That’s right,” he purred, slipping his fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right. “Only me. Because I’d burn the world if anyone else touched you like this.”

Your orgasm came fast, nearly shocking — and still he didn’t stop.

You tried to pull away, thighs trembling, but he only made a soft sound and pulled you back in.

“Raf— I can’t—”

“You can,” he said sweetly. “You will. That was just for the exhibition. Now this one’s for the way he looked at you. And the next? That’s for smiling at him like he was interesting.”

“Rafayel—!”

He grinned against your overstimulated clit. “Aw. Are you gonna cry for me, cutie? Look so pretty when you do.”

Your vision blurred. The pleasure, the heat, the shameful delight in how needy he sounded — it all tangled into something delirious.

He finally pulled away, face wet, lips red and glistening. He kissed your thigh with a little sigh, like he was soothing the wound he caused.

Then he stripped — both of your clothes disappearing in an instant — until you were both bare and golden in the moonlight, muscles tense and hungry with restraint.

“Lie back,” he said. “Let me inside. I need to feel you. Need to ruin you a little, so you don’t forget who you come home to.”

You reached for him — dazed, aching — and he slid into you with a sound that was halfway to a whimper.

“Oh, fuck— you’re perfect,” he moaned, dropping his head against your shoulder. “Tighter than I remember. Were you teasing me on purpose, cutie? You wanted to see me like this, didn’t you?”

You couldn’t speak. Could only cling as he rolled his hips in deep, smooth thrusts — dragging out every sound from your throat, chasing every tremble in your body.

“Say it,” he gasped, breath hot against your collarbone. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours— always—”

“And you love me?”

“I love you.”

He groaned — long and low, thrusting deeper. “Again.”

“I love you—!”

He came with a choked breath, hips grinding as he spilled inside you, his body trembling against yours like the tension had finally snapped. But he didn’t stop holding you. Didn’t even pull out. He just wrapped his arms around you, still buried deep, and nuzzled into your neck with a pout.

“…I hate being jealous,” he whispered. “Makes me dramatic.”

You huffed a laugh, boneless and warm. “You’re always dramatic.”

He smiled, kissing your temple. “Yeah, but this time I was right, wasn’t I? You’re mine, cutie. And I’m never letting go.”

So of course Caleb, being such a kind and thoughtful gege, has to prove you wrong, right?

He does. Over. And over. And over again. That is, until you’re crying in overstimulation, writhing away from his punishing thrusts, clawing against the sheets as you try to run from the pleasure-turned-pain.

Or, tried to.

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart. Where do you think you’re going?”

You’re running? No, no you can’t run away, not when he’s already spent his entire fucking life chasing you. 

Caleb’s voice is teasing, raspy and sweet, but there’s nothing playful about the way his Evol surges to life with a mere crook of his finger, dragging you back along the mattress and pinning you down as he takes his sweet time crawling back to you. 

Trapped, your breath hitches as you feel the weight of him settle over you, his intimidating frame caging you in, tracing featherlight kisses along your spine in such a stark contrast to how ruthlessly he was fucking you earlier. His hands roam, slow and deliberate, kneading your ass as he repositions himself behind you.

"If I let you go," he murmurs, "you promise not to run?"

Run? Why did you even want to run? You can’t remember now, not as you viciously nodding your head as much as is allowed under the control of his Evol, already arching your back into his touch as Caleb nips and marks your sticky inner thighs. 

“Good girl.” The pressure disappears. 

Immediately, Caleb replaces it, his entire body pressing you down before you can so much as take a proper breath. His arm snakes around your throat, flexing just enough to remind you who’s in control, the bulging, thick mass of his bicep choking you deliciously when you attempt to squirm or beg.

He’s got you in a headlock, the rest of his corded body pressing down atop you until your chest is squished to the mattress, ass pressed against Caleb’s pelvis, the combined pressure enough for you to be seeing stars. A drooling, overstimulated mess.

It doesn’t help that he’s practically panting like a dog in your ear, whining as he already begins thrusting himself back into your cunt, delirious moans of your name and filthy praises cooed right into your ear, words barely distinguishable with how hard he’s breathing. 

“Aww p-poor thing.” Caleb pants, voice wrecked, whiny with need as he grinds himself against you. His pace is already brutal, his thrusts sharp and unforgiving, every desperate snap of his hips forcing a cry from your throat as his grip tightens, choking you deliciously every time you so much as try to squirm.“Can you be good for me? Be my sweet little girl and cum for daddy.”

It shouldn’t be hot, Caleb, your gege, calling himself daddy, it shouldn’t have you sobbing out an unintelligible plea as another orgasm builds, seizing up your body in tight, aching waves. And yet here you are, loosing your fucking mind at it.

“Please,” you gasp, voice muffled as you sink your teeth into his bicep, embarrassed by the desperate sound of your own voice. “Please, daddy.”

For the first time in thirty minutes, you feel Caleb stop. 

He’s frozen entirely, dick hot and throbbing with need within you, each shaky breath hitting your ear as he pressed down closer, flattening, suffocating you into the mattress as you feel the growl come from his throat. You can hear the way his lips curl into a grin. 

“You wanna say that again, princess?”

Whining, you try and arch your back further, wiggling your hips up as you try and bait Caleb into continuing, into giving you that release that was only just out of reach. But he wasn’t having any of that bratty attitude tonight. 

“Behave.” Caleb’s arm tightens, and your vision swims. ”I asked you a question. You need daddy to—ah shit you tightened, dirty girl— fuck you nice and full, hmm? Fuck you stupid?” 

A fresh wave of humiliation burns down your spine, but it doesn't matter. You’ll say whatever he wants if it means he moves, if it means he chokes you more, if it means he finally gives you what you need one more time. 

“Yes, m’close, please daddy! Please—ah—let me cum one more time.” 

Caleb just snaps.

His grip tightens instinctively. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel it, enough to make your breath stutter, your body jolt like the sweet little thing you are under his grasp. His entire frame tenses above you, muscles coiling so tightly it’s like he’s holding himself together with sheer willpower alone. But it’s already slipping.

"Fucking," His voice breaks, dissolving into a strangled groan as he buries his face against your neck, breathing you in like a man starved. "Fuck that shouldn’t be so hot, it really shouldn’t—"

Like you haven't already wrecked him beyond repair.

Caleb’s Evol comes back full force, pushing you prone against the mattress so you can’t feel anything but him, the arm around your throat dropping so his hand can press against your belly instead, pinning you down as he fucks into you so deep, so hard, you swear you can feel him in your lungs. His other hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back just enough for his lips to smash onto yours, sloppy, desperate, sucking at your bottom lip as the two of you jolt with each thrust. 

"You have no fucking idea," Caleb laughs against your lips, the words a feverish, choked-out confession, "how long I've wanted to do this to you."

It’s almost like he’s hammering that truth into you, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, the sound of skin on skin nearly drowned out by your own sobs of pleasure.

"Caleb—"

"Say it again," he demands, not even trying to keep his composure anymore. "Say it for me, princess. Say it like you mean it."

"Daddy—"

"Fuck."

Caleb really didn't need another kink, he really didn't need to imagine you calling him all these filthy things on top of every other sinful thing he's already imagined you doing. It must be divine punishment, because god was he into it.

Practically collapsing on top of you, Caleb's barely pulling out before grinding right back in as deep as he can get, like he can barely think to part from you even for a moment, like he needs to feel every twitch, every squeeze, every shudder of your overstimulated body. His hands roam wildly, equally greedy, kneading and groping every tender curve like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, like he’s claiming you in ways he’s never let himself before. And fuck, you’re close. 

Caleb notices, of course he notices, nibbling the shell of your ear as the arm around your throat tightens, the other going right back to abusing your clit as you squirt all over him with a scream. 

“Aw that’s it, keep cumming sweet thing.” Caleb’s voice is the only thing grounding you, your entire body, your vision trembling as you begin to lose consciousness. The only thing you can think of is Caleb. Caleb, Caleb, Caleb!

You don’t even realize you’re screaming his name over and over again as you squirt down both of your thighs, making a mess against the already ruined sweat-slicked sheets beneath the two of you. You’re so damn messy. He loves it.

Convulsing, walls fluttering around him like you’re made for him, a sweet temptation Caleb is so laughably weak against as he follows, humping against you like a mad dog as his breath shatters into desperate, shaky moans of your name, spilling inside you with a force that has you sobbing with pleasure.

“Oh, princess,” he rasped, his tongue tracing over the tear-streaked path down your cheek before pressing a soft, almost mocking kiss to your jaw. “Shh, it’s alright, don’t cry. Your gege is here, your daddy will take good care of you, promise.”

Rafayel ♱⋅ ── the desperate

You’re going to have to call in sick for the week. 

Every year with the return of the tide, with the return of ebb-and-flow day, Rafayel becomes insatiable. You’ve barely been able to be able to escape Rafayel’s grasp for long enough to go to the bathroom, let alone escape enough from his insatiable fucking to walk well enough to fight. 

It’s never been this bad. And it’s all your fault. Being back in your arms after eight hundred years, finally remembering the way your voice sounds when it says his name and the way you fit oh so perfectly in his arms. It’s borderline painful to spend even a minute in your absence. His very body violently rejects the notion of it as spasms of violent heat and need drives him right back into your arms again and again and again. 

“Please, please let me fuck you. I can’t come like this, you know that.”

Rafayel’s voice is muffled against your thigh, breath hot as he presses a messy, open-mouthed kiss to your skin. His hands are clenched into the sheets beside him, trembling with the effort of keeping them off you, as you ordered. It’s the only rule you’ve given him tonight, and yet it’s breaking him.

"Rafayel," you warn, fingers buried between your thighs, working yourself open as his desperate, pleading gaze follows your every movement.

He whimpers, nodding frantically, his cock throbbing angrily where it rests against the mattress, one hand coming back to violently fist the swollen head as it leaks all over his palm and sheets.  "I know, I know," his voice cracks as he drags his hand around its base, rutting into his own palm like it’s not enough, like it hasn’t been enough for hours now. "But please I—fuck—I can’t."

“You can.” You spread your legs wider, letting him see, letting him watch your fingers disappear into your fluttering cunt with a slick, wet sound that has his jaw going slack, his own hips grind into the bed helplessly.  “I told you what would happen if you forgot to use a condom, again.”

Rafayel’s eyes plead up into yours, big fat tears slipping down his cheeks, his head shaking against your leg as he kisses the trembling flesh. "You don't understand," he sobs, nuzzling into the crook of your knee like he can smell the orgasm building inside you, like he can taste it on his tongue already. “I need- I need—”

"You need to learn control, Rafayel." 

Your voice is less strict than you’d like it to be, already embarrassingly close considering all the times you’ve come earlier today. And the way Rafayel’s looking up at you, begging, pleading, is really not helping. 

Tilting your hips slightly, you circle your clit in a way that makes your eyes roll back, making sure he sees the way your poor cunt flutters all empty, the way your body clenches, desperate for something more, something bigger.

Rafayel groans, his grip on himself tightening. Still, it’s useless, his Lemurian biology physically won’t let him cum unless it’s inside his pretty little mate, his cock swollen and weeping with how much he’s holding back, the pleasure that spikes through him now nothing but a cruel, agonizing echo of the real thing.

"My love," he chokes, head falling back against the mattress, his throat bobbing as he tries to breathe past the desperate hunger clawing at his insides. "My muse, my sweet darling, please. Taste you, touch you, anything, please!”

You hum, considering, rolling your hips against your own fingers as he moans, watching with wild, fevered eyes. "You wanna clean me up?"

"Yes."

The word is instant, sharp, like Rafayel’s been waiting for you to say it since the moment he first laid his hands on you tonight. Before you can even think of teasing or denying him any further, his grip snaps—both arms wrapping around your thighs, dragging you down the mattress in one swift, fluid motion.

"Rafayel—"

Too late.

His mouth is on you before you can protest, his tongue filthy as he sucks at your clit, licking up everything you’ve given yourself, drinking in the mess between your thighs like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Slapping your own hands away, Rafayel pauses briefly to suck them clean before diving right back into the source, moaning into your cunt, making your body seize with another orgasm before you can even process the first.

"Fuck, fuck," Your hands fly to his hair, gripping hard, but it only makes him groan, rutting against the mattress, his own pleasure reigniting just from the taste of you. 

You try to pull away, squirming and kicking at Rafayel’s sides, his shoulders, but he doesn't even budge. His arms lock tight around your hips, keeping you there, keeping you spread for him as he eats you out like a man possessed. 

And then he's begging again, voice wrecked, slurred with delirious pleasure, licking at your clit between words as though he really can’t get enough.  “Please, please let me fuck you. I promise, mhm, promise I won’t cum inside you again.” 

Rafayel is still begging for permission even as he manhandles you beneath him, hesitantly parting with your cunt as he kisses up your stomach, sucking at one of your breasts as you feel the nudge of his cock against your entrance before you can even think. “Promise I’ll be good. I’ll be such a good boy.”

Fuck, you really are weak against him. 

Using the last of your strength, you flip the both of you around, grinding down against his cock as you feel it throb, violently jumping between your thighs, the sloppy, wet sound of each movement sending shivers down both your spines. Poor thing is already ruined, body extra sensitive due to his heat, cock swollen and leaking as it begs to be inside you. 

"You promise?" Your voice is a whisper, teasing, as you drag your soaked folds along the length of him, feeling him tremble beneath you.

Rafayel nods frantically, breath hitching, hands twitching at his sides like he wants to grab you, wants to force you down onto him, but he knows better. Knows he wouldn’t survive the punishment. His lips are red, glossy with your slick, parted around little choked-off whimpers as he fights against the desperate urge to rut up into you.

"I promise," he gasps,  "Please, I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll be so good for you.”

You hum, dragging your fingertips down his chest, nails scraping lightly over sweat-slicked skin, enjoying the way his breath shudders at the contact. The pain. "You say that, but you've already come inside me, what, three times now?" 

You rock your hips again, coating his cock in your arousal, watching the way his abs twitch with the effort of keeping still. Gods, he’s so pretty like this, neglected and crying underneath you, muscles strained and glistening with sweat and cum, watercolor eyes bleary as his tears collect on the mattress as dusky pink pearls. The same rosy shade of blush that burns across his cheeks, ears, and throbbing tip of his swollen cock. 

“That warrants punishment, don’t you think?”

Rafayel all but whines at that, head tilting back against the pillow, his throat bobbing as he tries to breathe, tries to hold on to the last fragile thread of control he has left. "I—I won't this time, I swear, I’ll be good, I just need you."

"You need me?" You lean down, pressing your lips just below his ear, letting your voice drop to a sinful whisper. "Or do you just need to fuck something, sweetheart?"

"You." Rafayel’s answer is immediate, desperate, his hands finally snapping up to grip your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh. "It’s always you. Only you, my mate."

The admission makes your stomach tighten, heat pooling low as you let yourself sink down, just enough for the swollen head of his cock to catch at your entrance. Rafayel jerks, eyes wide, mouth dropping open around a silent moan, his grip on you tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

"Oh, fuck."

"You need me, you need your mate?" You tease, rolling your hips, letting him feel the wet heat of you without giving him what he really needs.

"Yes, please, please, please—"

And then, because you’re cruel, because you love seeing him like this, you lift yourself off him entirely.

Rafayel practically cries at that, and you let him plead, let him beg, until his whole body is shaking with the need to be inside you, until his voice is raw and wrecked from crying out your name. Then, finally, finally, you sink down, dropping the entirety of your weight onto him as you both moan at the sudden pressure as your ass smacks his pelvis with a lewd slap. 

Rafayel’s body aches up off the mattress, a wrecked, strangled moan tearing from his throat as his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise. His head tilts back, chest heaving, eyes glassy and unfocused, dilated almost like a cat’s, as if the feeling of being inside you after so long is too much for his mind to comprehend.

"Fucking finally."

You barely have a moment to adjust before Rafayel thrusts.

Whatever fragile restraint he had is gone, obliterated the second your walls squeeze around him. His hips jerk up in a desperate, instinctual rut, shoving himself deeper, harder, until the thick length of him is buried to the hilt inside you, and then pulled all the way out before ramming back in again. You choke on a gasp, nails digging into his chest, but he doesn’t even seem to register the pain.

"More." Some inhumane warble distorts Rafayel’s voice, nails turning clawed and sharp as he thrusts up into you with more strength than any human should possess. “Perfect, perfect mate.”

Your head spins, the force of each snap of his hips making your whole body jolt. His desperation is relentless, dragging you closer to the edge far too fast, too intense, gripping onto his shoulders just to keep you from falling over as your thighs begin trembling once again. 

"Rafayel—Raf, slow down!"

"No," he whimpers, shaking his head wildly, hands tightening on your waist as if letting go isn’t an option. "No, please, sorry, need this." Rafayel’s voice breaks into a sort of trill, something like whalesong, eyes fluttering shut as he drives himself up into you, starved for more, cock throbbing desperately inside you. "Don’t leave me again, please.”

Your heart clenches. "I’m here," you whisper, leaning down, pressing your forehead to his as your body moves with his, rolling your hips as you try to stay in time with his brutal pace. "I’m right here, Rafayel."

He moans, high and broken, clutching you so tightly against him, feeling every inch of you pressed into his skin. His pace turns frantic, sloppy, body shaking beneath you as pleasure racks through him in violent waves. He’s close, but he won’t let himself fall over the edge alone.

"Come with me," he begs, his lips brushing over yours as he pleads for it. "Please.”

And you do.

The orgasm slams through you like a tidal wave, stealing every breath from your lungs as your entire body clenches around him. Rafayel keens, hips jerking wildly as he follows, his cock pulsing inside you as he fucks his cum deep inside you yet again, stuffing you full until you’re both shaking with overstimulation.

But it still doesn’t stop.

Rafayel can’t stop.

Even as his body trembles beneath you, even as his whimpers turn into sobs, he keeps moving, his hips rolling into you in slow, messy grinds. His cock twitches inside your still-clenching walls, sending violent aftershocks through you both.

"Mhh sorry," he moans, lips dragging down your throat, sucking bruises into your skin as if marking you will somehow keep you tethered to him. "Did it again, can’t help it. Pussy feels so nice, wants me too, always so desperate for me. Made to worship me."

You let out a wrecked, exhausted laugh, trying to lift yourself off of him, but his arms snap tight around your waist, keeping you anchored to him.

"No," he pleads, voice cracking, nuzzling into your neck as he breathes in your scent. "No, please, just—just a little more. You owe it to me for being so mean before."

Your head falls into the crook of his neck as yet another orgasm crashes through you, ripping a moan from your throat. Rafayel shudders, gasping against your skin, completely gone, his hips jerking helplessly, overstimulated beyond the point of caring. His body is moving on instinct now, neither of you fully conscious as he keeps moving on his own, chasing another high even as it breaks him.

"Fuck, Raf...”

"One more," he’s licking into your mouth, sucking your bottom lip, too tired and uncoordinated to properly kiss you. "One more, one more."

You don’t even know how many times you’ve both come. The world is a haze of heat and pleasure, of wet, messy grinds and deep, instinctual thrusts, of Rafayel’s loud, unashamed moans directly in your ear between kisses, of the desperate way he clings to you, unable to bear even a second, an inch of separation.

You ride him through another, and another, until your body finally gives out, completely limp against his chest, your limbs trembling too hard to keep yourself upright any longer. Rafayel follows soon after, his movements slowing, stuttering, until he’s finally, finally still beneath you, panting raggedly, body wracked with aftershocks.

The room is finally silent except for your heavy breathing, the two of you floating between sleep and reality for what seems like an eternity. 

"I think I might die," Rafayel croaks, voice hoarse.

You huff a weak, breathless laugh as you grumble into his shoulder. "Good, you stupid horny fish."

Sylus ♱⋅ ── the sweetheart (liar)

You’re going insane. 

Sylus promised he would finally fuck you, promised he’d finally give you what you’ve practically been begging him for all week. “Just the tip,” you’d beg, whining into his neck or suckling gently against his fingers in attempts to bait him, “Please, Sy, just the tip and I’ll stop asking.”

Technically speaking, he’s held up his end of the deal. After all, you’ve already cum four times. Not that it’s ever stopped you from wanting more. 

“What’s this? Are you even listening to me, sweetie?” Something jerks your head up, and you’re snapped out of your thoughts at the same time as Sylus grinds forward, humming as he pulls you closer on his lap, your thighs spread wide atop of his. “Tch, first all that whining and now you’re not even paying attention to me. I’m hurt, kitten.”

You shake your head as best you can with his thumb and forefinger still squishing your cheeks, tears from the sheer overstimulation blurring your vision as you bury your face into Sylus’s chest, chasing the mere friction. 

The fat head of his cock slips right back out of your cunt, tapping once, twice, on your swollen clit before grinding back in with a lewd pop. One inch, two, just enough for you to feel the delicious stretch of the tip of his cock, before Sylus lifts you up higher on his lap, pulling out as the torture begins all over again. 

You swear you can take more. It doesn’t matter than everytime Sylus lines up his cock it hits your bellybutton from the outside, it doesn’t matter that your hands can barely wrap around his base, it doesn’t matter that even when you suck him off your jaw throbs and he can barely thrust it in halfway without you gagging. 

“Sylus, please, please just—” you whine, rutting your hips down to no avail as his firm hands render you immobile. Watching you squirm with thinly veiled amusement. “Just fuck me already!” 

Your breath comes out in short, stuttered gasps, frustration bubbling over into pitiful little sobs against Sylus’s skin. He shushes you, rubbing slow, teasing circles into your hips as if he’s offering you comfort. But you know better. The bastard lives for this, the way your body trembles, how your cunt clenches down hard every time he pulls out, desperate for more than what he’s giving.

“Please.” A broken cry rips from your throat as he nudges forward again, pushing the tip back inside like he hasn’t already driven you half-mad. “I can take it. Ah, I swear, I can take it.” 

And yet, he’s still so fucking mean.

“Hmm,” Sylus’s voice drips with amusement, low and tinged with laughter as his lips graze the shell of your ear as though lost in thought. “No.”

You whine, digging your nails into Sylus’s back with more force than necessary as you hiss out curses, “Cruel, stubborn, self-assured asshole. I told you I can take it Syl—ah!”

Sylus pushes himself upward, roughly fucking his swollen tip against you, ramming that delicious spot within you as your curses dissolve into mindless babbles of his name, another orgasm ripping through you as you try and match Sylus’s rhythm by grinding yourself on the rest of his cock. 

“That’s it,” He hums, dragging his tongue along your pulse, relishing the way it hammers beneath his mouth.  He can feel how fast it beats, erratic and needy, the way your breath catches in your throat. “You’re gonna be good and take what I give you. Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re already fucked stupid. And I’ve barely even given you anything, kitten.”

It’s humiliating how right he is.

Your thighs tremble violently on either side of his, the ache in your muscles a dull, distant thing compared to the unbearable need twisting in your core. Desperate, you try to grind down, to force him deeper, to make him give you what you need. But Sylus just clicks his tongue, unimpressed, fingers digging into your hips as he holds you still, keeping you right where he wants you.

Sylus shifts back on the couch, pulling you down, controlling your movements with an infuriating ease, guiding you along the few inches he’s deemed fit to give you. It’s barely anything, nowhere near enough, but even that—just that slow, teasing roll of his hips—and the unbearable pressure of the thick, insistent tip of his cock is enough to make your back arch violently against him. 

“There we go,” he murmurs, cooing as he watches you, helpless and pliant in his lap. “No more complaining.”

A desperate nod. Another broken whine. 

You can feel it building again, the pressure coiling deep inside you, sharp and unbearable. Sobbing, you drop your head into Sylus’s shoulder, biting into the curve of his neck to muffle your cries, nails digging into his shoulders, chest, clawing violent red marks as Sylus shudders, eyes rolling back at the pain. Your legs are shaking too hard to do much of anything anymore, giving out as Sylus is the only thing left guiding you, dragging you toward yet another orgasm. 

Or rather, he would have. 

But you feel Sylus chuckle, the sound deep and sinful as it rumbles down his chest and into yours, and fear prickles along your spine. Then, with excruciating patience, he pulls out, leaving you empty all over again before tapping his throbbing cock against your clit—slow, deliberate, taunting.

“You wanted just the tip, sweetheart.” He grins, voice a low, cruel purr as he kisses your forehead. “So don’t start crying now that it’s all you’re getting.”

Xavier ♱⋅ ── the munch

“Then sit on my face.”

You stare, dumbfounded, as Xavier already begins leaning back against the cushions of your bed, those big, blue eyes begging up at you in ways that make it hard to breathe. 

Xavier’s hands tighten around your waist, fingers flexing like he’s barely restraining himself from yanking you down then and there. The heat of his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, making your pulse stammer, making every inch of you ache with want.

“Xavier, I didn’t actually mean…”

“You want me to prove it, right? Then I’ll do what I can to serve you well.” He’s dead serious, you realize, still staring down at him in shock as Xavier frowns, sitting up just long enough to wrap his arms around your waist and haul you toward him, seating you on his chest as protests die in your throat. “Sit.”

Biting your lip, you still find yourself hesitating. What if you’re too heavy? Or if he doesn’t actually like it? You still have your underwear on, shouldn’t you take it off, or does he plan on eating you through it? What if—

"You're thinking too much again." His voice is firm, but gentle, cutting straight through your spiraling thoughts. Before you can get another word in, he lifts you up from the backs of your thighs, guiding you forward until your knees are bracketing his head and you're hovering just above his waiting mouth.

Xavier groans, this is already better than his dreams—just having you above him, so close, so warm—is enough to make him lose his damn mind. His hands are keeping you steady, and when he tilts his head back to look at you again, you almost drown in the sheer hunger in his gaze.

"Please," he murmurs, breathless, sucking and kissing into your thighs like he can't believe you're making him wait so long for something he so, so desperately needs. "I really don’t think I can wait much longer."

A shudder racks through you, thighs trembling as the heat between your legs grows unbearable. Xavier’s so serious, so patient, despite the raw hunger in his voice, despite the way his chest rises and falls in uneven pants beneath you. You’d have to be cruel to deny him. 

Slowly, you lower yourself the rest of the way, bracing your hands against the headboard as Xavier immediately pulls you the last few inches down, shoving his face up into you like he’s starving.

He might as well be because the first swipe of his tongue is so hot, so eager, that you nearly jerk away from the sudden pleasure. Not that Xavier would let you. His fingers dig into the marked-up plush of your thighs, keeping you right there as he groans into your pussy like you’re the best fucking thing he’s ever tasted.

“Wait—” Your voice is already breaking, a gasp caught in your throat as he licks into you again, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of it. He doesn’t even bother pulling your underwear aside, just mouths at the fabric, dampening it further, teasing you through the barrier until it sticks to your folds and you’re a whimpering mess, gripping the headboard so tightly your knuckles ache. 

Then he shifts, hooking a single finger under the waistband, dragging it aside just enough to give himself proper access.

The first real flick of Xavier’s tongue against your clit is devastating.

A high, broken moan rips from your throat as pleasure jolts up your spine, your thighs snapping shut around his head, suffocating him as Xavier feels like the happiest man in the world. Moaning into your cunt, Xavier pulls you down harder against his mouth like he wouldn’t mind drowning in your pleasure if it meant he got to taste you for just a few seconds longer.

You’re already cumming. Head falling backward, your lips part in a silent scream as Xavier’s tongue continues circling around your clit in that same, devastating rhythm, only letting go once you’ve come all over his face. But he doesn’t stop for long. 

His tongue flicks and curls and fucks into you with the kind of dedication that makes your vision blur, that makes your whole body burn as you become more and more sensitive. And when you grind down against his mouth, desperate and trembling, he just groans in approval, encouraging you to ride his face like you need this just as much as he does.

"That's it," Xavier mumbles between licks, inaudible between your wet, sinful noises. "Don't hold back. Use me."

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling hard, but it only makes him grin against you, only makes him suck harder, making you gasp and sob as your thighs start to shake once more around his head. Still, he devours you, no teasing, no hesitation. Just raw, ravenous hunger. 

"Xavier—"

He hums in response, the vibrations sending another sharp wave of pleasure through you. Then he finally fucks his tongue deep into your cunt, curling against your walls as you clench around the hot muscle, Xavier’s nose grinding deliciously into your clit as his hands begin guiding you back and forth once your rhythm falls apart. 

You come hard, a choked cry ripping from your throat as your body locks up, pleasure searing through every nerve. Xavier doesn’t stop—doesn’t let you escape—licking and sucking you through your orgasm like he needs every drop, like he won’t be satisfied until you’re a writhing, overstimulated mess above him.

“Ah, Xavier, seriously,” you whine, every suck against your clit now tender and overstimulated as you try and squirm away to no avail. “Can’t, Xavier, can’t come again!”

Crying, you finally manage to wrestle his head out from underneath you—body still shaking, pleasure crackling under your skin like a live wire—realizing something that makes your stomach flip.

Xavier is panting, eyes half-lidded and hazy with bliss, hair fisted in your hands as the rest sticks to his forehead and pillow with sweat, letting you inch off of him as he finally breathes, heaving in deep breaths through swollen, wet lips. His whole body shudders beneath you, and when you shift, you feel it—the sticky warmth against his stomach, the evidence of his release.

He came. Just from eating you out.

And the worst part?

He’s still hard.

“One more time, please?”

Zayne ♱⋅ ── the addicted

Uh oh. 

This was bad. 

Zayne has always considered himself a beacon of self-control, having grown up under the concept of restraint and caution when it came to everything from his Evol to his life’s work as a surgeon. 

But even he could get addicted to having you spread out underneath him like this. 

It had started innocently. Zayne had forgotten his lunch today, probably due to his consecutive sleepless nights, thanks to being on call for not two or three but four surgeries this week. So when you delivered his lunch to his private office like any sweet girlfriend would do, it was only natural that you’d want to see if you could help him feel more relaxed and maybe help relieve the stress that was so clearly fogging up his mind. 

This, however, was not what you had in mind.

"Zayne, someone is going to hear us," you hiss, voice trembling, but make no move to stop him.

Zayne only hums, two fingers rubbing right up against your clit with expert precision even with your jeans still unzipped around your waist. His other hand shucks them just barely down your thigh, pressing his fingers right back in, curling against that spot that has your legs jerking against the polished wood of his desk before dragging his fingers out of you agonizingly slow. 

"You should’ve locked the door when you came in, then." He says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, leaning down, his breath hot against your ear. His free hand presses against your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you open with his fingers, movements slow, deliberate. "You know I don’t like being interrupted."

Your head tilts back against the desk as your cries are muffles into your palm. "Zayne!"

"You were the one who wanted to help relieve my stress, weren’t you?" His voice is calm, collected, like he isn’t knuckle-deep inside you with his fingers glistening from how wet he’s made you already. "So be a good girl and take it."

Your breath stutters, thighs twitching as you clench around his fingers, already embarrassingly close with how well he knows your body, how pent up you’ve been after not having Zayne in over a week. Meanwhile, Zayne watches you come undone with sharp, almost clinical eyes, the hunger in them barely restrained, a predator biding his time.

"Mhm, close, I can’t—"

"Yes, you can," he cuts you off smoothly, pressing his fingers deeper, rubbing firm, steady circles over your clit. His expression doesn’t change, but his voice dips lower, smiling ever so slightly as he watches you. "Come for me."

You shudder violently, hands gripping the edges of the desk as another orgasm threatens to crash over you, your body far too weak to resist the relentless pleasure.

"Zayne," you cry out, hips jerking.

He clicks his tongue, allowing you to ride out your orgasm, but not before ripping his tie off, deft, scarred hands looping through the expensive silk before balling it up and pushing it into your open mouth. 

“What did I say about staying quiet?”

Your response is stifled around his tie, and Zayne feels his traitorous cock throb at the sound of your fucked out, inaudible voice, the very picture of debauchery with the slight drool smearing your lipstick, your eyes hazy with post-orgasm glow, your office button-down skewed across your breasts just enough so be can squeeze your breast right under your lacy bra. 

He wants to ruin you even more. 

Zayne has barely even zipped down his pants, holding up his own shirt as he bites it to keep his leaking cock from smearing pre-cum all over the cotton, before he’s desperately fucking his own fist with one hand, the other still circling your clit. 

When the sound of voices echo from right outside his office door. 

Your body jerks under him at the sudden noise, but Zayne doesn’t stop. If anything, he doubles down, pressing his slick fingers harder against your clit, wrenching another broken sob from your throat, muffled by the tie still shoved between your lips.

“Don’t you dare,” he whispers, voice low, dangerous. His free hand tightens around his cock, stroking faster, more desperate, more sloppy than you’ve ever seen him. The sight alone has your walls clenching down around nothing, a fresh wave of arousal making a mess of his desk and the scattered papers on top. 

The voices outside the door grow louder, and Zayne’s entire body tenses. Not with fear. Not with hesitation. But something that he thinks might ruin him forever. 

“I should stop,” he murmurs, though his fingers never leave you, still rubbing circles into your overstimulated clit, dragging you higher, forcing you to ride that unbearable edge of pleasure. His teeth clench, brows furrowed as his pace on his own cock stutters, his restraint cracking with every second that passes. “I really should stop.”

You whimper, body trembling beneath him, a plea barely audible around the silk in your mouth.

“But you love this, don’t you?” His voice drops, rasping, guttural. “You love making me a mess, love knowing that the only thing keeping us from getting caught is how good you are for me.”

Zayne never talks like this, but god, now you wish he’d never stop. His mere voice is enough to send you over the edge once again. Your moan is strangled, raw, hips lifting weakly into his touch despite the overstimulation.

The door handle rattles.

Zayne snaps, one arm shooting out as ice surrounds the handle, spears of it crawling over the wooden frame of the door, across the tiled floor as he loses control. 

He barely spares it a glance. Pulling the tie from your mouth, Zayne immediately replaces it with his lips, swallowing your gasp as he shoves two fingers back inside you, curling them deep, his strokes ruthless, relentless. His other hand leaves his cock only long enough to drag you forward, forcing your legs around his waist, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance as he moans into your mouth.

"Zayne, your Evol—"

"Don’t worry about me," he hums, kissing you one more time before his gaze drops, watching where the two of you meet. “You’ve done more than enough for me. You’ve always been enough for me.” And he pushes in inch by inch, stretching you open around his thick length, your body still pulsing and greedy from your last orgasm.

Zayne exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against yours as he stills, buried inside you. His fingers flex against your waist, grounding himself, keeping himself from completely unraveling.

 “That’s it, breathe,” he murmurs, voice back to the soft, low tone you know so well, the urgency melting into something reverent. He presses a kiss to your cheek, then another to your jaw, as if to soothe you through the stretch. “You’re perfect.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently as you grind upward, coaxing him into going faster, into actually fucking you. 

Zayne groans, his control fraying as he clutches you tighter, nose brushing against yours. “You're going to be the death of me,” he whispers, lips ghosting yours in a kiss, the intimacy making your heart clench.

New York City does not care about your feelings.

This is something you’ve made your peace with over the years — the way it moves around you without slowing down, all noise and glass and cold wind off the Hudson in the early mornings when you’re walking the four blocks from the subway to Linkon Tower, coffee cup in hand, trying to remember if you forwarded that document last night or only dreamed that you did. The city asks nothing of you emotionally. It simply expects you to keep moving.

You are, in this way, well-suited to New York.

What you are less well-suited to — what you have been quietly, privately, catastrophically less well-suited to for approximately three years now — is being in love with your boss.

The elevator opens on the fifty-third floor.

You are fine.

“Good morning.”

His voice reaches you before you’ve fully stepped through the glass doors of the executive suite — low and unhurried, carrying the particular warmth he reserves for very few people, and you are, for reasons that keep you awake sometimes, one of them. Sylus is already at his desk, as he always is, as he has always been every single morning in the three years you’ve worked for him, because the man apparently does not sleep like a normal person. The Manhattan skyline stretches silver and pale behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the early light, he looks almost painterly — silver hair, dark suit, those red eyes lifting from the document in his hand to find you the moment you walk in, the way they always do, like he has a sense for you specifically.

Like he was waiting.

“Good morning,” you say, and you are very proud of how normal your voice sounds.

“How was the commute?” He asks it with genuine interest, setting his document down, which is one of the things that got you in trouble in the first place. The way he actually listens. The way Sylus, who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise from this office and commands rooms full of people who are intimidated just by his posture, always has time to ask how your commute was.

“Cold,” you say, unwinding your scarf. “The L train decided this morning was a good time to have an existential crisis.”

“The L train always does that.” He tilts his head slightly. “You should have taken the car.”

“I’m not taking your car to work, Sylus.”

“You could.”

“I know I could. I’m choosing not to.” You drop your bag at your desk and pull out your tablet, already scrolling to his schedule. “It makes me feel like a kept woman.”

The silence that follows is approximately one beat too long.

You look up. Sylus is watching you with an expression you can’t fully decode — something that passed through his eyes too quickly, smoothed back over by the composed, unreadable surface he wears most of the time. The corner of his mouth curves.

“Heaven forbid,” he says mildly, and goes back to his document.

You turn back to your tablet and breathe.

Three years, you remind yourself. You have survived three years of this. You will survive today.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

Here is what three years has taught you about Sylus:

He takes his coffee black, no sugar, too hot for comfort, and he drinks it while standing at the window with Manhattan spread out below him like something he’s quietly fond of. He is pathologically early to everything and has zero patience for people who aren’t, with the single exception of you — for you, he simply comes to find you, appearing at your workspace door with that unhurried patience, as though waiting for you specifically is a different category than waiting in general.

He reads physical documents even though everything could be digital because he thinks better with paper in his hands. He keeps the office two degrees warmer than the building standard because he noticed, in your first winter working for him, that you were always cold. He has never once mentioned this to you directly. You figured it out yourself, six months in, when you checked the building’s climate control records out of sheer curiosity, and you had to sit with that knowledge quietly for a long time afterward.

He is privately, genuinely funny — not the performative wit he turns on in meetings, but something dryer and warmer that surfaces only in the quiet moments, usually aimed at you. He reads in at least four languages. He grew up far from here, far from any of this, and there are moments when something in his expression goes distant and careful and you sense the geography of everything he’s built between himself and whatever came before.

He has never raised his voice at you. Not once. In three years of high-pressure deadlines and impossible situations and the particular chaos that seems to follow a man of his ambition, he has never directed anything at you that wasn’t measured, and considered, and — underneath its careful composure — surprisingly kind.

He is also tall — unreasonably, almost absurdly tall, the kind of tall that means the rest of the world simply exists lower than him — broad-shouldered, white-haired, and red-eyed, and standing next to him, which requires you to tilt your head back at an angle you’ve gotten quietly used to, makes you feel both very small and, inexplicably, very safe.

This is the problem.

This is the entire problem.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

“You have the Meridian Capital call at nine,” you say, following him into his office with your tablet. This is another part of the choreography — the morning briefing, where you trail after him and he listens without looking at you directly, which you have learned means he’s paying the most attention. “Board review at eleven. You have a lunch block—”

“Clear it.”

You glance up. “You specifically asked for that block last week.”

“I know what I asked for last week.” He settles into his chair, leaning back in that easy way of his, long legs stretched under the desk. Even seated, the man is an unfair amount of presence. “Book somewhere for lunch instead. Somewhere quiet — not the Meridian district, I’ll have been on a call with those people for an hour and I’ll want a change of air.” His eyes come to you, and they’re soft in the way they sometimes are when it’s just the two of you and the morning is still early. “Somewhere you’d like. You choose.”

You pause. “You want me to choose.”

“Is that not what I said?”

“You’re very particular about restaurants, Sylus.”

“I’m particular in general,” he concedes. “But I trust your taste.” A brief pause. The softness in his expression doesn’t waver. “Lunch for two, somewhere you’d like. That’s all.”

You look at him for a moment too long — which you do sometimes, which you’ve been doing for three years, and he always holds the look, always lets you, like he has nothing to hide and all the time in the world, which is terrifying because it makes you feel seen — and then you nod and look back at your tablet.

“I’ll find somewhere,” you say.

“I know you will.” He picks up his pen. “You always do.”

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The Meridian call runs long, as you predicted, and you have reorganized two schedules and soothed one very anxious junior analyst by the time it wraps. Sylus emerges from his office at eleven-oh-three, jacket on, expression still and composed from the professional armor he wears in those spaces, and crosses directly to your desk.

He sets a cup of tea down at your elbow.

Your tea — your specific order, the one you’d mentioned offhandedly to him eight months ago and apparently never needed to mention again — brewed at the temperature you like, with the little paper sleeve because the cup gets hot.

“Your eleven o’clock moved to eleven-fifteen,” you tell him, not trusting yourself to acknowledge the tea directly, “which means you have twelve minutes, and also I found a restaurant — it’s on the Upper West Side, French-American, supposed to be very quiet on weekdays—”

“Perfect.” He’s reading something on his phone, already walking, and he pauses at the edge of your workspace and glances back.

“You barely ate this morning.”

You blink. “I ate some cereal. How could you possibly—”

“You have the look,” he says, simply, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “The one that means you ate something that technically qualified as food and decided it counted.” The faintest curve of his mouth. “It doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely—”

“Book a table for twelve-thirty.” He’s already moving again, unhurried, like the conversation is entirely settled. “I’m not signing a single thing until I know you’ve had a real meal.”

Then he’s gone, moving down the hallway toward the boardroom, and you’re left staring at the empty doorway with your mouth still open and the faint, traitorous warmth of being known so precisely by someone spreading all the way up to your ears.

You close your mouth.

You book the table and then pick up your tea.

It is perfect.

You are in so much trouble.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The restaurant he lets you choose is a small place tucked between a bookshop and a dry cleaner on West 74th — French in its bones but soft around the edges, the kind of room that smells like butter and old wood and feels completely removed from the city outside. You’re not sure how it stays so quiet in Manhattan. Maybe it exists slightly outside of time.

Sylus ducks slightly to come through the door.

He does this — accommodates the world’s architectures with a patient, practiced ease, as though he accepted a long time ago that most spaces weren’t built for him and has made his peace with it. You notice this more than you should. You notice the way he instinctively adjusts when he’s close to you too — angles himself, shortens his step, never makes you feel like the difference in your heights is anything other than simply the way things are.

The host seats you at a corner table. The light is golden and low.

“This is nice,” Sylus says, and he means it. You’ve gotten good at knowing when he means things.

“I thought you’d like it.” You unfold your menu. “It feels like somewhere you’d eat if you didn’t have to perform anything.”

He goes still for just a moment. Then, quietly: “That’s a very accurate read.”

“Three years,” you say simply.

Something in his expression moves — warm and careful at once, like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to drop. He looks at you across the small table, and in the golden light of this room outside of time he looks different than he does in the office. Younger, almost. Softer. Like the thing he usually holds back with both hands is closer to the surface.

“You’re distracted this week,” he says eventually. Not an accusation — an observation, offered gently, the way he offers you most things. “You hide it well. But I know your face.”

Your heart catches.

I know your face. Said like it’s simply a fact, something true and uncontested, filed away somewhere in him.

“I found something,” you say, because you can never not tell him things, in the end. He does something to your defenses — doesn’t dismantle them, exactly, just makes you feel like they’re not necessary with him, which might be worse. “An apartment. A loft.” You look at your water glass. “I’ve been dreaming about my own place for years. You know how New York is — I’ve been in the same sublet since I moved here, and it’s fine, it’s always been fine, but it’s not mine. Nothing in it is mine.” You smile, self-deprecating. “I walked past a listing last weekend. A loft in the West Village — high ceilings, big windows, exposed brick. There’s a little terrace that looks out over the rooftops and I just — I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it for a long time.”

Sylus is watching you with his full attention — the specific quality of stillness he gets when you’re saying something he wants to remember. His hands are folded on the table. He’s not eating. He’s just listening.

“It needs renovation,” you continue, quieter now. “A lot of it, still. Which is part of why the price is—” You exhale. “The price is a lot. More than a lot. My savings are good, I’ve been careful, but between the listing and the renovation costs it’s just—” You shake your head. “It’s not realistic right now.”

A long pause.

“Tell me about it,” Sylus says.

You blink. “I just—”

“Not the numbers.” His voice is gentle. “The place. Tell me about the loft.”

Oh.

Oh.

You look at him. He looks back, patient and entirely serious, and something in your chest aches in a way you don’t have good language for.

And so you tell him — the arched windows and the way the afternoon light would fall across the floors, the exposed brick that runs the whole length of the far wall, the little wrought-iron terrace barely big enough for two chairs and a plant but somehow perfect, the ceiling height, the bones of it. The way you’d stood on that sidewalk and seen, with a clarity that surprised you, exactly what it could become. What it could be. You tell him all of it, more than you meant to, more than is probably professional over a two-person lunch that you’re already trying not to read too much into.

Sylus listens to every word.

When you finish, he’s quiet for a moment. There’s something in his expression that’s gone a little careful.

“What’s the address?” he says.

You study him. “Why?”

“Because you’ve just described the place you want most in the world,” he says, very simply, “and I’m interested in things that matter to you.”

The ache in your chest deepens. You look at him for a long moment — this man who runs a company from the fifty-third floor of a Midtown tower, who is a decade older than you and a foot taller than you and should by any reasonable accounting be the most intimidating person in your life, and who instead feels, in moments like this, like the safest one.

You give him the address.

You don’t know what he’ll do with it.

You just know, the way you know most things about Sylus, that he’ll do something.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The afternoon passes the way good afternoons in the office do — with a steady rhythm of tasks and small exchanges, the comfortable back-and-forth that you’ve built between you over three years like a language that only the two of you speak fluently. He stops by your desk at three to ask if you want anything from the coffee cart downstairs, which he would never do for anyone else, and brings you back a hot chocolate without commenting on it. You catch him at five-forty-five standing in the doorway of his office watching you finish up for the day with an expression you aren’t supposed to have seen — unguarded, quiet, something in it that sits low and warm in your stomach for the whole subway ride home.

It doesn’t mean what you want it to mean, you tell yourself, earbuds in, Manhattan rushing past outside the windows.

He’s just kind. He’s kind to you because you work for him and you’ve earned it and that’s all it is.

Forty-three blocks uptown, Sylus stands at his office window with your address on a notepad in his hand and thinks, for a very long time.

Then he sits down at his desk.

Opens his laptop.

And begins to type.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

read the rest on ao3 <3

Sylus ⟢

- straddling sylus as he massages your pretty tits

- how he has you on the couch after a long day

- sylus after beating down on his cock because he misses you so much; pls come back to him </3

- devouring your pussy like he's a starving and dying man; he hopes luke and kieran can hear the both of you through the wall

- he loves rubbing your clit as he fucks you nicely after tearing off your favorite lingerie

- you deserve getting a spanking after being so annoying and naughty to sylus

Xavier ⟢

- slow and soft missionary before bedtime because he missed you so much <3

- making him cum through his boxers because you're both too lazy and tired to take everything off

- getting too excited and having you in so many ways against the walls

- sweet morning sex because he can't get enough of you

- xav got bored and wanted to send something teasing for not giving him a goodbye kiss this morning

- he loves how squishy and soft your ass is while he has you over his lap and his finger digging inside your pussy

Rafayel ⟢

- getting spread out and whining for rafayel to breed you

- acting like an annoying brat and denying that you'll cum for him... he'll prove you wrong

- you were being mean to him earlier so now he has to be even meaner by fucking your back

- rafa loves the noises you make when he suck and teases your nipples with his tongue

- he's imagining that his sucky silicon toy is your ass :(

- guiding you kindly to take his cock in so many ways

Zayne ⟢

- zayne cumming inside his sweetheart after her desperate pleas and begging >_<

- dolled up for him after a short shift for funsies, now he has you over the armrest

- rubbing dr zayne's boner before work so he can be hard and thinking about you for the rest of the day

- breeding you in broad daylight after a long week working at the hospital ^_^

- fucking you with just his thumb after you were being a brat the whole day and sending him teasing photos at work

- car sex under the rain after a romantic date night with zayne <3

You noticed the shift in him later — not in words, of course, but in how his hand came to rest at the small of your back. How he guided you through the crowd with a little more pressure than usual. How he didn't quite smile when the man shook your hand in farewell.

Zayne said nothing until much later, until the house had gone quiet and the fire in the living room had burned low. You stood in the middle of his room in the glow of moonlight, slipping off your gown when he finally spoke from behind you, voice even but unmistakably edged.

“He seemed very taken with you,” he murmured, fingers brushing yours as he helped you slip on a robe — his touch too gentle to be casual. “Charming. In a practiced sort of way.”

You turned to face him, finding that composed expression — calm, always — but his eyes were darker tonight. Sharper. As if weighing something unspoken.

“Were you jealous?” you asked, half a tease.

“No,” he said softly, stepping in close. “Just... reminded.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Of what?”

“That others may admire you.” His hand settled at your waist, warm and grounding. “But none of them know how to touch you.”

His lips brushed your cheek, then lower, to your jaw. His voice was velvet when it returned.

“None of them know how you tremble when you’re about to fall apart. How you like to be kissed here—” a soft graze behind your ear, “—or how your breath catches when I hold you like this.”

He drew you closer, lifting your chin with two fingers, his tone still gentle. Almost reverent.

And then, the unmistakable warmth of his palm on your hip. The way he leaned in close and said, with deceptive calm, “How beautiful you sound when you scream my name,”

You smiled faintly, not answering, letting your hand drift over the buttons of his shirt. “You’re so jealous.”

“Am not,” he murmured, drawing you into his lap.

You settled there, straddling his thighs, the fabric of your robe slipping open just enough for him to slide his hands along your bare skin. He held you like something precious — like you might vanish if he didn’t. His thumbs stroked absent circles into your waist, his gaze fixed on you with quiet purpose.

The kiss was inevitable. Slow at first — almost tentative. But then deeper, drawn out, his lips moving over yours with the careful deliberation of a man who knows exactly what he wants and isn’t afraid to take his time claiming it.

Your hands buried in his hair as he pulled you closer, tongue sliding past your lips with measured ease. His grip firmed on your hips as he guided your weight into him, coaxing the smallest gasp from your throat.

He caught the sound — of course he did — and his mouth curled faintly against yours. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”

Your head tipped back slightly as he kissed along your jaw, his breath warming the curve of your throat. “You always know exactly what to do to me,” you breathed.

Zayne hummed low in his chest, mouth dragging against your pulse. “I study you,” he said softly. “Every sigh, every shiver. I could draw you from memory.”

There was a note in his voice then — something more than reverence. It sounded almost like a question he wasn’t quite asking.

You shifted against him, body arching subtly as his hands skimmed beneath your robe and slipped it off your shoulders. “No one else knows me like you do,” you said quietly.

He stilled, just for a moment, his hands pausing as he took you in.

Then, “Good,” he said. Not smug, not possessive in the traditional sense — just certain. A simple truth, spoken like a vow.

You kissed again, deeper this time, your bare skin pressed flush against the crisp cotton of his shirt. He eased you forward, holding you steady with one arm while the other slipped between your thighs. His fingers stroked you slowly, parting you with a patient, practiced touch. He worked you open in silence, save for the hitch of your breath, the soft wet sounds of his fingers circling your entrance.

“You’re trembling,” he said softly, brushing his knuckles along your inner thigh. “Already?”

“You’re too good at this.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. “Only for you.”

You let your head rest against his shoulder as he slid two fingers inside, slow and careful. He knew exactly where to angle them, how to curl them just so, until your hips were rolling in time with his movements and your breath came out in stuttered gasps.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “No one else could ever make you feel this way.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement — and a challenge.

You whispered his name against his neck, voice breaking as he twisted his fingers just right. He exhaled through his nose, satisfied, and withdrew only to guide you onto him with practiced ease, the head of his cock catching against your entrance.

His hands held your waist, steadying you as he slid in, inch by aching inch. You buried your face in his collar, clutching at his shirt as the stretch overwhelmed you — so slow, so deep it nearly bordered on pain.

Zayne groaned softly, low and tight in his throat. “You’re always so warm for me.”

You whimpered, sinking fully down into his lap, the feeling of him rooted inside you sending shivers up your spine.

He didn’t move at first — just let you feel it. The way he filled you so completely. The way your body fluttered around him as if trying to draw him deeper still.

Then his hands moved again. One slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine. The other cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he leaned in to kiss you — slow, reverent, utterly consuming.

And then he began to move.

Measured thrusts, hips rolling beneath you with perfect control. He kissed your temple, your cheek, your lips — again and again — like he couldn’t get enough of your taste. Each press of his hips had your breath hitching, your body tightening, your hands clutching his shoulders as the slow build wound tighter inside you.

“Who else could possibly understand you like I do?” he asked quietly, lips brushing your ear. “Who else would know how to love you like this?”

“No one,” you gasped.

He picked up pace slightly, hips grinding up into yours with exquisite precision, dragging your pleasure out, teasing you with the edge of release until your thighs trembled around him.

“I don’t need to be told I’m the only one,” he whispered, “but it’s nice to hear it.”

You cried out when he hit that perfect spot again and again, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

“Say it,” he breathed.

“You’re the only one, Zayne,” you whispered, falling apart for him.

He followed soon after, clutching you to him as he spilled inside, burying his face in your neck with a soft, unsteady exhale.

And then he stilled, holding you there as the aftershocks trembled between you.

A long silence. Just the sound of your heartbeats, your breath slowing.

Then, as you traced a hand over the back of his neck, he murmured against your shoulder:

“I want to spend my whole life learning you.”

His voice was soft, measured — almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

You didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his chin up, pressed a kiss to his lips, and smiled.

“I hope you do.”

xavier. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁

You hadn’t even noticed Xavier at first.

You were in the hallway, still holding your mail, chatting with the neighbor from two doors down — the one who always seemed to be around when you got back from a mission. He’d asked about your latest patrol, complimented your boots in passing, made some offhand comment about how quiet your apartment had been lately.

It was all friendly. Harmless.

But Xavier stood just out of view, leaned in the doorway of his own apartment, watching.

His arms were crossed. His expression unreadable.

By the time you stepped back inside, the conversation already forgotten, you felt it — the tension. The presence. He was there, leaning in your doorway now, one shoulder propped against the frame.

“How long were you going to stand out there?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked. “What? I was only out there a minute.”

A pause. Then, calmly: “He’s interested in you.”

You laughed, but he didn’t. “He’s just a neighbor.”

“I’m not blind.” He stepped forward, slow and fluid, until the air between you tensed like a wire. “He smiles at you like he thinks you might invite him in one day.”

“He was just being polite, Xavi” you said, voice softening. But Xavier’s gaze didn’t waver.

“No,” he murmured. “I’m polite. He was imagining what your skin might taste like.”

You swallowed. Hard.

And Xavier’s smile — the one he wore only when he was angry in that particular, possessive way — made an appearance. It was faint. Crooked. Dangerous.

“You like being seen, don’t you?” he asked, stepping in closer. “All gentle eyes and soft smiles. So good. So kind. Makes men forget themselves.”

“Xavier—”

“Do you forget?” he asked quietly, hands finding your waist. “Who you belong to?”

You gasped as he pushed you back gently until your spine met the nearest wall. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like a caress. He leaned in, voice velvet-dark.

“Let me remind you.”

You were still catching your breath when he kissed you — deep, slow, unrelenting. Not angry. Not rushed. Just intentional. His mouth slanted over yours again and again until your knees weakened and your arms curled around his shoulders.

He carried you to the bedroom without a word. Lit only by the pale blue spill of Linkon moonlight, the room felt colder than usual. Or maybe that was just his restraint. He laid you down gently. Methodically. As though he was still trying to decide how best to ruin you.

He undressed you in near silence, his hands lingering longer than necessary. Touching places he already knew by heart, rediscovering them with maddening slowness. “He doesn’t know what you sound like when you beg,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over your ribs, “or how your voice breaks when I go deeper.”

You reached for him — too impatient — but he caught your wrists and pinned them gently to the mattress above your head.

“No rushing,” he said, his voice almost sweet. “You had time to smile at him. You’ll make time for this.”

His mouth followed his hands — kisses dragged across your collarbone, tongue teasing the underside of your breast, lips sealing around your nipple as his fingers drifted lower.

And lower.

Until they found you, already slick and twitching for him.

“Of course,” he whispered against your skin. “Always so wet for me, even when you pretend to be innocent.”

Two fingers slid in, slow and curling, hitting a spot that had you bucking beneath him — but he held you down, pinning you with nothing more than a look.

“Do you think he could make you feel like this?” he asked. “Does he even know where to touch you?”

You whimpered, arching into him. “Xavier, please—”

“Oh,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear, “I love when you beg, little star.”

He worked you open with patient cruelty, bringing you to the edge with agonizing precision — only to stop.

Again and again.

By the third time, you were trembling, nails scraping at the sheets, voice hoarse from whimpering his name.

“Just say it,” he whispered. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, without hesitation.

He rewarded you with his mouth then — hot, wet, relentless between your thighs. Your back arched off the mattress at the first flick of his tongue. He took his time, lapping and sucking with languid control until your vision blurred and your thighs threatened to close around him.

But he held you open. Watched you come undone.

Only once you were gasping his name like a prayer did he finally undress, movements slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving yours.

When he sank into you, it wasn’t fast. It was deep. He held your gaze the entire time, watching your mouth fall open as he filled you, inch by slow inch, until you couldn’t breathe around it.

“There,” he whispered. “No one else gets this. Just me.”

He dragged it out, every roll of his hips designed to torture. His hands never stopped moving — stroking your waist, brushing your hair back, pinning your wrists when you reached to speed him up.

“You’ll take it like this,” he murmured, “until you forget every other name but mine.”

You did.

When you came again, it was with your legs wrapped around him, voice broken and high, clinging to him like you’d fall apart without his body tethering yours.

Only then — only then — did he let go, fucking you through your climax with enough force to shake the bed. He spilled inside you with a groan, head buried against your neck, breathing ragged and voice thick when he spoke again.

“No one gets to see this part of you,” he said softly, his hand stroking your stomach. “Just me. Only me.”

He looked at you then, hair mussed, eyes dark and hungry even after everything. “I don’t mind others seeing you smile,” he murmured, “but don’t let them forget who owns the rest.”

You pulled him in again, lips brushing his, breath still shaky.

“They couldn’t forget if they tried.”

sylus. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ .

You didn’t mean to steal the spotlight.

The auction had simply unfolded that way — the room full of powerful people in fine suits and darker intentions, all turning to look when you walked in. Their gazes followed you like tides pulled by gravity, lingering too long. Some approached under the pretense of polite interest: asking for your thoughts on the collection, inquiring who you were with. You’d smiled, demure and polite, but it didn’t stop the way their eyes slid over you — speculative, appreciative, hungry.

You caught Sylus watching once from across the room — a glass of dark wine suspended in his hand, half-raised, half-forgotten. He didn’t look angry. Not even annoyed. Just still. Perfectly still. His crimson eyes held you like a blade pressed flat to your throat — silent and unmoving, but keen.

On the way home, he hadn’t said much. His hand rested on your thigh in the car. A murmur about the art. Something vague about the way the auctioneer’s accent curled. Polite, as always. But you felt it: the tension beneath his calm, like a storm pressed behind glass.

It’s only once the door closes behind you — the quiet of his penthouse folding around you, city lights flickering low — that he shows it.

He doesn’t let you get far.

His arm wraps around your waist and draws you back into his chest. You feel the heat of him before you hear the low hum of his voice near your ear.

“Still carrying all that attention with you, sweetie?”

You blink, about to ask what he means — but he’s already sliding your coat from your shoulders. Gentle. Reverent. His fingers ghost down the line of your back as he slips the fabric away, letting it fall to the floor.

You turn in his arms.

His gaze drinks you in — the line of your gown, the soft flush of your skin from the wine, the delicate rise and fall of your breath beneath silk.

“You looked…” His eyes drop lower. “…dangerous tonight.”

You raise a brow, lips tilting. “Dangerous?”

“Mmh.” His mouth brushes your jaw. Just a ghost of contact. “Pretty little thing like you — standing there with a thousand eyes on you, smiling like that.” His voice thickens, slow as honey. “Of course they wanted you.”

You laugh, soft and teasing — but he doesn’t. His hands slide lower, curve over your hips with more pressure. One lifts the back of your thigh, coaxing your leg around his waist. You let him. He carries you with no effort, steps sure and silent as he takes you to the bedroom.

“You’re being awfully sweet,” you murmur, hands brushing his chest.

He smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“Aren’t I always, kitten?”

He lays you down like you’re the most delicate thing in the world — not because you are, but because tonight he wants you to feel that way. Kept. Claimed. Cherished.

His jacket slips off. His shirt, undone with aching precision. As each button comes loose, you watch the careful reveal of his chest, the sharp cut of his abdomen, the faint line of a scar you’ve traced before. He watches you, too. Watches your hunger, quiet and reverent, like he needs to see it written across your face.

He kisses you with the same slow worship.

Not frantic. Not forceful. Just… knowing. Like he’s trying to wipe away every gaze that touched you, every word that wasn’t his, every breath you gave someone else.

His mouth trails from your lips to your neck, then down — lower, tasting the soft skin at your collarbone, the hollow between your breasts. When his fingers slide the gown off your shoulders, he moves like he’s unwrapping something sacred. Each inch of skin he reveals is met with his mouth, warm and lingering.

He doesn’t speak, but you feel the tension under his touch. The possessiveness coiled tight beneath the surface. It shows in how slowly he parts your thighs. How long he lingers at your knees. How his eyes lift and lock to yours before he kisses the inside of your thigh like a confession.

“I want to take care of you tonight,” he says, voice so low you barely catch it. “Will you let me?”

You nod, breath already caught in your throat.

His mouth lowers — and when he finally touches you with his tongue, it’s like silk drawn over a flame.

He takes his time.

Every flick, every slow circle of his tongue feels intentional. He doesn’t chase your pleasure — he builds it, patient and precise. His fingers curl against your thigh, anchoring you as his mouth works you open, lavishing you with long, unhurried strokes. When your hips twitch, he murmurs quiet praise against your skin.

“That’s it, sweetie… Just like that.”

He knows your body too well. Every tremble. Every soft sound. He listens for them like cues, adjusts with barely a shift, lips sealing over your clit just right, just long enough to make you sob out his name.

When the orgasm hits, it’s slow and shattering. Not sudden — inevitable. He pulls it from you like a string being drawn taut, then snapped, and when your body arches and your thighs quake, he doesn’t let go. He keeps you grounded with his mouth, one hand firm on your waist, the other stroking soft down your thigh.

When he finally rises, his lips are slick, his eyes molten.

He kisses up your stomach, your ribs, your sternum. Every inch of you loved, mapped, and claimed.

And when he finally pushes inside — slow, deep, deliberate — it feels like coming home.

“You feel that?” he whispers, voice frayed. “How perfect you fit me?”

You gasp his name, legs wrapping tighter around him. His hips roll slow, careful, each thrust brushing deep and smooth. He keeps you close — chest to chest, skin to skin — every movement drawing you tighter, closer.

“You’re mine…” he breathes against your jaw. Then quieter, almost too soft to hear— “Aren’t you?”

You freeze — just for a second. Not in fear. In knowing.

“…Sylus?” you whisper.

He lifts his head. Something flickers there. A softness cracking. A need barely hidden beneath all his polish.

You smile, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Are you jealous?”

His eyes narrow. Not angry. Just… caught.

“Tch. Don’t be absurd.”

But then he thrusts deeper. Slower. Possessive without force — just depth. Just heat. Your body responds instantly, moaning into his neck.

He leans down, voice low.

“Let me remind you.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re breathless. Until your fingers cramp from clinging to him, until your throat is hoarse from moaning his name like a prayer. His control never slips — but his need is written into every touch. Every inch of him buried deep in you, every whispered word brushed against your skin like a claim carved from silk.

And even when you’re both spent, your bodies tangled in the sheets, his hand never stops moving. Thumb brushing your hip. Knuckles tracing the curve of your waist.

He doesn’t say the word.

But in the way he presses a kiss to your temple. In how his eyes stay on you even after sleep begins to pull you under—

You know.

He needed this.

He needed you.

caleb. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁

You noticed it the moment his eyes cut across the room.

A too-familiar glance from a Fleet lieutenant. A compliment disguised as professional praise. A hand that lingered just a beat too long at the small of your back.

You brushed it off — but Caleb didn’t.

He didn’t say a word on the way back. No cold expression, no clipped tone — just silence, taut and simmering. And that was worse. That meant he was thinking. Feeling. Holding it in.

When the front door clicked shut behind you, the silence broke — not with words, but weight.

The air pressed down. Subtle, at first. Then heavier. Your breath caught.

“Caleb—”

“Stay there.”

His voice was calm. Too calm. He didn’t even look at you yet, just shrugged off his uniform jacket and let it hit the floor. “You always let them get close like that, honey?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it?” He turned finally, eyes darker than usual — not glowing, not angry. Just hurt. Like he’d seen a glimpse of something he wasn’t supposed to witness. “Pips… he touched you.”

“Caleb—”

“He touched you, and you smiled.” A step closer. “You let him.”

“I smiled because I was being polite. That’s all.”

His Evol pressed in tighter around your wrists, then your hips — firm, invisible hands holding you still. His voice didn’t rise. It dipped, lower, like it ached to stay steady.

“I’m not mad,” he murmured. “I just need—” Another step. Closer now. “I need you to remember whose you are.”

Then he kissed you — hard and deep, desperate, like he was trying to drown the memory of someone else’s touch with his own. He tasted like tension and guilt and need, his hands finally real where the gravity had only suggested — one cradling your jaw, the other gripping your waist tight enough to bruise.

He backed you to his bed without breaking the kiss, and you fell into the sheets with him following. His body covered yours like he couldn’t risk even the air touching you before he could reclaim it.

“Look at you,” he breathed, voice rough. “You’re always so sweet when you want something. But tonight…” His teeth grazed your neck. “I think you want to be reminded.”

You whimpered as he pushed your legs apart and settled between them, dragging your underwear down like it offended him. He slid his fingers through your slick folds with a sharp inhale, his restraint fraying at the edges.

“Fuck. Already this wet?” His voice cracked. “God, baby, tell me it’s not for him.”

“It’s not,” you gasped. “It’s you—only you.”

He exhaled hard, like he didn’t quite believe it, even if he wanted to. Even as he lined himself up and pressed in deep — one long, thick stretch that made your toes curl — his expression didn’t fully settle.

His rhythm started rough. Fast. Desperate. His hands held your thighs open, and every thrust hit deeper, firmer, like he was trying to bury himself so far inside you nothing could ever take you from him.

But even as he claimed you, his voice cracked again. This time not with anger — with fear.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

You looked up, startled — but he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. His hips kept rolling, skin slapping yours, sweat beading along his temple.

“Pips,” he breathed, and this time it sounded like a confession, a prayer. “I try so hard— I try to be everything—” His forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing. “But I’m not like I used to be. I know that. I’m not good enough for you.”

“Caleb—”

His thrusts stuttered just a little — not in weakness, but like the words hurt more than anything.

“But I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so fucking much it hurts. And I can’t— I won’t watch you slip away. I need you to want me like this.”

You whimpered as his grip on your hips tightened, dragging you into each thrust, his eyes fluttering shut like the sensation grounded him.

“Say it,” he begged. Not ordered. Begged. “Tell me I’m enough. Please, baby—just say it.”

“You’re enough. You’re more than enough—Caleb, please—”

You came hard, the wave crashing over you with a sob of his name. But he didn’t stop.

He leaned over you, still thrusting through the aftershocks, his voice unraveling completely now — soft, whiny, broken. Almost angry at himself.

“I don’t care if it hurts me, just let me stay like this—let me feel you, baby, please—”

You kissed him, trembling, and he kissed you back like he needed your mouth to breathe. His pace grew erratic, choked sounds escaping him as his hips lost rhythm.

“I’m yours,” he groaned, spilling deep inside you. “Yours, Pips. No one else. Just—just yours.”

He stayed inside you, still moving gently, too raw to stop.

And then he collapsed into you, arms pulling you close like if he let go for even a second, you might disappear. Voice barely audible, breath hot against your skin:

“I don’t know what I’d be if I lost you.” A pause. “Whatever you want me to be— I’ll be that. Just please stay.”

rafayel. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . ݁

The gallery was full — too full — but Rafayel didn’t complain. Not out loud.

He watched from across the room, champagne glass untouched, as you laughed at something some man in a velvet blazer whispered near your ear. The man gestured vaguely at one of Rafayel’s paintings — a piece in pink and carmine tones, intimate, unmistakably you — and smiled like he thought he had a chance.

Rafayel’s jaw flexed. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t make a scene.

But oh, he watched.

And when the evening ended and the man dared to kiss your knuckles, Rafayel’s fingers were already curling around your wrist before the door even shut behind him.

He didn’t say a word as he tugged you down the path to his studio. Just smiled — a little too wide, a little too perfect — and pressed the buttons on the keypad with a single flick of his gloved hand.

“You’re quiet,” you said.

“Mhm,” he hummed. “Just thinking. About how pretty you looked tonight. Especially when you were giggling at his jokes. I didn’t know I had competition.”

Your heart fluttered. “You don’t.”

He smiled wider, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh, cutie. I know that. Now.”

The moment the studio door shut behind you, his mask cracked.

Rafayel was on you in an instant — hands in your hair, lips at your neck, hot and breathless. “Do you like making me suffer?” he murmured, tongue sliding along your pulse. “Because I was suffering. All evening.”

You barely had time to speak before he swept you up — literally — into his arms and carried you straight through the studio. Paintings lined the walls, moonlight casting shadows across the hardwood, and he sat you down on the edge of a velvet chaise like you were a centerpiece.

“I was good tonight,” he said, dragging off his jacket with a sharp flick. “So good. I didn’t even interrupt. I let him talk to you. Let him look at you like he had any right. And you—” He knelt between your legs, gripping your thighs possessively. “You just smiled so sweetly, like you didn’t know how insane that was driving me.”

You opened your mouth, but his fingers were already slipping under your dress, dragging your underwear down with a wickedly slow pull.

“Don’t you dare apologize, cutie,” he whispered, mouth brushing your inner thigh. “I don’t want ‘sorry.’ I want to hear how much you missed me.”

“Rafayel—” your breath hitched as his lips pressed hot and slow where you were already aching.

“Say it,” he murmured, eyes flicking up — those vibrant blues with their soft pink glowing in the dark. “Say you missed me.”

“I missed you— I always do—”

“Good,” he cooed, grinning. “Then stay still for me.”

And then his mouth was on you — lush and relentless, tongue flicking, curling, sucking until you were gasping. He held your thighs open with an iron grip, moaning against your heat like he was starved for it.

He didn’t let up when you bucked. Didn’t stop when you cried out his name. He just kept going — murmuring sweet, devastating things between licks.

“This is mine, cutie. All mine. You can let them look—but they don’t get this, do they?”

“No—nngh—only you—”

“That’s right,” he purred, slipping his fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right. “Only me. Because I’d burn the world if anyone else touched you like this.”

Your orgasm came fast, nearly shocking — and still he didn’t stop.

You tried to pull away, thighs trembling, but he only made a soft sound and pulled you back in.

“Raf— I can’t—”

“You can,” he said sweetly. “You will. That was just for the exhibition. Now this one’s for the way he looked at you. And the next? That’s for smiling at him like he was interesting.”

“Rafayel—!”

He grinned against your overstimulated clit. “Aw. Are you gonna cry for me, cutie? Look so pretty when you do.”

Your vision blurred. The pleasure, the heat, the shameful delight in how needy he sounded — it all tangled into something delirious.

He finally pulled away, face wet, lips red and glistening. He kissed your thigh with a little sigh, like he was soothing the wound he caused.

Then he stripped — both of your clothes disappearing in an instant — until you were both bare and golden in the moonlight, muscles tense and hungry with restraint.

“Lie back,” he said. “Let me inside. I need to feel you. Need to ruin you a little, so you don’t forget who you come home to.”

You reached for him — dazed, aching — and he slid into you with a sound that was halfway to a whimper.

“Oh, fuck— you’re perfect,” he moaned, dropping his head against your shoulder. “Tighter than I remember. Were you teasing me on purpose, cutie? You wanted to see me like this, didn’t you?”

You couldn’t speak. Could only cling as he rolled his hips in deep, smooth thrusts — dragging out every sound from your throat, chasing every tremble in your body.

“Say it,” he gasped, breath hot against your collarbone. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours— always—”

“And you love me?”

“I love you.”

He groaned — long and low, thrusting deeper. “Again.”

“I love you—!”

He came with a choked breath, hips grinding as he spilled inside you, his body trembling against yours like the tension had finally snapped. But he didn’t stop holding you. Didn’t even pull out. He just wrapped his arms around you, still buried deep, and nuzzled into your neck with a pout.

“…I hate being jealous,” he whispered. “Makes me dramatic.”

You huffed a laugh, boneless and warm. “You’re always dramatic.”

He smiled, kissing your temple. “Yeah, but this time I was right, wasn’t I? You’re mine, cutie. And I’m never letting go.”