I'm nonbinary, but gendered language is perfectly okay
Bisexual disabled Latina ✨
Zayne main❄️, Sylus lover🐦⬛, appreciator of all the boys🌟🐠🍎
Also on twitter: @auracorazayne • @cosmicforge_c
I'm currently working on Love and Deepspace candles and sprays with fragrances for all 5 LI's plus all 5 MC's - those will be available for sale soon and updates on that can be found at Cosmic Forge Candles.
I very occasionally write fanfic or headcanons. Below the cut, you can find my masterlist that includes fanfiction, headcanons, and some of my blog tags 👇
Multi-Part Works
ZayneMC's Relationship Firsts:
An exploration of how their relationship got started and unfolded - chapters are technically sequential but can largely be read standalone with little to no missing context
PART ONE: Routine Check-Up • 3.8k
pre-relationship ZayneMC face the question "Are you sexually active?" during an appointment
tags: NO smut; lots of yearning and romantic tension; limited discussion of sex; Zayne and MC are virgins; second person POV
PART TWO: Almost Made It • 5.1k
you're finally about to go on your first date with Zayne, until an emergency surgery gets in the way of plans and you decide to take matters into your own hands
tags: early/pre-relationship; NO smut; lots of yearning and romantic tension; friends to lovers; idiots in love; second person POV
PART THREE: Coming Soon
attempt number two at your first date with Zayne, and it's fraught with even more anxiety than expected
Oneshots
Today's Lesson 🔞🌶️ • 1.7k
You decide to spontaneously crash one of Zayne's lectures, silently handing him a remote as people are coming in
tags: SMUT - MDNI; reader wears an RC vibrator to Zayne's lecture; established relationship; edging; office sex; p in v; second person POV
Cardio • 1.3k
Your burning crush on Zayne makes it very difficult to stay focused on your workout when you happen to discover the two of you share a gym
tags: NO smut, but slightly suggestive; a hint of sexual tension; pre-relationship; reader is fighting for their life trying not to get distracted; second person POV
Headcanons
What LaDS LI's and Their MC's Smell Like
How the LaDS LI's React to You Starting a Journal
Headcanons about how all 5 LI's react to learning that you've started keeping a journal/scrapbook documenting your relationship
tags: sfw, except for a few spicy hc's marked at the very bottom
Update to let everyone know that in addition to one (1) freebie acrylic charm that will be included with every pledge of every tier all the charm designs will also be available as add-ons!
Check out my Kickstarter with the link above for more information!
Summary: You and Zayne are finally going on your first date... until plans change - this is technically a 2nd chapter, but can be read standalone with little to no missing context
Word Count: 5.1k (OOPS SORRY)
Tags: Zayne has to miss their first date due to surgery, but reader surprises him with dinner; early/pre-relationship; NO smut; lots of yearning and romantic tension; friends to lovers; idiots in love;
a/n: uhhhhh so I know I posted the first part of this in, like, AUGUST or something, but life has been unexpectedly hectic. This has been sitting 95% done for so long now, and I finally had a few moments to just tidy up the last bit and get it posted lol. I do also have a third part about 60% done at this point, so there will be more, but I will not make any promises about when at this point, because something always comes up lol
PART ONE: Routine Check-Up »
PART TWO: Almost Made It «
As Thursday rolls around, you find yourself in front of your bedroom's full-length mirror, once again questioning the outfit you spent the last four days deciding on.
Picking out outfits for prior outings with Zayne was also often difficult, but moreso because you were always trying to find the line between looking cute and looking like you were trying too hard. Now that this is officially a date--which still doesn't feel real--some of those restrictions have opened up, which is proving to be both a blessing and a curse.
You want to be alluring, a little sexy, but not too revealing; sophisticated, without looking overdressed; stylish, and yet also comfortable.
You thought you'd weighed all your options prior to Thursday and landed on the perfect outfit. But as you appraise yourself in the mirror, something feels just a little bland, your eyes repeatedly drifting over to the previously rejected outfit choice left hanging on your closet door. With a resigned huff, you give in and quickly change, hoping it's the right choice.
Hoping he'll be enticed to kiss you, you think unbidden, quickly shooing the thought away. You'd spent the last several days completely stuck on if it would happen, how it would happen, what his lips would feel like, where he'd put his hands, the way he'd taste--you felt insane with how frequently the thoughts popped into your head and interrupted your day. Somewhere along the way, you'd told yourself that if you wanted it that badly that you should be the one to initiate it, but that was quickly trumped by a fear of being too aggressive: you'd been the one to ask him out and boldly sealed the deal with a kiss to the cheek already, it was best from here to give him the room to decide to take that step.
Of course, that spurred a whole slew of other worries, but you fight to keep those at bay as you continue getting ready.
Despite the fact that he isn't meant to pick you up for nearly two more hours, you move on to your hair and makeup, needing something to keep you busy to quell your nerves; it gives you more than enough time to similarly overthink every last possible styling decision. As you fret over eyeshadow colors, your phone buzzes with a few texts from Zayne.
[4:13pm] Zayne: It seems I'll be a bit late to pick you up, an emergency surgery has just come up, unfortunately
[4:13pm] Zayne: I should only be about thirty minutes behind
[4:14pm] Zayne: I'll update you once I'm out of the operating room
"No worries, hope everything goes well! I'll be here," You shoot back, punctuating with a bright, smiling emoji as you try not to deflate, something in your gut telling you your date won't be happening tonight.
You scroll idly on your phone as you wait on your couch, the clock ticking by. As 30 minutes becomes an hour, then two, then three, that feeling in your gut grows more concrete. You're disappointed, of course, but it wouldn't be the first time you've had to reschedule with Zayne because of his work, or even yours.
There'll be another time, you tell yourself, trying to ignore the way your heart hurts.
Just as you've reached the point of acceptance, about to change and remove your makeup, an idea hits you. With about 45 minutes until they close, you dial the restaurant you and Zayne had selected for tonight and place a pick-up order, hoping you knew his palette well enough by now to have chosen a meal he'd enjoy.
By the time you get to the restaurant, they're already packing your entrees--and desserts, of course--into a bag, utensils and all. Your car is filled with a heavenly aroma as you continue on your way, and you can't help the grin that splits your face when your phone serendipitously rings with a call from Zayne as you near the hospital.
When you pick up, it's hard to keep your bubbling excitement at bay. "Hey! Is surgery wrapped up?"
"It is." He goes quiet for a moment before nearly whispering your name, heavy with remorse, and you know what's coming. "I'm... incredibly sorry," he begins, voice weary and defeated even through the phone.
"It's okay!" You jump in quickly, hoping to stop that guilt in its tracks. "We can always try again another night." Grinning at your own little white lie, you pull into the first open space you find in Akso's parking garage, excited at the prospect of delivering him a meal after a long and difficult shift.
"So long as you'd have me..." His voice grows small.
Despite the way your heart lurches, you snort as you start gathering your things to head inside. "Do you think I wouldn't?"
"I... wouldn't want to assume after standing you up like this."
"We'll say an unexpected medical emergency falls under the umbrella of extenuating circumstances, doctor."
If he had any idea how long I've been waiting for him... He'd know another week is nothing.
He sighs again and goes quiet for a long moment, giving you the opportunity to briefly mute yourself and tell the receptionist you're there for a personal visit to Dr. Li, holding up your delivery as evidence. She gives your dressy attire a confused up and down before gesturing down the hall, and you pass with a polite smile.
"Extenuating circumstances or not... I'm still very sorry."
As you turn the corner and continue towards his office, you're pleasantly surprised to find him seated on a settee in the hall, scrubs and all, oblivious to your approach. You hang up your phone and watch as he glances at his, confused at the sudden disconnect.
"No apology necessary," you call from a little ways down, shaking the food towards him as you close the distance.
He stares agape for several moments before slowly standing to greet you, unsure. "What's all this?" The disbelief in his tone only makes your smile stretch wider.
"I figured you still needed to eat dinner," you shrug, eyes undoubtedly twinkling with delight.
A smile slowly transforms his face and he lets out a sharp breath somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "Come on," he guides you to his office, closing the door behind you and hurrying to make space on his desk for your meal. He drags over a chair for you, close to his own.
As you unpack the food, you can feel his eyes on you, seemingly still thrown at your sudden appearance. You turn and thrust a box into his hands, meeting his gaze, pulse instantly spiking with the intensity you find there. "I got you the chicken...I hope that's okay..."
"Perfect," he says quietly, both of you frozen in place mid-exchange, and you can't stop the way your eyes drop to his lips for a split second. Your cheeks burn and you quickly turn back to your task, hoping your desperate desire to kiss him isn't painfully obvious.
The room is mostly dark save for a desk lamp casting low light, creating an ambience over your shared dinner not unlike what you would have experienced at the restaurant itself. It glints off his emerald irises that haven't stopped drinking you in. Even as he drops into his chair, food now in hand, his eyes still don't leave you.
When you finally take your own seat, you meet his gaze head on again, stomach flipping at the whisper of a smile he wears. After a beat of silence, neither of you moving to open your respective to-go boxes, you speak low. "Your food's going to get cold, doctor." You start pulling open your box without breaking the connection.
He smirks and huffs a laugh. "I suppose you're correct." He finally breaks away to open and assess his food, starting with a forkful of rice and humming in contentment. As you dig into your own food, you watch the relief that undercuts his features as he gets his fill, surely exhausted and starving after a grueling work day.
"How did the surgery go?" You ask tentatively after you've both had a moment to eat, crossing your fingers it's not the wrong question to ask.
He swallows his mouthful and takes a long drink from his bottle of water. "It was a successful operation. The patient was due for a transcatheter annuloplasty in a few weeks, however, they fell ill with pneumonia recently, which did further damage to their mitral valve and created a more urgent situation."
You nod along, having spent enough time with Zayne to recognize "transcatheter annuloplasty," recalling it as a relatively simple procedure he does fairly regularly. At least, you hope you're remembering that correctly.
"We attempted to replace the valve via minithoracotomy, but upon closer inspection, the damage was more severe than expected. Between the replacement and the extensive repairs, a full sternotomy was required."
You continue your nodding, eyes narrowed, trying to piece together what he's taught you previously in an attempt to keep up. "Sternotomy... Open-heart surgery."
It's not exactly pitched as a question, but he nods.
"And you said... mini... thoracotomy?"
He nods again, watching as the gears turn in your head.
"Is that... an incision... from the side of the ribs?"
This time, his nod is accompanied by a pleased hum and a tiny, crooked smile. "You're learning." The mixture of pride and amusement sparkling in his eyes threatens to melt your brain on the spot and you have to clear your throat to attempt to maintain some composure.
"And what does the 'mini' denote exactly?"
"Precisely what you'd expect." His smirk widens, pleased with either your question or the faint color beginning to dust your cheeks. "It's just a smaller incision, minimally invasive."
"Mini-mally invasive?" You parrot back with your own smirk, and the two of you share a laugh. "Here I thought I was learning about cardiology, but it seems I've actually been taking an etymology course."
"Mm," he hums in agreement, bringing his elbow up to his desk to lean his cheek on his knuckles. "High marks nonetheless. You're a prize pupil." His verdant gaze glints in the ambient lighting as it settles heavy on you yet again, and your heartrate immediately skyrockets.
Despite knowing it's only playful, it's still a fight not to let the praise send your stomach into a series of backflips. And gods, the way he's looking at you... You've spent years dreaming of him one day looking at you with such desire, and now to actually experience it is entirely overwhelming.
You blink rapidly and look away, trying to force back down your quickly rising flush and hide the way your breathing has grown shallow.
A charged hush falls between you as you try to calm down. When your eyes finally meet his again, the simmering appreciation you find there renders your efforts useless, heat immediately climbing back up to color your face.
"You're staring," you breathe, practically a whisper, unable to hide your shy smile.
He clears his throat and drops his gaze to the side with a slight chuckle, a flush of his own tinging the tips of his ears. "My apologies," he offers, equally as quiet, before his eyes drift back up to yours, contemplating a moment. "Is this... what you planned to wear tonight?"
You nod, heart hammering in your chest, trying not to let your smile grow fully impish knowing just how well you managed to capture his attention.
"You look..." His eyes roam your face as if he might find the word he's looking for there.
When it's clear he isn't going to continue, you can't help but tease, smirk on full display despite knowing your face must be the color of a tomato. "Well I certainly hope that sentence ends well."
His face splits into a grin, a little bashful and a lot red. "It does."
As his grin simmers into a fond smile, you both bask in the loaded silence that falls over you, brimming with newly unearthed feelings that remain yet unspoken. When he leans forward, your already-racing pulse thrums under your skin like a bird's wings, eyes once again involuntarily dropping to his lips before you're able to drag them back up.
"I was really looking forward to tonight..." He murmurs gently, regret creeping into his tone.
You know what words he's going to try to pull next.
"I truly am sor--"
"Nope, none of that!" You point a finger at him in warning. "You saved someone's life today, we still got to try this restaurant, everything is fine."
It'd be even more fine if you kissed me, your pesky little brain throws at you, which you do your best to ignore.
He huffs the smallest laugh, incredulous at your refusal of his apology, before leaning just a hair closer. "Could we try again for Monday evening?"
"Monday evening should work." You nod, biting your lip to fight back the wide grin that wants to bubble to the surface. "Assuming, of course, I don't have any emergency minithoracotomy mitral valve repairs that pop up."
He snorts and flicks your forehead as you snicker to yourself, and when your gaze refocuses on him, you realize that he's the one now staring at your lips. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip of their own volition, and you don't fail to catch the way his breath hitches. In quick succession, his eyes snap to yours and then dart away, bashful smile returning, sure from your expression that he'd been caught.
When he finally looks at you again, his voice drops low, a promise. "Monday evening."
You nod in finality, letting the moment settle back into that weighted, crackling silence until it grows stifling, making the desire to kiss him bloom into a prickling itch under your skin.
"There's dessert," you announce with a small voice, hoping to break the spell and find some reprieve. It mostly works, but neither of you looks away from the other, even as you reach blindly towards the desk for the unopened to-go containers. "Cheesecake or tiramisu?"
He hums thoughtfully at your proposal. "If I may... I think I'd like to sample both."
"I like this plan," you say with a smile, handing him the box with the cheesecake and opening up the remaining container of tiramisu. You each grab fresh utensils and take a bite of your respective treats, a quiet moan leaving you as the sweet coffee taste blooms in your mouth.
"Good?" He husks, having already swallowed his first bite.
You nod earnestly, quickly scooping up more for him to sample, but before you can plop it next to his cheesecake, he captures your wrist and brings your spoon to his lips. The heat of his skin on yours rushes straight to your core, and as you watch him savor and swallow your dessert, your mouth hangs open, completely slack-jawed. The full body flush hits you so aggressively it makes the room spin, and you almost miss the way his face develops a matching scarlet hue.
"Good?" You croak, vocal chords suddenly dryer than the cocoa powder dusted on top of your tiramisu. He licks his lips and hums, releasing your hand and a fraction of your sanity with it. Without skipping a beat, he retrieves his fork and grabs a bite of cheesecake, holding it up for you in turn.
With a shaky breath, you lean forward, placing your hand on his inner arm for stability and closing your lips around his fork. Your eyes slide shut momentarily as you try to focus on the tangy creaminess melting across your tastebuds, but when they open again, all you can focus on is the way Zayne's adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard.
When your eyes meet again, you're both evidently flustered, quick to silently bury your noses in your respective desserts as you each try to recover from such an unexpectedly overwhelming moment. You stare at your spoon, flushing all over again as you consider that it's touched Zayne's tongue.
Several minutes pass before either one of you is able to speak again, but you're the first to break the silence. "So what are we rating this one?"
It takes him a moment, blinking owlishly at you until he catches up to your question, considering a moment. "While I didn't quite finish my entree, I am looking forward to bringing home the leftovers.... Nine point five," he answers pointedly.
"Nine point five?" Your eyebrows shoot up. "That's the highest rating yet. That rates this place even higher than Cafe Buono, you've only ever given them as high as eight point nine."
"Mhm." He nods with the ghost of a smile. "I found this meal more enjoyable."
"Apparently so if we've finally reached a nine rating." You're shocked anything could outrank the reigning favorite spot for the two of you, let alone that Zayne Notoriously-Picky-About-Food-and-Restaurants Li would ever rate anything as high as a nine. But you simply shrug, just happy to know he liked it that much.
He huffs a small laugh through his nose and puts his picked-at cheesecake to the side. As you appraise his soft smile, the weariness in his features jumps out at you again and your gut twists with guilt.
"I'm keeping you from post-op reports and things at this point, aren't I?"
His shoulders sag ever so slightly, but you can't be sure if it's from disappointment or relief. "I do have reports to finish, but you're more than welcome to stay and finish eating."
Does he mean it or is he simply being polite? Regardless, you know he'd work faster and get some rest if you weren't here to invade his space.
You offer him a resigned smile and move to stand from your seat. "Finish your work, go home, and go to bed, Zayne." As he opens his mouth to surely protest, you raise a hand at him, quick to cut him off. "It's already late, and I'm sure you're going to wake up at an hour so ungodly early that even the sun thinks you're crazy, just to go for a light forty mile jog."
He laughs as you continue and the sound makes your heart flutter.
"You're supposed to get eight hours of sleep a night, ya know." You check your watch, reading 12:18 a.m., and flip your wrist to show him, other hand on your hip. "You're going to have to wake up for your run in, like, two hours from now or you're not going to be able to make it to the equator and back in time for your next shift."
He laughs again at your dramatics, nodding in resignation. "Yes, doctor. I promise I'll work on getting more sleep."
"Good," you respond, turning to close up your takeout box and clean up after your meal, not quite done with your chiding. "You're always taking care of everyone else, but rarely seem to follow your own medical advice for a healthy lifestyle."
He stands and joins you in your tidying efforts, packing up his own food. "I suppose I could try harder on that front, especially knowing someone important worries so much for my well-being."
That makes you stop in your tracks, stomach flipping. He keeps packing, seemingly unfazed by your sudden pause, but as you glance at him from the corner of your eye, you catch his soft, satisfied smile. Biting your lip, you ignore the way your blood rushes loudly in your ears and bump his shoulder with yours. "Someone important, huh?"
He bumps you back, his heavenly little smile still visible from your peripheral. "Did you think you weren't?"
"No..." Your smile widens, bordering on bashful. "But it's nice to hear it."
As the last box returns to its bag, he turns to you fully with a curt nod. "Noted," he hums in a low tone, and your stomach clenches with how utterly close he's standing.
When your eyes meet and you catch the faint scent of his sweat and cologne, your brain dissolves into a garbled string of kissmekissmekissmekissmekissme. As you fight to right the ship, blinking rapidly, you dimly realize you're leaning forward into his space--or...is he leaning into yours?
Your heartrate picks up at the realization, only to be doubled when he places his impossibly warm hand on your arm.
"Thank you... For coming all this way and bringing me dinner..." It's practically a whisper, fluttering between you just like the butterflies running rampant in your stomach. "It was exactly the medicine I needed after a day like today."
"Anything for my favorite patient..." You breathe, too lost in his spell for any of the intended wit to make its way through.
He smiles, soft and small, voice still a low husk. "I look forward to our follow-up appointment on Monday." There's a pause before he lightly squeezes your arm and drops his hand, stepping away. "For now, let's get you home."
You try not to let the disappointment show as you return his smile, offended by the temperature drop that immediately follows his retreat. He scoops up your doggie bag and, half a beat behind him, you move to grab the rest of your belongings.
The two of you walk in silence to his office door at a pace that speaks to the reluctance you seemingly both share. When he opens the door for you, you step into the hall and give him a long look.
"Y'know, at this rate, you're only going to have, like, an hour to sleep before your daily triple-marathon."
He huffs a laugh through his nose. "It wouldn't be the first time. I'll be sure to send you pictures of anything interesting I see on my way to the equator."
"Please do," you grin, reveling in the newly established inside joke. Just then Dr. Greyson pops around the corner but abruptly halts in his tracks when he catches sight of you two.
Zayne follows your gaze down the hall. "Would those be the notes from tonight's rounds?"
"Y-yes," Greyson responds, suddenly looking rather panicked. "But I can come back--"
"No need, he's all yours," you assuage before turning back to Zayne. "I relinquish you to your very important doctor duties." Suddenly serious, you jut a finger at him as Greyson joins you, charts in hand. "But you better get some rest, or else." As you turn that finger and your menacing gaze on the newly arrived doctor, he throws his hands up in surrender, round glasses slipping down his face. "I'm putting you in charge of making sure he goes home at a reasonable time tonight."
To your left, Zayne lets out a chuckle. "Putting poor Greyson on the hook for my unhealthy working habits hardly seems fair."
You arch a brow at him with a self-satisfied grin. "Ah, so you admit your working habits are unhealthy?"
Greyson lets out a snort as Zayne huffs a laugh and flicks your forehead. "That's quite enough out of the both of you." His fond smile gives him away as you and Greyson continue your joint chortling.
"I'll make sure he wraps up here soon," Greyson affirms to you with a nod.
"Thank you. I'll leave you two to it then."
Zayne starts to extend the take-out bag towards you, then seems to consider something for a heartbeat before taking a step forward. As he comes closer, he places the bag in your grasp, his other hand coming up to ghost at your elbow before he leans in to leave the lightest of pecks just above your temple. When he steps back to meet your gaze, your heart feels like it just might explode and you're sure you've gone cartoonishly red. "Thank you again," is all he says, but the crimson shade of his ears lets you know his heartrate is surely also double its normal BPM in this moment.
"Anytime, doctor," you bid, the corner of your smile tilting up before nodding to them both and stepping away. "Goodnight, you two. Don't work too hard." With a turn on your heel, you head back down the hall, feeling their eyes follow your retreat. You do your best to maintain your gait, focusing on letting your hips sway naturally as your stomach is overtaken with giddy little butterflies urging you to skip full-speed all the way home.
When you finally turn the corner out of sight, you let the face-splitting grin finally break free, which you wear with you all the way back to your car. You spend a long moment sitting behind the wheel in the quiet of the hospital's parking garage, letting the evening wash over you.
It feels largely like a dream; it was all so similar to your usual office meals, but the weight of his gaze on you all night left your heart feeling like it ran its own triple-marathon. Your eyes drift over to the bag in your passengers seat and the memory of him grasping your wrist to steal the tiramisu off your spoon flashes in your mind, turning your breaths shallow. Is it a testament to how attractive he is or a testament to how down bad you are for him that that turned you on as much as it did? Either way, you hope to god he does it again.
His 9.5 score for this new restaurant comes to your mind and you're still floored by such a high rating from him, especially for take-out that was surely going cold by the time he tasted it. Regardless, you're pleased he seemed to enjoy it so much, excited to have a new reigning favorite spot.
Until it dawns on you, his words ringing in your ears: I found this meal more enjoyable.
You only pause a moment before pulling out your phone and typing with rapid fingers.
[12:37am] Me: 9.85 rating
[12:37am] Me: But I suspect wherever we eat on Monday night will be a 10/10
The two doctors watched in silence as you left down the long corridor, Zayne lost in his lovesick thoughts and Greyson weighing how well it would go over to ask when the two of you (finally!) elevated your relationship.
Nosiness got the better of him as you got far enough outside of earshot, and with a push of his glasses up his nose, he cleared his throat to broach the subject. "She seemed awfully dressed up. Was there a special occasion this evening?"
Zayne wistfully pulled his gaze from where you disappeared to meet the eyes of his colleague, amused by the very obvious curiosity he found burning there. "She brought me a post-op dinner." His smile grew as confusion pinched Greyson's brows upwards, letting it hang there until he decided to mercifully indulge him. "We were supposed to have our first date tonight."
Greyson's eyes went as round as his spectacles at the news, blinking owlishly back at the dark-haired doctor for several moments before finally finding his voice. "Well it's about time."
Now it was Zayne's turn to blink in a daze, attempting not to sputter. "What was that?"
"Yvonne and I were wondering when you two would finally act on it, it's been months!" Greyson chuckled.
Zayne continued to blink at him. "Am I to understand... You and Yvonne have been keeping tabs on my love life?"
"Wellll," he started, growing a little sheepish. "It wasn't on purpose at first, it was just impossible not to notice that you two obviously had feelings for each other. We've just been curious about how long it would finally take you guys to do anything about it."
Zayne continued staring as he considered his words long and hard. "Obvious, hm?"
Greyson nodded, glasses slipping down his nose again. "Obvious enough that I figured after five or six months that it had to be for some kind of reason, an Association rule or something, and it would just never happen." He decidedly avoided mentioning his real theory: that it was a moral dilemma for Zayne. "That reminds me... I guess I owe Yvonne $20..."
"You were betting on my love life?" Zayne arched a brow, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips.
"Uh, well," Greyson stammered, trying to figure out how to dig himself out of this hole. "She was just so sure that, even if there was something in the way, you guys would figure things out eventually. And, uh... It seems like she was right, after all!"
"Mm," Zayne hummed thoughtfully. "Too bad we never made it to our date."
Confusion followed by realization dawned across Greyson's features. "Oh, no, you had to cancel because of the surgery..."
"Unfortunately, yes. And I was unable to text her until we were out of the operating room."
"Did she think you stood her up on your first date?" For the second time, Greyson's eyes went as round as his glasses, this time in horror.
"Thankfully, no, she was... Incredibly understanding." Zayne smiled to himself, letting his eyes drift to the side as he recalled the way his insides clenched when he saw you marching down the hallway looking positively ethereal; he was so sure his own mind must have conjured up a hallucination out of sheer exhaustion and despair, until you'd gotten close enough that he could smell the intoxicating food and your even more intoxicating perfume. "We rescheduled to Monday night."
"Oh!" Greyson clasped his hands together excitedly. "That's great! And if anything comes up on Monday, I've got it handled, I'll make sure you get out of here on time this time."
"That's much appreciated, thank you." Zayne smiled, pausing when he felt his phone vibrate in his breast pocket. The moment he read your messages, that smile returned to his face, pleased you seemed to catch up to his earlier meaning.
[12:38am] Zayne: I suspect the same
[12:39am] Zayne: Greyson told me he'd be sure to handle any emergencies that may come up Monday to ensure I can make it on time this time around.
[12:39am] Me: Oh that's sweet, tell him I appreciate him for helping me secure Zayne time
[12:40am] Me: and I'm pretty sure that makes him your wingman
[12:40am] Me: or maybe mine
He chuckled as your messages came through, tilting his phone for Greyson to read.
"Happy to be of service," he chuckled in tandem with a mock salute.
"I won't tell her that you were betting we wouldn't get together." Zayne chuckled as Greyson rubbed his neck, instantly growing sheepish. "Now shall we look over these charts?"
post a/n: I'm sorry this is so long and so little happens LOL I promise they will actually go on their date in the next part. The next part also closely follows Heart Within Reach, so glad that we finally got that rerun!
I did my best to comb through likes and messages on the last part for those that wanted to be tagged when this part came out. If you were missed, I'm very sorry!
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Thank you so much for all the support shown so far with the reposts and shares! I am so happy to see that so many of you are excited for these designs, and I am too! So, let's keep this going so all the designs and more can be unlocked!
*All images have been updated with a more accurate glass bead. While they are not 100% accurate they are closer to the final result.
This will be my new account in case Tumblr doesn't take the Mature Label off of my main account @applecaviar. My third appeal was denied today 😭 so I will try one more time and if they don't remove it I'll just move everything to this one.
Thank you @seraphineash for your support through all of this and for convincing me to make another account 🩷🩷
On respinning, I got P - so I'm thinking either phone sex or praise kink? 👀 Dealer's choice?
Praise and Zayne just sounds right.
P -praise
------
You hide your face in Zayne's neck as he fingers you, knuckles deep in your pussy, panting and trying not to lose your mind.
"What a good girl, getting so wet for me," Zayne purrs, moving effortlessly inside your slick channel, brushing against your gspot with each stroke, making you gasp, stars blurring your eyes each time.
Your walls clench, and Zayne hums, his thumb gently rubbing circles over your clit. Losing the battle with rationality, a muffled whimper escapes your lips, lost against his skin as he continues his sinful movements.
"You sounded so pretty just now." He moves slightly to free your mouth. "Won't you do it again pretty girl?" he coaxes, scissoring his fingers inside you and you helplessly cry out in pleasure, face flushed, heat gathering in your belly as he unwinds you like a ball of yarn.
"Zayne..." you manage to choke out, and he rewards you with a warm kiss, swallowing your broken sobs.
"That's it little one. Say my name, just like that. You're doing so well." The gentle cajoling combined with his fingers was too much, and you moan, finally giving in to the rising need, orgasm crashing over you like a cresting wave, leaving you warm and limp.
Zayne's fingers withdraw and he sucks them clean. "So sweet. A slice of cake just for me."
You blush, but Zayne is chuckling at your reaction, already positioning himself between your legs. His thick head splits you apart and you arch underneath him, head swimming in delight.
"Taking me so well," he murmurs, bottoming out and setting up a delicious rhythm, rolling his hips enticingly.
Hey, to all the writers out there in the lads fandom, not so gentle reminder that I fucking love you and your creativity.
I don't care if you write the same scenarios or tropes over and over, writing them in every which way possible but loose.
I don't care if you never finish your wips and continuously jump from project to project.
I don't care if you write only dark fics, or only smut, or angst, or fluff.
I don't care if you focus only on one li, or if they have you in a constant blunt rotation.
I don't care about the length of the fics, be it drabbles, ficlets, 1k, 5k, 10k or even more. Chaptered, two parters or one shots.
I don't care how long it takes for you to finish a wip and post it.
I don't care if "all you do is ramble and say your thoughts out loud."
Thank you for sharing with us. I see the effort and time you put into it, and I'm sorry people aren't interacting with you as much as you'd like. Thank you for putting yourself out there even though you're terrified of how people might react. I'm sorry people out there have harassed you or said mean things, you didn't deserve it. And whether you want to stay, or leave, or take a break; now that I will always support you. The reason for the break doesn't matter, what matters is that you do what is best for you because this is just your hobby, something to de-stress, have fun and make connections, and you owe none of us all of your time.
So do what's best for you, take that break, step back if you need it. The people who actually care and like you won't be mad or disappointed.
Things have been slightly on pause while I've had unexpected construction going on in my apartment, I had to semi-move out for a bit and it's still going to be a few more weeks of work 😅
Not the best pictures because I couldn't turn the lights on, but basically, we had some water-damaged drywall that needed to be replaced; once they opened that wall, they found more damage, which we figured might happen, but not to the extent that they basically gutted our bathroom and half our kitchen 🤪
They even ripped out all the floors and my bathroom door, threshold and all 🫠 so uhhh once we get new drywall, new paint, new floors, a new door, a new bathroom vanity, and new kitchen cabinets, and then move all our shit back in, candle things will resume lmao
Kitten is classic, but is there something else you prefer? Sylus' Sorcoress? Sylus' Countess? Something else??? Tell me!
I prefer...
Sylus' Kitten
Sylus' Sorcoress
Sylus' Countess
Something Else (please comment!)
Voting ended onJan 3
Here are similar polls for:
Caleb - Rafayel - Xavier
Fellow Zayne girlies, I think we're pretty settled on Jasmines, which is the only reason I wasn't planning on making a poll for him, sorry 😛 but feel free to let me know if you disagree!
This little research project is to help me with the MC scents of the LaDS candle and sprays I'm releasing soon, so feedback is SUPER helpful and appreciated 💖
Xavier's Star? Xavier's Little Star? Xavier's StarLIGHT? Xavier's Princess? Xavier's QUEEN? Some variation on one of those? Something else??? Tell me!
I prefer...
Xavier's Star
Xavier's Little Star
Xavier's Starlight
Xavier's Princess
Xavier's Queen
Something Else (please comment!)
Voting ended onJan 3
Here are similar polls for:
Caleb - Rafayel - Sylus
Fellow Zayne girlies, I think we're pretty settled on Jasmines, which is the only reason I wasn't planning on making a poll for him, sorry 😛 but feel free to let me know if you disagree!
This little research project is to help me with the MC scents of the LaDS candle and sprays I'm releasing soon, so feedback is SUPER helpful and appreciated 💖
Fellow Zayne girlies, I think we're pretty settled on Jasmines, which is the only reason I wasn't planning on making a poll for him, sorry 😛 but feel free to let me know if you disagree!
This little research project is to help me with the MC scents of the LaDS candle and sprays I'm releasing soon, so feedback is SUPER helpful and appreciated 💖
Fellow Zayne girlies, I think we're pretty settled on Jasmines, which is the only reason I wasn't planning on making a poll for him, sorry 😛 but feel free to let me know if you disagree!
This little research project is to help me with the MC scents of the LaDS candle and sprays I'm releasing soon, so feedback is SUPER helpful and appreciated 💖
FRIENDS I've survived the rush at work that's been nonstop since AUGUST! I'm still in the process of recovering more braincells, but at the very least I can tell you that I have OFFICIALLY started working on
Love and Deepspace candles~🕯️✨
Fragrances are 80% finalized, and I have a starting batch of jars, wicks, wax, and spray bottles (these will also be available as sprays!). I do need to do some wick testing, and then I need to design labels (and buy a new printer 🙃 RIP to my last one) and then I'll be about ready to open up shop!
That said, I think I'd like to get some beta smellers on board before opening up shop, so I wanted to put the word out and see if there was any interest!
There wouldn't be any cost, but I would require your address so that I can mail you an envelope with sample fragrance strips. From there, I'd just be looking for in-depth feedback about each scent: if you like it, if you feel it suits the character, if it feels balanced, how you'd describe it/what it reminds you of/what notes come through for you, etc.
I'm doing scents for the guys plus their MC's/more feminine counterpart scents, so there will be 10 fragrances in total to evaluate. If they release a 6th LI by the time I can get the ball rolling on this, that might become 12 lol
I'm US-based but international mail should theoretically be an available option, so don't let geographical location deter you from reaching out if you're thinking about it!
If you ARE interested or have any questions, please shoot me a DM here!
ZNN: where NNN goes sideways and his self-control goes out the window.
Synopsis: No Nut November sounded like a great idea– until he found out just how hard you are to resist. Now he's making up for lost time... and then some.
a/n: This was supposed to be normal. It got feral. I will not be taking questions at this time.
You wake to the soft clink of utensils against plates, the faint hiss of water in the kitchen sink. Morning light slides in slowly, gilding the room in gold. For a few breaths you linger between sleep and waking, the sheets tangling in your limbs as if reluctant to let you go.
When you finally pad barefoot into the kitchen, Zayne is already there: sleeves rolled, tie perfectly knotted, the morning paper folded beside a plate of neatly sliced fruit. The air smells like toasted bread and dark roast. He looks up immediately, that small, instinctive smile softening the edges of his face.
“Good morning.”
“Morning..”
He sets down the paper, reaches for the carafe, and pours a mug just the way you like it. “Still two sugars, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer; he knows. He adds them, stirs, and presses the cup into your hands, the heat blooming through your fingers. Then he slides a plate toward you– scrambled eggs, buttered toast– and with a quiet, habitual courtesy, pulls out your chair before settling back into his own.
You take a sip, watching him over the rim as he straightens his cutlery, and refolds the napkin on his lap.
The quiet between you is comfortable: the paper rustling, silverware against ceramic, his knee brushing yours when he shifts.
“I’m participating in No Nut November this year.”
The words fall lightly, almost kind, but they ripple through you like static. You blink, sure you misheard. “What?”
The fuck.
He sets his fork down and leans back a little. “It’s a discipline thing. Keeps the mind clear, helps with focus, hormone balance… better sleep, less stress.” He reaches for his coffee and gives a faint smile.
A thin, disbelieving laugh escapes you. “You’re serious?”
“I am.” His tone is gentle but firm, the same way he speaks when reminding you to take your vitamins or to stop picking at a healing wound. He reaches across the table, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “It’s just a month. We’ll survive it. Might even be good for us afterwards, all that pent-up energy finally unleashed would feel great.”
That warm, reassuring touch is what ruins you, as if he doesn’t realize the weight of what he’s denying you.
He rises a few minutes later. Efficient as always, making his exit: coat, watch, briefcase, a brief kiss pressed to your hairline that smells of coffee and cologne. Then the door closes behind him, and you’re left staring at the empty chair, still gobsmacked.
The first few days crawl by.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You can handle a month, that self-control can be learned by proximity. But the mirror pep talk does little to stop every small thing becoming a provocation: the way his voice drops when he’s on a late-night call, the shape of his hand around a pen, the smell of his aftershave clinging to the bathroom steam.
By the middle of the week, you can’t take it, and you try to take matters into your own hands. He can't nut… so what's stopping you?
He’s already asleep, breathing slow and even, one arm thrown across the pillow where you used to rest your head. You watch him for a long while. Taking in the dip of his throat, the soft shadow under his jaw, until the ache turns unbearable. Quietly, you turn away and slide your hand down your stomach.
It starts mechanical, almost clinical, as if you can out-think your body. You try to recall his touch, the precision, the patience. But memory is cruel. Your fingers are too light where his are sure, too frantic where his are measured. The pleasure stutters, thin and unsatisfying. You come, but it’s empty; heat without relief, shame without reason.
Afterward you lie awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing beside you.
The days that follow stretch tight around that failure. Every look, every small brush of contact turns sharp; your body won’t stop listening for him. You linger in doorways just to watch him knot his tie, muscles shifting under the crisp white cotton. He never comments, though you catch his gaze flick toward you once, unreadable.
Sleep becomes restless, full of heat. You wake aching, restless, already reaching for him before you remember the rules. By the end of the week, your forced restraint feels impossible and the determination to crack him settles in your bones like a dare. If he wants discipline, you’ll give him temptation in return.
Saturday comes, and with it– war.
You slide beneath the covers while he’s still sleeping, the morning quiet but charged. He lies sprawled in golden light, bare chest rising and falling slow, dark lashes shadowing those sharp, beautiful eyes. He’s too perfect, too serene, so you press your mouth to his skin, mapping the ridge of each muscle, trailing lower, lower. Your tongue flicks across the edge of his hip, tasting salt and heat and power. When you finally take him into your mouth, he stiffens, his breath stutters, the control in his body shuddering like a wire stretched to snapping.
You work him slow, tongue swirling, savoring the way he thickens against your lips, heavy and hot. You want to break him, want to see the cracks form, the self-possession leak away in a rush of need. But even half-asleep, his discipline is steadfast. His hands slide into your hair, firm but heartbreakingly gentle, lifting you off him before you can think to swing a leg over his hips.
“Not yet,” he forced the words through a strained breath. “We talked about this.”
You can’t help the wounded whimper that slips out. He only hushes you, pressing a kiss to your brow, like you’re something precious and fragile, then swings his legs off the bed and leaves, letting the cold air sweep in where his heat should be.
The apartment is a battlefield. Every room is thick with challenge and provocation. With no work to distract him, you make yourself his only distraction. The black lace set is your armor: it hugs every curve, sheer enough to tempt, to torture, to haunt him every time you cross his line of sight.
You saunter past him in the living room, hips swaying, the fabric whispering against your thighs. “Oops,” you bend with deliberate slowness to pick up nothing at all, arching so your ass is an open invitation. When you glance back, you catch the barest flicker in his eyes, a flare of hunger smothered beneath that implacable calm.
In the kitchen, you up the ante. You brush past him, breasts skimming his arm, then turning to press back– just so– feeling the firm line of him twitch against your ass. He holds steady, knuckles whitening on the counter top, refusing to give you the satisfaction of breaking. It becomes a dance: you, all feline grace and shameless need; him, stone-faced, only his barely-there reactions betraying how close to the edge you’ve brought him.
Hours pass in this touchy standoff. The hot, electric tension is a living thing ready to snap.
By afternoon, he’s settled on the couch, book in hand, robe loose and only half-tied; his last defense against the quiet war you’ve been waging all week. You’ve pulled back from the offensive for now, nursing your frustration, sulking in silence. He’s noticed, of course.
You pass through again, making a show of indifference. Your arms are crossed beneath your breasts, lifting them just so. Your lips hold that deliberate little pout meant to sting.
He calls your name, and your stomach flips as you freeze. His voice is soft, but the way it lands has weight. When you look, his gaze is already climbing your body, slow, possessive, nothing polite left in it. He sets the book aside, and lifts one hand in a crooked finger, wordlessly beckoning.
You sink onto his lap, not trusting your voice, anticipation prickling under your skin. The nearness of him, the tension of the week, that maddening ache– you feel all of it light up your nerves at once. You weren’t expecting him to let you close, not this soon, not after the way he’s brushed you off all day. Yet his hands still find your waist, settling there like they never meant to leave. His thumbs slip just under the lace at your sides, dragging slow lines over sensitive skin. It grounds you. It threatens to undo you.
“I know what you’re doing,” he says, his lips brushing yours as he speaks. “But I’m not breaking. Not for sex. Not for release.”
But the lie doesn’t last and his mouth claims yours. It starts light, testing, but there’s hunger behind it, deep and teasing. His tongue traces your lower lip, lingering before he deepens the kiss with that slow, coaxing pressure you know too well. Your body is lured forward, and your hips follow, grinding down against the hard shape of him beneath the soft fabric. It’s instinctual– desperate. You can’t help it.
He pulls back, his lips wet, eyes dark with something unreadable.
“If it’s friction you need…” he lets the words hang, as if deciding whether to indulge you or not. He shifts you with an easy pull, and the robe slips open in the motion. That’s when you see the line of his leg– bare, solid, all heat and smooth skin.
“Haven’t you ever done this on a pillow?” he asks. “Or something firm enough to hold you steady?”
You hesitate, and he smiles knowingly.
“Like this.”
He nudges you forward until you’re straddling his thigh. The lace of your panties meets his skin with a heat that startles. You suck in a breath as the pressure hits just right, sharp and hot where you need it. Your eyes flick to his, but he’s expressionless again, already guiding your hands to his shoulders. His skin is warm beneath your fingers, and the muscle there shifts as he moves.
He gives you a nod and you start to rock against him, carefully at first, testing the angle, the friction. It’s almost too much too soon. The tension you’ve been carrying all week doesn’t ease. It ignites. He watches your face, silently taking in every change, every flicker of arousal that crosses it.
Within moments, your panties are soaked. The lace clings to you, catching just enough to spark heat with every movement. The warmth of his thigh only drives it higher. Every shift of your hips presses your clit against him, and the pressure builds in thick, slow waves.
He leans in to kiss you again, deeper this time, more deliberate. He lets you ride him as you kiss and his hands stay firm at your hips without pulling or urging. Just steady and present as you use him.
“You needed this, needed me,” he murmurs against your mouth. The way he says it sinks straight into your belly.
The friction climbs fast and your hips stutter as you chase it. You can’t keep quiet anymore; soft little sounds escape before you can stop them. Your mouth parts on a sharp gasp, your head tipping back while your fingers curl into his shoulders for balance. The intensity wipes out anything that isn’t him.
He watches, still calm, still composed. But you miss the way his throat works when he swallows. You miss the way his jaw tenses every time you shudder.
He leans in, mouth tickling your ear. “Still not enough?”
You whimper and shake your head, wordless. Surprised but not surprised that he can tell.
He doesn’t tease you for it. His hand slides down, slipping between your thighs, fingers finding your clit through the soaked lace. There’s no warm-up– just precision. His rhythm matches yours effortlessly. The reaction hits hard, each burst of sensation rolling through you before you can brace for the next.
You cry out, and his thigh tightens beneath you just slightly.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” he murmurs. “Let me feel how desperate you are.”
You grind harder, pressing into it without thinking, everything inside you tipping toward the next rush. The need edges out every other thought but his thigh beneath you, his fingers rubbing your clit just right.
You break with a sound half-muffled in his shoulder, thighs clenching around him. The climax hits in tight, pulsing waves. Each one ripples through you until your whole body trembles from the aftershocks.
He holds you steady the whole time. His hands guide your hips once… then again. Another push, slow and deep, meant to pull every last tremor from you.
And only then does he ease back.
You’re still catching your breath when his hand withdraws. His fingers glisten as he lifts them to his lips, eyes locking onto yours as he licks the taste from them.
He’s placid on the surface, stony as ever– at least where you can see it.
But you don’t see the tight pull of his jaw.
Or the way he’s breathing harder now, through his nose, like holding himself together costs something.
You try to slide off, sheepish in the aftermath, but he catches you easily, lifting you as if you weigh nothing at all. His hold is steady, impenetrable. The silence sharpens the edge of your unease. He carries you to the bathroom, and when your feet touch the cold tile, you still can’t meet his gaze.
Steam curls upward as he turns on the shower. You wait for him to leave, to grant you a few private moments of cooling humiliation. But he doesn’t step away.
Calm, infuriatingly in control, hands return to you as he strips away what’s left of your lingerie. The fabric peels from your skin, wet lace pooling at your feet. He shrugs off his robe and steps into the shower, then reaches back for you.
There’s no command, no question. Just the invitation of his touch, pulling you into the spray with him.
Shame prickles low in your belly. You’re sure he means only to clean you up; rinse away the mess, the weakness, the evidence of your failed restraint.
He’s gentle, almost too gentle. He lathers soap into his palms and begins to wash you, slow and methodical. The touch smooths the suds over your skin, dragging the afterglow outward through your limbs. Sweat and arousal vanish under his hands, but not the memory of how you came apart for him. That still clings, thick in the air, in the heat between your thighs, in the dull throb of need that hasn’t really left.
He turns you in his arms without warning, pressing your back to his chest as the water beads along your collarbone. His hands sweep over your shoulders, down your arms, pausing at the curve of your hips before gliding lower.
When his palm brushes between your legs, you tense even though the touch is soft, casual– impersonal. He lingers a beat too long, thumb grazing the sensitive fold of you in a way that feels like testing. Your body doesn’t believe it.
You try not to react, but a shiver betrays you, running down your spine in a wave. Your thighs press together around his wrist. He says nothing, his breath remains steady, his body still unfazed. But you feel it, just barely, a twitch of his fingers. The faintest flex, as though he thought about slipping them inside.
Every time his hand skims close again, your knees threaten to give. You hate the way your breath hitches and your body leans into him. He has to feel the tremble in your muscles, the pulse thrumming between your legs, but he doesn’t acknowledge it and his silence only makes it worse.
His hands rise again, gliding up your sides, the soap making your skin slippery under his palms as he cups your breasts from behind. His thumbs drag across your nipples in slow, circular motions that start out gentle, almost innocent. But then something shifts. His fingers begin to roll and pinch, coaxing your peaks into tight, aching points that send heat shooting straight to your core.
You arch back against him without thinking, your body greedy for more. His breath finds your neck, hot and humid, as his hands grow bolder. One continues to knead your breast, groping now without restraint. The other drifts lower, tracing your belly in a downward slide that makes your thighs draw tight.
The water streams between your breasts, beating over your skin, and his hands don’t stop. They move with purpose, squeezing, teasing, his control splintering in the pressure of each touch. Lewd little whimpers tumble from your lips, your body reacting faster than your mind can process.
“Zayne…” you breathe, your voice caught somewhere between plea and warning.
He hums, a deep vibrating sound, and closes the distance between you, pulling you against him. The hiss of the shower fills the silence, punctuated only by your breathing– and his.
His cock presses thick against your ass, before sliding forward between your thighs, heavy and unmistakably hard.
A half groan, half laugh slips from his mouth and settles low in your belly.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, his voice tight around the edges. “You keep doing this to me.”
He grinds slowly, slipping back and forth as every ridge of him slewed against your soppy pussy, letting you feel every inch he’s denied you all week. The water makes it worse. You brace your palms against the fogged glass, your breasts flattening to the pane as he rolls his hips again, coaxing another breathless moan from you.
As if punishing himself with the nearness, the head of his cock drags along your folds, and he lines himself up. He doesn’t push in yet, just teases, testing his own restraint. You feel it in his breath, the way it shudders near your shoulder.
His restraint shatters fast, and he thrusts, sinking in with a single, smooth motion. The stretch burns at first, but your body melts around him fast. You’re already pulsing, clenching around him with the need he’s stoked to a frenzy.
He groans into your ear, “Fuck– missed how tight you get for me. You’re shaking, sweetheart. Didn’t think I’d make you wait this long, did you?”
A broken sound escapes, but it’s nothing like an answer to him.
His lips brush the curve of your neck. “Still with me?”
You nod, barely, your ‘yes’ lost in the rush of water and sensation.
“Good.” He guides your hands higher on the glass, planting them firmly. “Then keep them there,” he says, a command dressed as a murmur. “Let me move.”
He draws out slowly, the friction dragging through every nerve, then slams back in hard enough to jolt your body forward.
You mewl as his hips snap again, and again, a rhythm forming; deep, forceful thrusts that pound you against the pane, the glass slick under your palms as you struggle to keep upright.
He anchors you with one hand at your hip, the other firm across your waist, guiding your body into every stroke. His cock drives deep, the angle brutal and perfect. Water flows over your joined bodies, turning the friction into molten heat. The wet slap of skin echoes off the tile.
You try to speak, his name, a plea, something, but all that comes out is a broken moan.
“Zayne– please– harder, I can’t– ”
“Fuck,” he growls. His grip tightens. One hand clutches your hip, possessive, while the other slides across your stomach, holding you flush to him. His thrusts grow harder, sharper, the rhythm ragged now, as though the last of his control is bleeding out with every movement.
Then his fingers slip between your thighs again, finding your clit with deft precision. “All week,” he rasps, mouth close to your ear. “You’ve been driving me insane. You want me to lose it, pretty thing? You want to break me?”
You can’t answer. His fingers circle your clit with maddening intensity, perfectly timed with the pounding of his hips. The rhythm is too much. Too good. You’re already clenching tighter, every inch of your body trembling under the pressure.
“That’s it,” he groans, fucking you harder. “Let go for me. I want to feel you break.”
Your orgasm hits fast, blinding, and violent on his command. The pleasure folds over you like heat lightning, sparking from your spine to your toes. You cry out, your body clenching around him, shaking uncontrollably. You barely hear yourself moaning his name over the rush in your ears.
He groans as you clamp down on him, hips slamming into you as he fucks you through the high, his fingers unrelenting.
His rhythm breaks. His pace turns ragged, frantic, making you bounce back on him.
“Don’t run,” he growls, voice ragged, hand dragging up your chest and around your throat as his thrusts turn punishing. He slams into you again and again, harder, filthier, the sounds obscene under the cascade of the shower.
“Mine. All fucking mine.”
His whole body shudders behind you as he comes, a growl tearing from his throat. One final thrust and he buries himself to the hilt. His cock swells, twitching inside your gummy walls as his cum floods you in thick pulses, hot and endless, spilling out to mix with the water streaming down your thighs.
He holds you through it. Both of you shaking in the aftermath.
For a long moment, the water just keeps falling, steady sheets rushing over both of you, white noise catching on the ragged echo of your breathing. Zayne braces one hand on the fogged glass beside your head, the other still loosely circled at your waist. His chest rises and falls, warm against your back.
“So much for focus and hormone regulation,” he mutters at last, dry as ever. “Should’ve known better than to go up against you.”
You turn your head, just enough to catch the faint, self-mocking smile curling at his lips. He presses a lazy, unrepentant kiss to your shoulder. He’s still catching his breath, but there’s no shame in him.
Another kiss follows, higher this time, at the slope of your neck, where your pulse flutters. His hand spans wide across your belly, anchoring you to him. The water keeps falling, sluicing over you both, warm and constant.
Then he shuts it off.
Silence crashes in its place, sharp and absolute, like a spell breaking.
His arms sweep around your thighs and lift you again. Before you can fully register the shift, your limbs automatically wind around him. He carries you out of the bathroom like a man with purpose, ignoring the trail of water on the floor, ignoring your weak protest.
“Zayne– ” you murmur, dazed, still floating on the high, but he doesn’t answer.
He drops you gently onto the bed, the sheets cool beneath your warmed damp skin. Your hair fans across the pillow as your thighs fall open with instinctive ease as if they realize that he’s not letting this end.
Zayne hovers above you, the water beading and gliding over the cut of his shoulders, down his chest, across his stomach. His eyes drink you in just as yours drink him. The flushed line of your throat. The parting of your lips. The tremble still lingering in your legs.
His gaze darkens, fixed and ravenous with each pass.
You glance down and see his cock is already hardening again. It lays thick and heavy at his thigh, veins prominent, the head flushed and leaking. You almost waved at it like a missed friend.
He takes a slow breath, but it doesn’t steady him. Whatever composure he reclaimed in the walk from the shower is gone now, burned away in the heat rising between your bodies.
“You didn’t really think we were finished, did you?” The tenderness in his tone doesn’t match the heat coiled underneath.
He climbs onto the bed, stalking over you. The mattress dipping with his weight as he braces himself on his arms, one on each side of your head. For a moment, he just looks, appreciating the state he’s left you in: fucked-out, damp, and panting. His fingers reach for a strand of hair clinging to your cheek, brushing it aside with the kind of softness that promises no mercy.
“You have any idea what you do to me?” he whispers. The words are hushed but harsh at the edges. “All week, I tried to behave. And you made it impossible.”
His mouth finds yours before you can respond, slow, coaxing at first, like he’s luring you deeper into something you can’t escape. Then his teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging it gently until you gasp, and his tongue presses in to claim you again.
His body settles heavier against yours, heat radiating between you. Thick and heavy, his cock leaving slick trails as it slides along your thigh.
You arch up for more, instinct driving you, but he shushes you softly, mouthing down your jaw, your throat, lingering where your shoulder curves toward your neck. “Relax for me,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”
His hands move like they know the path already. One palms your breast, rolling the nipple between careful fingers until it peaks hard. His other hand traces the curve of your waist, slipping under your thigh to hook it over his hip, opening you wider.
He lowers himself, the head of his cock gliding through your folds. Teasing your entrance, gathering wetness. His thumb circles your clit, slow and rhythmic, the motion maddening in its gentleness. He holds you in place with his thigh, forcing you to take every motion. You're panting beneath him with every drag of his cock, every slow press of his thumb.
“You still aching for it?” he asks, voice warm against your ear. “Still greedy for me?”
You nod, frantic, your fingers curling into the muscles of his back. “Please… need you…”
His laughter is soft and wicked, laced with satisfaction. He dips his hips and presses in, stretching you open inch by inch. “Look at you,” he groans. “My sweet girl. Always taking what I give.”
He bottoms out, hips flush to yours, his cock seated deep inside you, and your breath leaves you in a rush. He holds you there, letting you feel every inch of him, the fullness, the pulse. His hands roam again, mapping you, along your sides, your ribs, the softness of your thighs, like he’s grounding himself inside the moment.
He moves slowly and thoroughly, the roll of his hips making your eyes roll back.
He sets a pace that feels almost lazy at first, but there’s nothing casual about the tension in his jaw or the grip of his hand on your waist.
His hand slides up to rest at your throat, grounding both of you. His lips return to yours between thrusts, kissing you like he can’t stop, like he needs to mark you with more than just his cock.
“You’re so good for me,” he murmurs hoarsely. “So fucking good. Look at you– such a mess, all fucked-out and gorgeous.”
The rhythm grows deeper, every push dragging a fresh moan from your lips, your legs tightening around him, trying to pull him closer. The bed rocks beneath you both, each thrust slamming into your core with perfect pressure, his pelvis grinding against your clit with devastating precision.
“Zayne– please– need more– ”
He groans, hips moving faster now, and you feel it coming again– that heat rising, that tremble curling into your spine. “More?” he growls. “Fuck– let me ruin you.”
He keeps you pinned beneath, anchoring him, his thrusts rougher now, desperate, his grunts falling into rhythm with the wet slap of his balls against your skin.
“Take it. That’s it, baby. You’re so fucking perfect.”
The orgasm builds fast with his praise. Your body clenches, mind fraying as it barrels toward you. Violent and all-consuming as it hits. Your cunt spasming around him as you cry out his name. Nails clawing at his back as your world whites out.
He curses, hips stuttering. “Fuck– oh fuck, I can’t– ”
You feel the shift inside him, the way his cock thickens, throbbing as he slams into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt. His release floods you in hot, pulsing waves, thick and obscene. You gasp as it fills you, stretches you from the inside, spilling deep into your body.
He folds himself over you, settling fully against your body, as though stepping back isn’t even a consideration.
Zayne stays there buried deep, hips pressed flush to yours, cock twitching inside you as he holds you tight. Your cunt flutters around him with every slow pulse. Wet warmth seeping between your thighs, a private, decadent mess shared just between you. You whimper at the sensation, raw and spent, barely able to move.
“God, look at you,” he pants, eyes devouring every inch of your trembling body. “So beautiful like this. Can feel you squeezing me– don’t want to let go, do you?”
He slides out fully, and your body clenches around him in protest, but it only makes his smile curl, wicked and adoring.
“Making such a mess,” he murmurs.
“Look at that,” he croons, purring the words like praise. “Can’t even hold it all in.” His thumb slips between your swollen folds, gathering the mix he’s left behind and smearing it higher, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into your clit.
Your thighs draw tight as you writhe beneath him. Want tangling with ache, shame with raw, clawing need. He doesn’t stop. Not until your muscles are fluttering, your breath fractured, every part of you trembling from how much he’s taken.
Your hips twitch again, your throat catching a helpless sound. “Zayne– too much– ”
“I know, baby.” He kisses your knee, his voice low and sweet. His thumb doesn’t stop. “Just one more. You can give me one more, can’t you?”
You try to respond, but all that escapes is a breathless whine. Your body arches into it, already climbing fast. You’re too sensitive, too raw, the urgency making your thighs quiver. Your back bows. Another orgasm slams through you, sudden and biting, dragged from you with slow, merciless precision.
He watches it take you, eyes dark and hungry, hand coaxing every flutter from your cunt until you melt back into the mattress.
Even then, he stays close, one hand still curved around your hip. His breath is wrecked. He leans in like he can’t help himself, collapsing beside you in slow surrender.
You lie there, boneless, muscles slack, breath ragged. The bed is soaked in sweat, the scent of sex clinging to your skin. Your legs fall open again, unthinking, too weak to close. His hand rests over your stomach, fingers spread, his thumb lazily tracing across your skin.
He props himself up on one elbow, staring. You can feel the weight of his gaze– dragging over your flushed skin, the heat still lingering on your chest and throat, the way your thighs twitch. He looks like he’s memorizing it.
“Look at you,” he admires. “Fucking perfect.”
You shift, suddenly shy, trying to close your legs. He tsks quietly, catches your knee, and hooks it back up over his hip, spreading you again.
“No hiding,” he says, voice thick with heat. “Not after that. I want to see exactly what I did to you.”
He leans close, breath warm against your ear. “Look at this mess…” he whispers, dark and sweet. “I think I want to keep you ruined. Always open like this. Always soft and sweet for me.”
His fingers drift lower again, tracing the slickness, rubbing it lightly back across your folds like a signature. “Maybe we make this a habit. What do you think, sweetheart?”
You barely manage a sound, dazed and ruined, breath shallow as he slides down your body. His mouth leaves kisses down your stomach, over your hip, nuzzling into the tender skin at your thigh. His nose brushes low, but he doesn’t kiss you yet.
He just looks.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath. “So soft down here. Still swollen. Still twitching for me.”
His tongue flicks out– just once– and his groan is immediate, deep and low, chest rumbling against your leg.
“That’s how it should be.”
You shiver, your whole body tight, even as your limbs beg to collapse. His breath washes over your cunt, hot and unrelenting, and he nudges your thighs wider, lips hovering, teasing.
He inhales slowly, as if savoring every part of you. Then his thumbs press you open.
“Not wasting a single drop,” he whispers.
He licks a slow stripe through your folds, his tongue broad and steady, unhurried in its devotion. He groans again, louder this time, his tongue moving with intent. You gasp, your hips jerking, and his hands catch you before you can move away.
His tongue circles your clit with slow reverence, then dips lower, dragging through every tender, slick inch of you. He licks you clean like he’s starving for it, like he needs every taste. His mouth seals to you. He’s thorough, greedy, relentless.
“So sweet like this,” he whispers against you. “So fucking sweet.”
You flinch again, the heat building too fast, too sharp. His hands stay firm. One arm hooks under your thigh, the other presses you down. He licks again, mouth sealing over you as he sucks softly, groaning into the heat of you.
“Zayne–”
“Easy, sweetheart,” he chides softly. “I want all of it. You’re gonna give me everything.”
His tongue strokes deeper, mouth possessive, nose bumping your clit. The friction spikes. Your body arches. The stimulation, the slow, insistent drag of his mouth, pushes you too far. Your fingers clutch the sheets.
“Zayne– please– ” you manage, barely. “I can’t– ”
He answers with a deep, wet suck to your clit that rips a sob from your throat.
You shatter– again.
The orgasm takes you hard, your body convulsing around his mouth, thighs locked tight to his head, back bowing. Tears sting your eyes. Your voice cracks. You call his name, loud and ragged, and he groans like he’s coming just from the sound of it.
He licks you through every last tremor, never pulling away, his mouth still gentle as he kisses your thighs, your folds, everything.
Only when you’re limp does he ease back. His mouth is soft again. Worshipful. His hands stroke your thighs once more, like they’re soothing a fever from your skin.
Then he reaches for a cloth, wiping you down with tender care. No rush. No shame. His touch is gentle, reverent, a final act of worship. He massages the last of the tension from your hips, strokes along your inner thighs, brushes away the wetness with slow, affectionate passes.
When he pulls you into his arms at last, wrapping you both in clean sheets, your body sinks into him like it belongs there. His arm around your waist is solid. His breath is steady. His voice, soft and smug, curls into your ear like a secret.
“Think you could handle another week like that?”
You shoot him a look, as sharp as your body will allow. He just laughs, smug and wrecked, and kisses your temple without a trace of shame.
