“the cut isn’t at risk for tetanus. However,” he releases your thumb with a quiet exhale. “it does suggest I should dull the knives at home.”
zayne opens a drawer to retrieve a fresh bandage, and wraps it neatly over your wounded finger. The cut is small but gnarly. you’d mishandled the knife.
“sit here while I prepare it. One can never be too cautious.” He turns around. “refrain from touching anything sharp without my supervision.” You see his cheek lift. You’d roll your eyes had you not been nervous.
okay. it's not like you were going to bolt. You just… need to face it properly.
“i’ll take the shot,” you say quickly. “but it’s not the needle. it’s the anticipation. I tense up and it hurts more than it needs to.” you grimace at the reminiscence.
“what if,” you continue, warming to the idea, “we pavlov my brain to associate injections with something… good. an amazing, earthshattering-ly good feeling."
he follows through the first half of your proposal. the next half just earns an exasperated sigh and a pinch to the bridge of his nose as he mumbles an "...alright."
--
you're straddling zayne, softly grinding against him as his tongue sweeps over you bottom lip before you suck it back into your mouth. "where would you like to take the shot?" he asks, pulling away.
"i have options?" you grip his chin to pull him back against your lips. his hand comes up to your arm, kneading the flesh of your upper arm.
"here..." his other hand glides down, tracing the curve of your waist to settle on the side of your hip. "or here?"
"not the arm," you decide. "i can see it."
"alright then. turn around." a small smile forms on zayne's lips.
--
his hard cock slips between your folds. you rub your slick clit against it, making a mess all over his pretty pink tip, both your juices mingling together.
his lips are on the back of your neck and hands kneading your tits. you twist to grant him access, hooking an arm around his neck to bring your nipple to his mouth.
"zayneee..." he eagerly sucks it in. deep, slow suckles make your toes curl. "i'm putting it in." you tell him. your cunt flutters at the mere thought of him filling you up.
"as you please,"
you finally plug yourself full of his dick, making him groan. he releases your nipple and leans back.
his hands find your waist, grinding up into your gooey walls that so eagerly pulsate to suck him in deeper, making him reach the puffy rim of your womb. "you keep-mmhh-pulling me in you." he sighs.
his palm flattens on your back, pushing you to lean forward, arching on his cock. your fingers come to your clit, tickling it gently, coaxing your cunt to spasm happily around his thick length.
behind you, plastic tears. a thrill shoots down your spine. your clit jumps under your fingers.
"nghh-my love," he groans. "are you certain you're afraid and not aroused by this?"
zayne grips your hips, stilling your movements. "stay still, now." his voice is lowered to a gentle whisper.
the sultry words distract you from the sharp smell of antiseptic and the cold rub of cotton. you almost cum there and then. god. are you really enjoying this?
"you're tightening. am i to assume these are merely your nerves acting up?" he murmurs, caressing your back gently while your finger works your sensitive clit. you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from grinding on his cock that twitches inside you. the stretch is maddening. you can feel him so dee-
a sharp biting pain blooms in your side, making you bite back a whimper.
"there… keep rubbing your clit. you're close, aren't you?" zayne pulls your thoughts away from the needle. yes, goodness, yes you're so wonderfully close. your finger rubs tighter, insistent circles on that nub. just a little more and you-
the pain dissolves into static as you reach your high, clamping down on him as you ride the wave of your orgasm with a silent scream.
part 1 of the FOR SCIENCE series
once he disposes of the syringe, you tug him back to bed. "did you think i'd let you go without finishing?"
┃Note: It was originally a request, but Tumblr doesn't want to post it in reply
┃tags: pre-relationship, Zayne is fool in love
"Zayne, look! Our train has arrived."you grabbed his hand and ran towards the station. It started pouring not so long ago and your clothes were already soaked, hair damp from heavy rain.
You boarded the train,bought your tickets and took the first available seats. The warmth of the train enveloped you. "I'm glad we made it on time. You'd catch a cold if we stayed in the rain any longer."he said and brush a strand of hair away from your forehead. "Here."he took off his coat and covered you with it. " Zayne, this way you will end up with a cold."you shook your head. "I am resistant to these types of circumstances, don't worry."you chuckled, keeping the coat because he wouldn't take it back anyway. You sat comfortably in the soft seat and the train set off.
You were still a few hours away from home,raindrops were running down the window when you decided to occupy the time somehow. Zayne's attention was caught by the latest article about the heart diseases, so you took your headphones out of your bag and turned on one of those ASMR videos to help you fall asleep. And it actually did. Less than half an hour had passed and you were asleep, wrapped in his coat.
The train stopped suddenly at the nearest station which in result made you flinch. You rolled over and your head landed on Zayne's shoulder. His whole body stiffened at the sudden, physical contact. He turned his gaze on you,still sleeping, hair disheveled. He smiled because for him you were still the most beautiful persn in the world. He got back to reading and didn't even dare to move an inch. He will tease you about your neck pain later, even if deep down he wish he could take the pain away from you. But now, he wants to soak in this moment forever.
Check out the rest of my Horny thoughts list here.
The soft clink of Zayne's spoon against his mug was the loudest sound in the kitchen.
He sat at the island with his sleeves rolled twice to mid forearm, a mug of coffee cooling between his hands. A stack of patient files from Akso Hospital rested beside him, untouched. He hadn't looked at a single page in nearly ten minutes.
His eyes were locked entirely on you. From his seat, he watched as you moved between the pantry and the counter, searching for something you'd apparently misplaced. Every now and then, the oversized sweater you were wearing—his sweater— shifted as you reached for a shelf, revealing a glimpse of baby blue lace before the fabric fell back into place.
He lifted his coffee and took a slow sip.
Outside, nothing about him changed. His expression remained calm, composed. Only the subtle tightening of his jaw gave away the tension building behind his temple. His gaze lingered on the curve of your hip, where the delicate strap of your panties sat high, biting softly into your flesh.
"You've been rearranging the same three jars on that shelf for the last five minutes." his tone carried its usual dry professionalism, though there was a faint pause before he continued.
"If you're looking for the tea, it's in the cabinet below. If you're looking for something else, this is a remarkably inefficient way of finding it."
You glanced over your shoulder.
A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you turned and leaned against the counter, folding your arms across your chest. The movement intentionally compressing your chest, pushing the lace of your bra into a clearer view beneath the wide, slouching neckline.
"Maybe I'm admiring your organizational system, Dr. Zayne, or maybe I'm waiting for you to finish working."
"My work was finished the moment you walked into the kitchen wearing that."
Zayne set his mug down with a quiet click.
His eyes slowly scanned you from your collarbone down to your bare thighs. There was no irritation in his voice, despite what he was saying.
"You're making it very difficult to enjoy a quiet evening," he added. "A clear disruption."
"Am I?" you shifted against the counter, the fabric of the sweater slipping just an inch further off your right shoulder, exposing the scalloped edge of the blue strap. "You could always look away."
"That's not a realistic option."
He pushed himself to his feet.
There was nothing hurried about the way he moved. There never was. Everything Zayne did carried the same deliberate steadiness he brought to every part of his life, as though rushing simply wasn't in his nature.
He rounded the island at an unhurried pace, his attention fixed entirely on you.
"Besides," he said, stopping in front of you, "I suspect that wasn't the outcome you were hoping for."
He stepped closer, planting his hands on either side of you as though to steady himself there, close enough to narrow the space between you without actually touching, while his eyes lingered on your face with a focus that made it difficult to remember what either of you had been talking about a moment ago.
"You've been walking around in that all evening," he said, his attention drifting briefly before returning to your eyes, "and unless I'm mistaken, you chose that particular color knowing exactly how distracting it would be."
A smile tugged at your lips, small and innocent enough to be unconvincing.
"I just thought it looked nice."
The look he gave you suggested he found that explanation deeply improbable, though there was a trace of amusement beneath the skepticism that softened the severity of it.
"I'm sure that's what you're telling yourself."
The response earned a quiet laugh, and for a moment neither of you looked away, the silence stretching comfortably between you as though neither felt any urgency to fill it.
"Sounds like a self control problem," you said, tilting your head slightly.
Something shifted in his expression then—not enough to call it a smile, but enough to suggest he was fighting one—as he held your gaze for another second before exhaling through his nose.
"An interesting theory," he replied, his voice calm despite the challenge in yours, "although I suspect you're considerably more interested in testing it than proving it."
"That's a bold assumption, Dr."
"Not really," he said, the amusement in his eyes becoming impossible to miss now. "You've spent hours waiting for me to notice, and I think we're both aware that strategy has been remarkably successful."
He remained where he was, making no move to close the distance between you. His gaze drifted over you with quiet deliberation before returning to your face, as if he were perfectly aware of the effect the silence was having and had decided not to rescue you from it.
The delay was becoming unbearable.
"Zayne..."
His name left your lips softer than intended.
"Patience," he said, the word low and unhurried. "It's an important skill."
You let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like frustration.
"I don't think you're being very fair."
"No," he agreed easily, "probably not."
Only then did he move.
His hand rose between you, the backs of his fingers brushing lightly along your collarbone as he reached for the edge of your sweater. The gesture was unhurried, almost absentminded in its precision, and somehow that made it worse.
With a small tug, he eased the fabric farther down your arms until it gathered at your elbows, leaving you to glare at him while he regarded the result with entirely too much satisfaction.
You were left standing in just your lingerie.
And he didn't try to take it off. He never did.
"You always leave it on," you managed to say, voice trembling.
A faint smile touched his mouth
"Why would I remove something that suits you so well?" Zayne’s fingers hooked under the top edge of the lace bra cup, pulling the fabric down until the tight elastic lodged beneath your breasts, baring your already hard nipples to the cool air of the room.
Before you could think of a response, he lifted you onto the counter with effortless ease. The cold surface contrasted sharply with the warmth that had settled beneath your skin, drawing a quiet gasp from you as you steadied yourself against the edge.
He stepped between your knees, his hand sliding down your stomach, passing the sensitive dip of your navel until his fingers met the barrier of your panties. He looked down at how the blue lace stretched over your mound, already darkening with a damp patch from your arousal.
With a firm tug he pulled them entirely to the side, wedging the fabric sharply against your hip, completely exposing your glistening slit.
His fingers instantly found your drenched core and he slid two fingers inside you without warning, stretching you open, his thumb pressing firmly on your engorged clit.
You cried out and he watched your face, reading the flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes rolled back, treating your pleasure with the absolute focus of a man obsessed with every detail of your anatomy.
"Eyes on me"
You forced your eyes open, blinking through tears of friction and pleasure. He was towering over you, still fully dressed and looking impossibly neat save for a slightly askew tie. Meanwhile, you were almost naked on the cold counter, breasts spilling over blue lace.
He let go of your underwear to undo his belt and unzip his trousers, freeing and stroking his thick, fully erect cock, which throbbed with a heavy vein against his stomach.
There was no wasted movement. He slid his fingers out of you to grip the side of your underwear again, ensuring the fabric was cleared entirely from his path.
"Hold onto me"
You wrapped your legs tightly around him, your hands gripping the back of his neck. Zayne guided his tip to your dripping hole and slowly buried his dick inside you.
The fullness was overwhelming. You gasped, your mouth opening against his shoulder as he began to move. He gripped your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to hold you still against the counter as he slammed into you. His pace was relentless—deep strokes that bottomed out against your cervix, the wet, slapping sound of his skin hitting yours filling the space between you.
"Zayne, oh god, faster —"
"No. You wanted to disrupt my schedule, now we're doing this my way."
"S' too deep, baby "
"It's exactly where I belong, you were made to be stretched out like this." his eyes dropped to the junction where your bodies met and reached down with one hand, his cool fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, pulling them even tighter against your hip, still refusing to take them off. "You're soaking your pretty-fuck- pretty panties with your own mess."
""I don't care....harder..."
"You're so needy. If I go any harder, sweetheart, you're going to break."
"Break me," you begged, completely undone, your hips beginning to match his rhythm.
The submission in your voice almost had him coming on the spot.
"I'm—I'm close, I'm —"
"Hold it," his eyes were completely black, blown out with lust "Say my name, tell me who is filling you up."
"Zayne... Zayne, Zay....!"
That sudden, tight squeeze of you coming around him was exactly what he needed. He let out a rough sound against your neck—losing all his usual control—and on the last stroke, he buried himself so deep your hips slammed together.
A few minutes later he pulled out of you with a soft, wet sound. By the time he fastened his belt, his breathing had already begun to settle, the brief loss of control disappearing behind the calm exterior he wore so effortlessly.
Your bra was still pulled down beneath your breasts, your panties were still hooked tightly over your hip and something quietly satisfied flickered across his expression.
"Don't take it off yet," the words were delivered with the same measured certainty he used when he already expected to be obeyed. "I want to look at you exactly like this while I finish my coffee. You can clean yourself up when I'm done."
synopsis :☆: you take "experimenting in bed" a little too literally. surely, zayne will indulge you, no?
cw :☆: NSFW content. minors, scram. overstimulation, squirting, multiple rounds, creampie, questionable medical logic, injections, potentially inaccurate medical facts. (these drabbles started as crack. so please take em w a grain of salt :p)
nya's note :☆: 3k special. first time doing something like this (fuckin finally tho).
ok, i digress. i'm so incredibly grateful to all of you for helping me get here. thank you for all the love you've shown my writing. i appreciate every single one of you<3
psst btw this special isnt limited to my ideas. feel free to send reqs! The series will be running throughout June.
ENTRY 01 : taking a shot while zayne fucks you
“i’ll take the shot,” you say quickly. “but it’s not the needle. it’s the anticipation. I tense up and it hurts more than it needs to.” you grimace at the reminiscence.
“what if,” you continue, warming to the idea, “we pavlov my brain to associate injections with something… good. an amazing, earthshattering-ly good feeling."
he follows through the first half of your proposal. the next half just earns an exasperated sigh and a pinch to the bridge of his nose as he mumbles an "...alright."
ENTRY 02 : asking zayne to make you squirt
"I'm sorry?" The book in his hand is long forgotten and his ears are tinted pink. What were you thinking asking that to your medical prodigy husband? nothing, really. this is what you wanted.
"I've never done it even though I've attempted to multiple times." You sigh, slumping next to him on the couch. He shifts in his place, immediately stiffening at your presence. "In the end, all I could achieve was a cramped wrist and pruny fingers."
ENTRY 03 : how many times can zayne cum?
"women don't have a refractory period after orgasm. which would imply that there isn't an established maximum number of orgasms a woman can have in one session."
“is this a new line of inquiry?” he asks calmly. “an attempt to determine how many times you can finish in a single session?” his arms curl around you.
"why pursue established data?" you quip. “we’ll keep count,” you say simply. “until you reach your limit.”
“i see.” he swallows once. “in that case—your test subject can only surrender.”
ENTRY 04 : zayne refuses to touch your clit
"approximately 25% women can climax solely from penetration. would you like to find out if you fall in the category?"
the shy rub of his neck at the suggestion was deceptive and his idea was in the very least--spontaneous. because now that hes got you splayed out beneath him, soft body completely under his command, you know he's rarely ever impulsive.
It’s midnight, of course, and he just can’t get back to sleep. Not while the thought of chocolate cake haunts him. There’s some in the fridge, some that you have specifically told him to wait until tomorrow to eat.
Apparently he’d already had too much sugar today. But it’s 10 minutes past midnight, so it’s technically tomorrow.
He takes atleast 15 minutes to slip out of your embrace, not wanting to wake you. Mostly to avoid the lecture, but also because he would hate to ruin your sleep.
Or share his cake.
He manages the feat of heading downstairs and pulling the cake from the fridge in total silence. But after barely two bites, he hears it.
“Ahhh…” He glances down, spotting your toddler still in her pyjamas, hair messy from sleep, with her mouth open waiting to be fed.
She’s definitely his daughter.
“Hi sweetheart. Shouldn’t you be in bed?” He picks her up, smoothing some hair out of her eyes. Still not much of a talker, her mouth stays open, repeating the quiet “Ahh” and glancing at the cake on the counter.
“Just one bite, okay? Then you have to brush your teeth and go back to bed. We wouldn’t want to wake mommy, right?”
“It’s a little late for that.”
Zayne does his best to not look guilty, but you clearly see right through him, shaking your head as if you knew this would happen.
“Give her a bite, the poor thing. She got the sugar cravings from you.”
“Right. And what exactly did you come down here for?”
Zayne is the kind of boyfriend who would be insanley paitent with a partner who is still unlearning the behaviours they learnt in an abusive childhood home. They accidently drop and break a glass, immedietly panic and expect to be yelled at, rush to clean up and hide the evidence, but Zayne walks in and catches them. They instantly start crying, apologising and begging for forgiveness and are so confused when Zayne assures them they're not in any trouble and it's just a glass, it can be replaced. He's more worried about them potentially having any cuts from the glasss shards. They're so used to punishment that it genuinely shocks them when they get assurance and hugs instead of being berrated. Zayne realised he's got some serious support work ahead of him, but he loves them so he doen't mind being paitent.
zayne had a rough day at work—so many patients, too much paperwork, an excruciating surgery in between—he was absolutely beat. so when he trudges through the door with his tie loosened and very prominent bags under his eyes on his otherwise perfect skin, you tell him to go sit on the couch and relax while you finish whipping up dinner.
he wants nothing more than to shower the day off of him and crawl into bed with his wife, but you insist he needs to eat—the same way he would if it were you in his shoes. and because he can’t resist you—especially when you’re wearing a cute little apron—he begrudgingly obliges, letting his bag hit the ground and slumping on the couch, a single button on his crisp shirt unbuttoned showing off a beautiful sliver of skin.
he throws his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking of anything to take his mind off his grueling work, and he’s successful when his mind finally lands back on you. his sweet, sweet wife.
he tries to keep his thoughts innocent… tries not to think about you in your little apron looking like you came straight out of a male fantasy. tries not to think about all the things he could do to you. tries so hard not to think about how you could take care of his cock—the very same that’s growing harder and harder in his confined slacks.
he’s tired—can barely move, and yet, he still calls you to him.
“sweetheart,” his voice gruff, carrying a slight rasp as he beckons you. “c’mere please.”
a frown etches itself on your face, walking your way to him from the kitchen. “baby, ‘m almost done with din–”
you don’t get the chance to finish your complaint when he’s pulling you by the arm into his lap. a soft gasp leaves your lips at the sudden movement. then you’re settled, straddling the large expanse of his lap and you feel it.
he wraps his arms around your body, flushing you against his chest. his lips press against the shell of your ear and he whispers, “don’t care about dinner, just let me hold my wife, yeah?”
he swears it’s all he needs—to hold you close and inhale your scent—but his pulse is racing and blood roars in his ears all due to sheer desire and he can’t stop himself from shifting his hips the slightest bit.
you feel that, too. it elicits a sharp gasp.
you can almost hear the small smirk forming on his lips, “how was your day, beautiful?” he murmurs, hands moving to your hips.
and his movements are so calculated. from the way he ever so gently grounds you into him to the way his breath fans against your ear sending shivers down your spine.
“was fine…” you mumble, unable to stop the way you shift in his lap, body begging for more attention. “missed you.”
“yeah?” he asks, his voice is low and nearly unrecognizable. “missed you s’much more, my love. been waiting for this moment all day.”
you pull back slightly to look into his eyes. they’re tired. exhausted even, but they still hold that fire. that pure, burning desire. they’re his fuck me eyes. and, god, do you love them.
“zaynie,” you whisper, unable to trust your shaky voice.
he hums, and the soft, pitched noise has you leaking through your bottom, probably leaving a wet patch right on his pants. “tell me, sweetheart.” his hands squeeze at your sides and his hips slowly, but surely, roll into you. "what did you do today?"
you whimper, pussy clenching around nothing. "mmph, not much…" another roll, evoking another wet gasp. "fuck, just… cleaned, w-went on a walk—" he's pushing against you deeper now. you feel the outline of his cock push into you with every not-so-little thrust. "s-saw, saw that stray kitty in the park again."
"mmm, we should really take her in, shouldn't we?" he breathes, cock twitching at the sound of your voice breaking with every grind.
"zaynie," your hands grip his shoulders, pulling him back so you can look at him. his face is flushed, pink blooming over his cheeks and spreading to the tips of his ears. you gyrate against him, pulling a breathy moan from your husbands hung open mouth. "dinner's gonna burn."
"let it burn then." he says, the words coming out in a hiss. "need my wife—we can order takeout later, i'll even cook, don't care. let me just have you like this first."
a beg. to the untrained ear, you can't hear it, but you know zayne like the back of your hand. you know that heat curls in his stomach, that tension lies in every bone in his body, that pure desire is the only thing he feels right now. the need to be close to you is strong, but the need to be fully sheathed inside you, fucking you till he's completely stress free and you're completely full of his cum is much, much stronger.
it's why all the fatigue evaporates and he can't stop himself from flipping you onto the plush couch— rubbing into you you like he might die without feeling the outline of your pussy through your soddened panties and leggings . he can't even be bothered to rid you of your clothes… he craves the release. he needs it more than anything. needs you more than anything.
you let out a pathetic needy sob, overly worked up by him fucking you through your clothes. "z-zayne, more—ugh, need more. t-take it off, please."
his cock twitches helplessly at the sound. it's what he's been missing while drowning in work for hours on end.
"sweetheart," he moans brokenly. "promise i'll fuck you just the way you like—just need you to take this first. you can do that for me, can't you?" he whispers and the word shoot an immense amount of heat straight to your core. "you can be a good little wife, right, darling?"
you can never say no to him, especially when he talks to you like that. you respond wordlessly, giving your husband what he wants—no, what he needs—and wrap your legs securely around his slim waist.
"that's it, good girl." and the way zayne sounds is the polar opposite of the weight of his words. his voice is frayed, desperate. "f-feels, ha, feels so good like this, yeah?"
his hips move faster, imitating the way they would if he were actually inside of you fucking you with full force. your body rocks with every thrust, every grind, your tits bounce underneath your apron, the couch—even as firm as it sits—sways with you in tandem.
it goes on and on. endless, whiny praises from him, sobbing pleas from you, your bodies rubbing against one another effectively ruining his dry-clean-only slacks till you finally feel that tight knot form in your lower belly.
and he's close, too, but zayne's been close to coming undone—he just didn't want to let go without you.
it happens so quickly that you barely have the time to process it. "baby, baby," you gasp, nerve-endings coming alive while your heart pounds at the speed of light. "'m—oh, fuck, baby. 'm cumming, cumming, cumming."
"cum with me, sweet girl." he wheedles, never losing his momentum for a second. he grinds you both through it till he feels your body pull taut underneath him. till you're shaking and sobbing and clinging onto him for dear life.
then he stills and his orgasm is explosive. he's vocal, moaning out your name mixed with all the sweet pet names he's given you. his cum leaks through his boxers and said dry-clean-only slacks, beading out of the fabric in a taboo, yet very erotic way.
it takes you both minutes to come down till the smell of burning food fills your nostrils.
then you hear the unmistakable beeping of the fire alarm.
"oh, shit."
KIT SAYS... they took my yaoi/bl app away from me. if you guys know where i can read my yaoi ad free, email me. (dm me or send me an ask, I'm begging i need to fujo out over hot men that kiss) oh and this isn't proofread lol
fluff! husband zayne coming home early after five days abroad for a conference, just lots of hugs and kisses
sitting on the sofa, you stare outside the window as happy couples walk past under the twinkling streetlights. you sigh, knowing that zayne still has two more days left before he comes back to you.
you head to the kitchen, making a cup of camomile tea to help you fall asleep quicker so that your lover comes home sooner. the sound of the door handle rattling has you feeling immediately anxious, knowing that nobody is meant to be entering for the next two days. grabbing a jasmine scented disinfectant spray, you await for the attacker to enter.
the door opens, and you feel your heart pounding. a man steps through the entrance, and you soon realise that it is your man.
“zayne!” you drop the disinfectant and run up to him, where he catches you with ease. “i missed you so so much. it was so lonely without you.”
“did you enjoy my surprise, darling?” he asks, stroking your hair. you sniffle in response. “there's no need for tears, beloved. let me see the face i missed so much, hm?”
you face him with a frown on your face and he wipes the tears on your cheeks, kissing the tip of your nose. “what about my lips?” you pout and he smiles before pressing his lips against yours.
“my pretty darling. i missed you so much these past five days.” he whispers.
“five days too long, zaynie. five days are too long without you.” you complain, tightening your grip around his neck.
“it really is, darling. i dreamt of your gorgeous face every night. i don't think i would have been able to survive another two more days without you by my side.” you giggle, pointing towards the bedroom where all you want to do is cuddle your husband.
“let me just put down my bags darling and we can go sleep.” he suggests, and you shake your head, refusing to let him go. “alright, i won't darling. did you go out with your friends today? it smells like your perfume.”
“hm? no?” you face your husband, smelling the air. the disinfectant spray. “oh, it's the jasmine disinfectant spray when i thought you were an intruder.” you grin.
“you thought i was an intruder? darling, if anything you should use more stronger weapons, like bleach for example.” your husband responds, offended you didn't almost try and harm him.
“i'm sorry for not wanting to injure my husband? besides, you're back so you can do all of that for me.” you kiss his cheek.
“i'm back and i'm here to stay, my love.” he replies, taking you to your shared bedroom.
Studying with Zayne when he starts to get distracted by how you look laying on the couch. You're not wearing anything special, just a comfortable tank top and some loose shorts. But then again, it's never taken much for stoic Zayne to turn feral for you.
You're reading off the next flash card of medical terms, waiting for him to define it. You don't understand much of what it all means, but you try to help anyways. When several seconds pass you look over at him from under the card.
He's crawling toward you, eyes half lidded with lust, licking his lips. "Let's take a break," he's suggesting as he gets to your legs, running hands up them, making you shiver.
"We just took one," you try to remain stalwart in the face of this onslaught.
"A quick one, then."
His hands are sliding up, up, up. His fingers twist into the very edge of your shorts.
"Zayne!" you're saying, almost like a warning, but he's already beginning to nuzzle into you. You're hearts beating in the way that only he can do. Your body is coming alive. You know he sees how paper thin your resolve is.
"Let's not stop studying, then. Every right answer and I get to explore," his hand trails up your shorts, fingers alighting at the grooves where your hips and legs meet.
Before long he's straddling your legs on his shoulders, barechested and cheeks flushed. Your hold on the flash cards in tenuous as you read out the next word:
"Ly-ahhh-lysogenic."
He stills, his cock throbbing inside you. You're agreement was he can only keep going if he gets the word right.
"Harboring a prophage as hereditary material," he answers quickly before he's back to pumping furiously, trying to get you distracted enough to put the cards down.
"What if i were? What if i died right here of low blood sugar because my wife refused to let me have one macaron?” The seriousness in his voice might have fooled anyone but you.
"Stop being dramatic. You’re not going to die of hypoglycemia just by skipping one macaron right after your dental appointment.” With that said, you snatch the plate from his hands and head straight to the kitchen to hide them somewhere he can't find.
When you come back to the living room, you see Zayne lying on the couch with his eyes closed, body still. “Zayne, are you okay?”
A small smile appears on his face at your concerned voice and you roll your eyes. You can't believe what lengths this grown ass doctor with a prestigious medical degree could go for sweets.
You decide to play along and walk over to him, crouching down on the floor. "Oh no. Did the famous cardiac surgeon of Akso hospital dr Zayne Li die of hypoglycemia?” You fake mourn his pretend death. “What a tragedy! I have no choice but to check his heartbeat."
His smile grows bigger, awaiting your touch on his chest, instead he feels them on his crotch.
He grabs your hands off almost immediately and pulls you on top of him, looking equally amused as surprised. "Do you think my heart is located there?”
“It’s not my fault that they're both big and do a very good job in loving me. Anyone could be easily mistaken.” you say while tracing a huge penis on his chest.
He seemed pleased with your answer. “What if i propose a deal? You show me how much you love me by giving me one macaron and i dedicate both my big attributes to love you back?”
“You're trying to sell your body for one macaron?”
He innocently nods, and you giggle. "As tempting as your offer is, Zaynie." You pat his chest and climb off him. "I'm going to have to pass."
"So my wife would rather see me dead than let my teeth rot?”
You shake your head, he's acting like a man in withdrawal except his addiction is sweet and so is his suffering. You almost pity him, “Yes, no sweets for..... a month.”
His face falls comically and you turn away, already running before he becomes more dramatic.
He is just someone that takes care of people so so well, and not even in the condescending and judgemental way that most doctors are. He really takes care of you from a place of love and understanding.
Like when he makes you a schedule and you think I'm not following that, I'm not a child anymore and he makes you follow the schedule to the letter as much as it annoys you the first times.
He starts to push you gently out of bed for a morning run, even when you groan and curse at the air. And every time, he helps you get ready, tying your sneakers and doing your hair in a ponytail while you try to keep yourself from going back to bed.
Later he makes you meals with lots of nutritious food, confiscating that chocolate bar you planned for breakfast.
"It's not fair! You eat more sugar than I do!"
Your complaint is only met with a kiss on the forehead and a soft
"Let's share the bar once we've finished eating, darling"
There is simply no way you are gonna skip meals and/or eat trash in his sight. Even when you start binge eating he changes the lots and lots of candies to sweet sliced pears and occasional mints.
He makes you return to your interests and hobbies, telling you to teach him some tricks that he picks up immediately cause well, he is Zayne.
He even starts taking your phone away in subtle ways, like pulling you to his lap while he reads a book under the excuse of reading it together, or getting all cuddly at night after noticing you already spent the last 3 hours scrolling down instead of sleeping, saying "Let me see your face before going to sleep, I want to dream of you" and in his embrace your drift to sleep too.
And even when he is not home in his own busy schedule, he makes sure you know he is thinking of you via sticky notes that reminds you of eating the breakfast he prepared for you this morning, messages asking you to show him your progress in that new thing you wanted to learn, phone calls that serve as a podcast about his last patient who only agreed to take the medicine if he made him a snow seal with his evol, and a long etc.
Each day he takes care of you and each day you learn to be a little more confident in treating you and your body with kindness. Who could have said that a nice sleeping schedule, three meals a day, water intake and doing things you enjoy actually makes you feel better?
It shouldn't be surprising that you can't help but smile and get all clingy to him knowing that his love is making you love yourself more, he is an expert fixing hearts after all.
You know Tara and Simone will rip you to shreds about this for the rest of your life.
Outside the Hunter's Association stands two men, both with a bouquet of flowers in their hand. One is a taller, older gentlemen who is adjusting the sleeves on his jacket. The leather reflects off the warm streetlights, his bike shimmering behind him.
Zayne eyes the man parked beside him. He's oddly handsome, making Zayne readjust his tie. But something about him is off. He exudes a bad aura, as if there is something wrong with him. He notices the man taking side glances at him, but Zayne doesn't react. He looks down at his watch, counting down the seconds until you get off work. Before he can put his wrist down, he hears you call out to him.
"Zayne! Hey, sorry to make you wait—" You stop dead in your tracks, eyes wide on the man parked beside Zayne. Your eyes flicker between the both of them with a worried expression on your face. The older man finally speaks up,
"Zayne?" He raises a brow, pushing himself off his bike. Zayne watches as he steps towards you. Zayne follows in suit, seeing you frantically check your phone.
There's no way you could have gotten the dates wrong right?! You knew you had two dates on a Friday coming up soon, but you didn't realize you said yes to the same Friday.
At the same time.
You awkwardly look up from your phone, seeing the two men looking down at you. Sheepishly you smile, rubbing the back of your neck.
"I didn't realize you were seeing other people." Zayne says plainly, taking a closer step to you. He isn't upset, maybe a little jealous, but it's not as if the two of you were exclusive. Sylus feels the same, though he loops an arm around your shoulders. He slips off your bag from your left shoulder, hooking it onto his fingers.
"Neither did I, sweetie." Sylus chuckles, looking at you. You glance between the two, unsure how to navigate this situation. The most you can muster up is an awkward chuckle.
How do you go about explaining this?
The two of them sit opposite of you, taking turns to flip the meat. It sizzles over the rack, the heat charring and cooking it through. Neither of them have said a word to each other, only attending to your needs. That is until Sylus breaks the ice,
"A cardiologist, yes?" He asks Zayne, refilling the younger man's cup with water.
"Cardiac Surgeon." Zayne remarks, placing another piece of meat onto your plate. His voice softens as he speaks to you, "Careful. It's hot."
"But you are one, nonetheless?" Sylus takes a sip of his own water, placing a few side dishes onto your plate. The awkwardness is killing you. You take sheepish glances between the two. You guiltily chew on your food, watching their expressions.
"I'm sorry." You blurt out. They hear your quiet voice, despite the business of the restaurant. Sylus cocks a brow, leaning back in his seat. The condensation on his glass dips onto the table, soaking the surrounding area.
"What are you apologizing for, sweetie? I'm always up to make new friends." Sylus remarks, putting an arm around Zayne's chair. Zayne glances to the man beside him, letting a soft sigh escape his lips. Zayne leans forward, flipping the meat. He takes a small side dish, places a few pieces onto your plate.
"I just— I don't know. Isn't this awkward?" You lean forward on your elbows, brows knitted. Zayne hums, shrugging his shoulders. Sylus smiles in return, leaning forward as well. You stares at Zayne from the side, still smiling.
"Perhaps I would be more upset if you chose a less handsome man." Sylus fiddles with the ends of Zayne's hair. Zayne doesn't push him away, giving him a quick odd glance. If you looked close enough, you would probably be able to see the tips of the doctor's ears twinging pink.
You stare between the two, eyes flicking to each of their expressions. Zayne lets a sigh slip once more, placing a piece of skewered meat onto Sylus's plate silently.
"You are paying, yes?" Zayne asks Sylus, staring at him with a plain expression. Sylus's brows raise, but soon is replaced with a smug smile.
Synopsis: Out of everyone on campus, Zayne Li was the one you least expected to run into in an underground pub on a Friday night, beer in hand and dressed nothing like how soon-to-be doctor Zayne Li dresses on a daily attending classes. Were your eyes deceiving you, or was there a side of Zayne no one was aware of, especially you?
Content warnings: College AU, Med-Student Zayne with a side flavor of Metalhead, he has tattoos & piercings in this one (+his sexy mullet), Lots of flirting, Heavy sexual tension, Smoking, Shotgunning, Alcohol consumption, Zayne can handle some alcohol in this AU, Ass grabbing & leaving marks, Neck kissing & hickeys, Dirty talk, Caleb is a side-character in this. (cw will be updated with each ch; next one is explicit)
Word count: 9.5k
Author’s note: ladies and gentlemen, i present you, my newest obsession. Metalhead!Zayne will grace our lives bcs i saw this art from our wonderful talented raoni & i couldn't think about anything else since... it has consumed my mind and soul
sooo, this was supposed to be a one-shot buuut... haha like you don't know me already, who's lex if she doesn't make it slowburn & build the sexual tension for at least a few thousand words.......right
enjoyyy guys<3 comments & reposts are VERY welcomed & appreciated (pls yap with me about this im losing my damn mind)
Making your way through the stifling crowd was a true challenge tonight, despite your best efforts to keep up with Simone and Tara who were farther away in front of you, clinging with one another and giggling, barely audible over the loud music of the pub.
You weren’t faring better yourself, clinging to Simone’s palm and trying to avoid sweaty bodies bumping you left and right. You had one-too-many drinks tonight already, because this wasn’t really in plan, to go out. You were supposed to have a girls’ night at the dorm, so you invited Simone and another two girls from her class to your shared dorm with Tara, since midterms were over and you took your last exam Wednesday, you all wanted to just get loose, have some fun.
They came with two bottles of alcohol, which you mixed with what you already had in your worn fridge in the dorm, because you didn’t trust Tara to make the cocktails. You remember last time you put your faith in her, naive as you were, and ended up half-naked in the middle of the night, swimming in the campus’ indoor pool, giggling like two idiots.
You were not about to have a repeat of that tonight, so you made them. Still, that didn’t mean you were safe from her shenanigans, because about eight rounds into truth or dare, you already had a cocktail and three shots into your system, enough alcohol to make your vision blurry at the edges and put a filter over the rational part of your brain.
Three shots turned into five, and another cocktail was half-emptied when you dragged your skirt up your legs, wobbling a little in front of the mirror where your reflection was staring back at you, hair messy and cheeks pink from all the laughing. As you struggled to change into some clothes worthy of being into a club full of drunk college students, Simone was already calling for a cab while the other girls were still rolling on the floor, giggling and drinking from their plastic cups.
You didn’t have half a mind to refuse going out, even if you knew there was a possibility for things to take a turn for the worst tonight, knowing Tara and Simone and the version of themselves clouded by so much alcohol. You took your purse from the couch in a hurry and followed them to the cab, stumbling a little on your poor choice of shoes. Just because you were tipsy, that didn’t mean you weren’t gonna dress for the occasion.
You stop in front of the bar now, Simone already leaning over the counter with a smile on her face, boobs peeking out from the cut of her blouse, chest pressing into the wood with the movement. She says something to the bartender, which you guess must be something flirty because he gives her a small laugh and turns to pour some transparent liquid into five small glasses.
The music is super loud, especially near the bar, but you still hear them clearly as they chant “Shots! Shots! Shots!”, so you all take your glass and clink them together before your head dips back and the strong liquid swirls down your neck, burning. You wince, coughing a little as you set the glass down on the counter, giggling at Simone and Tara’s faces, which aren’t that different from yours.
“Woo! That was much better than whatever we had at the dorm!” Tara grins, sliding her arm around your neck.
“Yeah, and a lot more expensive, too!” you huff, smiling at her because it is indeed better.
You spend the next half an hour or so by the bar, sharing a few more drinks, and you settle for a cocktail this time, something easier that takes longer to finish. Your mind is already fuzzy, everything funnier than it should be, so you know you’re not just tipsy anymore. You got to do some damage control, so you avoid any more shots, even when Tara pouts at you to try to convince you to have one more round with her.
The other two girls found their way to the other side of the pub where it is a lot more crowded, bodies clinging to one another while dancing, and Simone is deep in conversation with the bartender, which you suspect is nothing casual because his eyes keep drifting down to Simone’s chest every now and again, and she doesn’t seem to mind.
You laugh to yourself and turn your attention to Tara, then scan the rest of the pub. Since this is close to campus, you wonder if you’ll find any familiar faces here tonight. You frequent the pubs around campus often, especially when you’ve gotten all your focus on your studies and feel burned out. Being in a place with loud music and full of students such as yourself, who chase the same feeling of letting go of anxieties and stress, even if just for a few hours, makes you feel like there’s more out there than just your studies.
Tara is leaning against the counter beside you, her chin propped lazily in her palm as she scrolls through something on her phone, the screen casting a faint blue glow across her cheekbones. You take the opening to slip a hand into your purse and fish out the soft pack of cigarettes you’d shoved in there earlier, the cardboard a little crumpled from being pressed up against your lipstick and your keys. You nudge her shoulder with yours, leaning in close so you don’t have to shout over the music that’s still thrumming through the floor and up into the soles of your feet, the bass making your chest vibrate in a way that almost feels pleasant by now, almost familiar after this long.
“Smoke break?” you angle the pack so she can see it, drawing her gaze up from her phone. “I’m dying.”
She gives a small hum of agreement, slipping her phone into the back pocket of her jeans before sliding off the stool with a slight wobble that mirrors your own. You loop your arm through hers because you can already feel the buzz pooling warm and heavy in the bowl of your stomach, that liquid sort of heaviness that makes your steps feel a fraction too long, a fraction too generous with how much space they take. Tara is just steady enough to anchor you while you weave back through the crush of bodies, and you keep your free hand splayed out a little for balance as you slip between people, your shoulder catching now and again on someone’s arm, someone’s drink.
This place is one of those underground spots that doesn’t quite have rules, or doesn’t quite bother enforcing the ones it has, and there’s a stretch of corridor just off the main floor where people pour out from the different bars that share the space, leaning along the bricked wall with cigarettes pinched lazily between their fingers, the air heavy with smoke and the scent of perfume that bleeds into sweat and spilled liquor and turns into something almost intoxicating in its own right.
The music drops to a muffled pulse the second you step out from the doorway, and the relief of it hits you somewhere behind the ribs, your shoulders coming down a fraction as you tap the pack against your palm and slide a cigarette between your lips, the filter catching slightly on the tackiness of your gloss.
Tara is already drifting a few steps off, shouting at a girl she barely knows from her psych elective, so you let her go and lean your shoulder blades against the cool stretch of brick while you cup your hand around the flame of your lighter. It flickers twice before catching, and the first drag is warm and grounding in a way you didn’t realize you needed tonight, your eyes slipping half-closed as you tilt your head back and let the smoke curl slow up past your lashes.
You picked up smoking as a bad habit, second year in Uni. The pressure was too much, combined with the emotional wreckage your ex put you through, so you turned to something unhealthy instead of crying yourself to sleep every night. You tried to quit, but bad habits die hard, so you give yourself some grace on nights like this, blaming it on letting lose, telling yourself it’s just for tonight, just as a social thing and not something you still need to ease off the heaviness in your chest you still occasionally get.
You drag your eyes to the left, and it takes you a full minute to realize who is standing at the far end of the corridor. Caleb. Of course he would be here tonight, it doesn’t even come as a surprise to you that he’s out partying with his friends. You met Caleb your second year, too, in this exact same spot. You were a mess back then, makeup smudged and eyes puffy from crying, because you were really going through it at the time, and the loud music, the alcohol and seeing everyone around you have fun while you were still not over your ex—everything made you fall down the rabbit hole even faster. You were down to your last two cigarettes which you were desperate to inhale and just try to shut off your brain, but luck wasn’t on your side.
You lost your lighter somewhere in the crowd that night, and this stranger saw you were about to have a full mental breakdown as you desperately rummaged through your purse, huffing and puffing, annoyed. Caleb offered you his lighter with a casual smile, easy and charming enough to erase some of the frown between your eyebrows, and you took it from his fingers, giving a small smile.
You spent the rest of that miserable night talking and smoking in a corner, and the miserable night turned out not to be that miserable after all. He shared his own pack of cigarettes, shared some funny stories of himself, all in an attempt to make you laugh, which you did. The satisfaction swam from his face in waves, grinning at you like he won a prize, which only made you roll your eyes at him. But you were grateful, more than you wanted to voice, because his presence made it easier, stopped your from spiraling like you did many night before, in that same spot, doing the exact same thing, only being much more dejected and alone.
Caleb is the kind of person who occupies the air around him whether he means to or not, all loose shoulders and that easy slouch he does against any available surface, head thrown back laughing at something with the line of his throat catching under the cheap yellow string lights running along the corridor. He’s in that worn navy crew-neck he wears half the week, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, hair looking like someone (probably him) has been pulling at it for hours.
And right beside him, half a step back with a beer bottle dangling loose between his fingers and his other hand shoved deep into the pocket of his black jeans, is Zayne.
That makes your fingers go still around the cigarette, the smoke curling thin and untouched past your face as you take a beat to actually process what you’re looking at, because Zayne is not the kind of person you expect to find in an underground pub on a Friday night, leaning against a brick wall and listening with that faint half-smile he gets when he’s tolerating something more than enjoying it.
You’ve never quite been able to figure him out, in the loosely overlapping way that you know him, mostly through Caleb, mostly across the table in that one shared seminar where he sits two rows up and answers questions in that low, even way that always sounds like he’s already considered three counterarguments before opening his mouth. You’ve been on group projects with him a couple of times too, polite and easy to work with every single time. He’s a mistery to you, and you would lie to yourself if you didn’t admit he is quite an interesting person.
He’s brilliant, of course. Everyone on campus knows just how smart Zayne Li is, never one to be underestimated, never one to pass his study sessions in favor of hanging out or going out to have fun or just do things that don’t require a textbook and a laptop. He’s soon-to-be doctor, of course he is the type of person prioritizing his studies. Paired with the way he looks, you have to admit to yourself, he would make quite a handsome doctor.
Knowing all this about Zayne, it does take you by surprise actually seeing him here tonight. With a bottle of beer in his hand, no less. It makes your eyes squint despite yourself, a small smirk of curiosity more than anything pulling at the corner of your lips. Him and Caleb are as much opposites as people with different life ideals and future plans are, yet you couldn’t help but notice of how well they fit together as friends in the time you got to meet them and interact with them. Even so, from getting along well to this… well, it’s safe to say it’s got you all curious how Caleb even managed to drag Zayne out here, and even more so, how he convinced the guy to drink beer with him.
He looks different out here. Or maybe he just looks like himself in a setting where you weren’t expecting to see him. The contrast is what’s catching you off guard, because the dim corridor light cuts shadows down the line of his jaw in a way that makes you swallow before you’ve decided to. He’s even dressed so differently than he usually is on campus, with fitted black jeans and a black tee under his leather jacket. You would blame it on the amount of alcohol you had tonight and the thick layer of smoke haunting the corridor, but fuck it if he doesn’t look sexy as hell dressed in that. You bite your lip, eyes dragging up and down his body, quietly glad he doesn’t seem to notice he’s being checked out.
Caleb spots you first, his face splitting into the grin that’s probably gotten him out of more parking tickets than he’ll ever admit to.
“No fucking way!” He’s already pushing off the wall, crossing the corridor in a few easy strides. “Tell me you guys didn’t actually come here on purpose.”
“Sorry for barging on your domain, Xia.” You smirk at him when he’s close enough to see it. Tara is abandoning her psych girl and their conversation to throw her arms around his neck because Tara has known Caleb almost as long as you have, and the two of them dissolve into the loud, hugging, half-shouting reunion that they always seem to do whenever they collide somewhere unplanned.
Which leaves Zayne leaning against the wall with the bottle hanging loose in his hand, watching the spectacle with that mild expression that doesn’t quite commit to anything.
Watching, you realise after another second, you.
The cigarette burns down a millimeter while you hold his gaze, and you don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the bass still thumping faintly through the wall behind you or the fact that you weren’t expecting him here, but you can feel the heat climbing in a slow crawl up the side of your neck that you can’t quite reason away. You lift the cigarette in a small salute across the gap between you, then bring it back to your lips and pull a deliberate drag with your eyes still on him.
“Didn’t have you pegged for the underground type, Zayne.” you finally call, loud enough to carry over the loudness around you, soft enough that it isn’t really for anyone but him.
His head tilts a fraction, and he pushes off the wall to come closer. “Didn’t have you pegged for a smoker.”
He takes his time crossing to you, the bottle still loose in his hand, and you catch the way his eyes flick down the length of your dress and back up in the kind of split-second pass that wouldn’t be obvious to anyone who wasn’t looking for it. You were looking for it, which is why it is hard to bite back the small smirk painting your lips.
“I guess I’m just full of surprises,” you say, shrugging one shoulder against the brick, unbothered.
“So I’m gathering.”
He stops in front of you, closer than acquaintances usually stand. The corridor is loud but not loud enough that you wouldn’t hear him if he wasn’t staying so close. He doesn’t really need to stand in your personal space, but it still feels like a decision, one he made somewhere around three strides back. You tilt your chin up to keep his gaze, and the brick is cool through the thin fabric of your dress where your shoulder blades are pressing into it.
“Caleb dragged you out, didn’t he?” you smile at him, eyes flicking back over his shoulder where Caleb is laughing with Tara and another girl a few steps back, and then flick back at him.
You’re aiming for casual, but it comes out a little lower than you meant it to, smoke-slow almost. His mouth does a small twitch at the corner, the not-quite-smirk that you’ve watched from across a seminar table more times than you’d like to admit to yourself in this exact moment. It makes heat crawl up your spine, grip your cigarette a little tighter.
“Something like that,” he hums, tilting his head.
“He’s persuasive.”
“He’s something.”
The laugh that comes out of you is real and surprised, the alcohol warming it from the inside, and Zayne watches you laugh with an expression you can’t entirely place, except for the part of it that you can. You hold the cigarette up between you, the smoke curling thin and pale through the space between his face and yours.
“You smoke, Zayne?” You already know the answer to that, like you knew the answer to him drinking, yet here he is in an underground pub with a bottle of cheap beer in his hand. So really, do you know the answer?
“Not usually, I don’t.” There’s a small pause, the corner of his mouth twitching again. “I do on special occasions, though.”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing in surprise. “Social smoker?”
“Something like that.” Your eyes follow as he lifts the bottle to his lips, head tilting slightly as he takes a sip of the beer. It’s probably gotten too warm, judging by the smallest narrowing of his eyes at the taste.
You drag another smoke into your lungs, even if only to distract yourself from staring without any regards at him. His throat bobs slowly with it, and you can’t help but trace it with your eyes.
You’re not as subtle as you usually would be. Granted, you’ve got a little too much alcohol in your system to care for subtlety, but you’re at least aware of Zayne watching you closely too. That alone makes you shiver slightly, a small tremor up your spine, which you could always blame on the coldness of the wall behind you. It would be a lie, anyway.
“Sorry if I’m having a hard time believing that, Zayne—you? A social smoker?” you puff out the smoke, letting it curl in the space between you that has gotten an inch smaller since you’ve started talking, “What, you’re a social drinker, too? And here I thought you lost a bet to Caleb or something.” You gesture to the bottle in his hand with a cheeky smile.
Zayne only hums, something you can’t actually hear because of all the noise, but you do inch a tad bit closer to him.
“There’s quite a lot you don’t know about me.” He tilts his head down, hazel eyes focused on you, and the subtle move has your heart picking up the pace a little. He only lingers on your face for a few seconds before looking around casually. “Is it that hard to believe I’m here out of my own free will?”
You puff a small laugh, because yeah, it is quite hard to believe Zayne Li would choose this as his preferred Friday night activity. He doesn’t seem that out of place as you would have thought he would, if someone were to come up to you and say they saw Zayne Li in an underground pub, surrounded by smokers and loud college students, drinking beer in a leather jacket and tight jeans.
“I feel like answering that would not make your impression of me improve.” You inhale again, pursing your lips around the cigarette. A small curve of his lips has your stomach doing a flip, because of many reasons, really. One would be that you never expected Zayne to be so easy to talk to, and another one would be how good that smirk looks on his lips.
You lick your own unconsciously.
He shuffles closer to you, and you shift on your heels to make some space for him. Leaning with his shoulder on the wall, he brings the bottle to his lips again, so you break eye contact to rummage through your purse again, looking for another cigarette since the one you had in your hand burned all the way through.
From the corner of your eye, you see Tara and Caleb laugh at something, then Tara looks your way and silently gestures toward the bar at the end of the corridor. You immediately get what she’s saying, the two of them already making their way there, Caleb’s hand around her shoulders to stabilize her. You roll your eyes and smile, turning back to Zayne who’s silent beside you, eyes looking in the same direction.
You’re almost out of cigarettes, which would be just your luck, but at least you’ve got enough to stay out here for a while longer. Not that you really need an excuse to hang out here, but hanging out with Zayne in this enviorment which is far from academic, makes you feel a new type of nervousness.
You light your cigarette with a flick of the lighter, the small flame catching the corner of your mouth for half a second before it disappears, and you tilt your body in Zayne’s direction, hip cocked against the brick, smoke curling slow up between you.
“Fair enough. Then you won’t mind me asking why you’ve picked up smoking?”
He lifts a brow at you, something curious in his expression, something almost probing, like he’s already three steps ahead of whatever answer you’re about to give him. He waits patiently for your response, head tilted a fraction, and you find yourself shrugging a shoulder before the silence has the chance to stretch into something heavier than you want it to.
“Bad habit,” you offer, mouth curving in a playful gesture, something someone who hasn’t fully decided how much to share would do, tapping a little ash off the end of your cigarette. “Seems like I stumble into bad decisions lately.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, the smallest thing, but enough that you catch it and feel the warmth of it settle somewhere low and pleased under your sternum. You like that. You like that you can pull that out of him without seeming to try very hard at all. He brings the bottle back up to his mouth then and tips the rest of the beer into his throat in one slow swallow, the line of it working under the dim corridor light. When he’s done he leans sideways and sets the empty bottle on the narrow ledge running off the brick, where someone has already left two crushed caps and a folded matchbook.
“Do you mind?” His chin lifts slightly toward the cigarette between your fingers, brows arched, easy with it.
You blink at him for half a second, an eyebrow flicking up in something that’s mostly confused and a little curious, and the smile that pulls at your mouth has a touch of cheekiness in it that you don’t quite bother smoothing over.
“By all means.”
You pass it to him slowly, the brush of your fingers landing in the handoff, and you watch with quiet curiosity as he lifts it to his mouth, the filter catching the light where your gloss has left a faint pink print along it. He pauses just before he draws, gaze flicking up over the line of his fingers to lock with yours, holding it there long enough that the air between you tightens around your ribs.
You lean in then, mouth drifting close to his ear because you tell yourself the corridor is loud, even though neither of you have been struggling to hear each other.
“Is this one of your special occasions, then?”
You linger only a breath longer than you need to before easing back, and the small smirk that curves slow over his mouth has your stomach turning once in a lazy roll.
“I have a feeling you wouldn’t mind if it was, would you?”
His voice is low, casual enough on the surface that it would be easy to miss what’s underneath it if you weren’t already listening for it. He drags a slow inhale from the cigarette, the ember flaring orange in the dim light, and tilts it back toward you between two fingers while exhaling the smoke off to the side of you, lips half-parted, gaze still settled steady on yours.
You raise an eyebrow at him.
He raises one back.
“Come closer, then.”
You take half a step in and tip your face up, but he doesn’t pass the cigarette to your fingers this time. He holds it for you, knuckles brushing the corner of your mouth as you wrap your lips around the filter and draw. Your free hand drifts up the front of his jacket, fingers walking slow over the leather, finding the lapel and curling there a beat before sliding higher to the collar. You tug him down without hurry, just enough that his head dips and his lips part on a quiet exhale that you can feel along your top lip.
You let the smoke leave your mouth in a slow, unhurried push, and he takes it from the gap between your lips in a soft inhale, his chest rising shallow with it, the line of his mouth coming so close to yours that you can feel the heat of him without quite touching. Inches between you. Neither one of you moving to close them.
His free hand finds your hip then, settles there with a quiet weight that’s deliberate in a way that makes your breath catch under your ribs. His eyes search yours for half a beat, something unspoken passing through them, a question low enough that he doesn’t need to voice it for you to feel it land. You tilt your head a fraction in answer, nose brushing slow against his, and the corner of his mouth twitches against the small drag of it.
You slip the cigarette from between his slender fingers, holding it up between you with a small, playful curl of your mouth, and bring it to his lips while trying to not be too aware of how close you’re standing. He smirks, eyes still on yours, and parts his lips around the filter as you hold it for him, the ember catching as he draws. His hand slides from your hip up along the line of your waist in the same breath, fingers spreading wide over your ribs through the thin material of your dress. The sudden firm grasp of it pulls a small gasp out of you before you’ve decided to make a sound, your back arching against the brick on instinct.
He uses it. He bends his face down into the small space your gasp has carved between you and exhales the smoke between your parted lips in a slow, deliberate stream, and you breathe him in without thinking, the heat of his breath, the bitter trace of the cigarette, all of it dragging down into your lungs while his thumb sweeps a slow circle against the side of your ribcage.
You hold the smoke a beat longer than you need to before letting it spill back out, curling pale up between your mouths. You see his gaze drop and stay this time, settling on your parted lips, a look so intense it has your tongue peek out to wet your lower lip.
“You’ve made a real mess of it, by the way.”
His voice has gone quieter, more of a low vibration in his chest than a proper sentence, and his thumb keeps up its slow tracing against the side of your waist, the easy patience of it almost worse than the kiss he isn’t giving you yet. You’re pretty sure that’s where this is going, and you don’t know what made you dizzier. The fact that his hand is on your waist, burning through the fabric, or that you’re close enough to smell his cologne mixed with the cigarette smoke.
You don’t quite follow at first, head still hazed from the smoke and the alcohol and the warmth of him pressed close.
He did it so casually, too. You knew Zayne to be confident in his academics, but didn’t quite expect him to flirt so smoothly. When you offered your cigarette to him, you thought he would either pass or just awkardly draw from it, aiming to indulge you. What you didn’t expect but are currently pleasantly surprised by was his little cocky act of doing shotguns with you.
“Of what?” You breathe against his lips, batting your eyelashes at him.
“Your lipstick.”
Your tongue traces the inside of your lower lip on instinct, and his gaze drops with the movement and snaps back up as if it hadn’t quite given itself permission to wander.
“Have I?”
“Half of it. Pretty thoroughly.”
The way he sets it down has a careful weight to it, an observation laid between you that he’s clearly waiting for you to do something with, and it takes you a beat longer than it should to catch the implication underneath. Smudged. Like someone else has already been at your mouth tonight before him. The slow grin tugs at the corner of yours before you bother to school it.
“And you’ve just been thinking about that this whole time, is that what you’re saying?”
His thumb hasn’t paused along your ribs, the slow circle of it almost distracted in its patience, grounding and indecent at once.
“Hard not to, when it’s right there.”
“Got a theory?” You stare right into his hazel gaze, voice a little defiant in its provocation.
His hand drifts slowly, sliding up the line of your side until his warm palm finds the curve of your throat and settles there, fingers spreading along the side of your jaw with a tenderness that doesn’t quite match the heat behind his eyes.
“A few.” His eyes trace a slow path from your eyes to your mouth and back up.
“Care to share?” you whisper, finger dragging slowly down his chest.
The pad of his thumb drags slow along the corner of your mouth, no accident in the angle, smearing the gloss further across the seam of your lips, and he doesn’t even bother to hide the small curl of satisfaction it pulls into one side of his own.
“Not particularly.”
You let him. You let him work the soft pad of his thumb across the ruined line of your mouth, eyes still tipped up to his, your own smirk tugging slow at the smudge he’s just made worse, and you can feel your heartbeat picking up under your collarbones in a way that’s almost ridiculous, given how little it takes to set it off. You laugh lowly, more of a hum in your chest than a proper sound, and his thumb pauses at the corner of your mouth at the feel of it before resuming, slower now, almost thoughtful.
“It was a shot glass,” you tell him, smiling sweet up at him through your lashes in a way you know is performative and a little unfair. “Disappointing answer, I know.”
His mouth twitches, the not-quite-smirk pulling at the corner.
“Hm. Less interesting than I had it.”
“And what did you have in mind?”
“Someone less careful than I would be.”
That lands low and warm in your stomach in a way the alcohol can’t take credit for, and the air between you thins by another fraction, your chest brushing his with the next breath you take in.
“You think you’d be careful with my mouth, then?” You raise your eyebrows at him, while he only tilts his head to the side.
“When I wanted to be.”
“And when you didn’t?”
His gaze drops to your mouth again and holds there, the smallest curl pulling slow at the corner of his, his thumb still warm at the smudge he made.
“You’d find out.”
You let the silence stretch a beat longer than it needs to, fingers still curled loose at the collar of his jacket, the cigarette burning quietly down between your knuckles, his palm still cradling the side of your face.
“Hm. Then perhaps I can just...”
You don’t wait on him this time. You tilt your face slow out of his hand, the drag of his palm trailing along your jaw as you go, and bring your mouth to the line of his instead, lips parting against the faint catch of stubble as you press a soft kiss just below the corner of his jaw. His exhale stutters audibly through his nose, and you feel the small tightening of his fingers along your jaw before they slip down to settle warm at the side of your throat.
You drag your mouth lower, unhurried, brushing along the line of his jaw and dipping into the soft warm hollow under it, where his pulse is hammering a good deal faster than the rest of his face has bothered to let on.
“Looks like I’m finding a way to smudge it on my own,” you murmur against his skin, the words landing in soft drags of your mouth as you say them. “Hope you don’t mind.”
You feel his hand slip from your throat, his arm winding loose around your waist as it goes, palm trailing the line of your spine in one long, slow stroke before it dips lower still and finds the curve of your ass. There’s no hesitation in the way his hand settles there. He cups you with the same easy certainty he used to find your hip earlier, except this time he uses it to pull you flush against the front of his body in one quiet, deliberate haul. It takes you off guard, the gasp that comes out of you is small and entirely involuntary, breaking soft against the side of his neck where your mouth had been working a kiss in.
You let it land. You let yourself breathe through the sudden warm press of his body against the line of your hips, the heat of him through denim, before you tilt your face up to drag your lips along the shell of his ear.
“Keep that hand right there, Zayne,” your voice has gone smoke-low, almost lazy with it, the dirty curl in it sliding under the playfulness, “and you’re going to ruin a lot more than my lipstick tonight.”
You could care less that you’re surrounded by people, and Zayne doesn’t seem to mind either, so you resume your kisses down his neck. There’s nothing to see, anyway. If anyone glances your way they would only see two drunk college students making out against a wall, in a dirty underground corridor connecting multiple pubs.
He huffs a soft sound through his nose, something close to a laugh but not quite committing, the warm gust of it stirring the hair at your temple. His hand tightens a fraction at the curve of your ass before easing back into a more measured grip, like he’s reminding himself of the line he’s already crossed. His other hand has come up to your face at some point you can’t pinpoint, and you find his palm warm along the side of your throat with his thumb resting at the line of your jaw.
“Is that the alcohol talking?”
The words land close to your temple in that low tone you remember from across a seminar table, except they’re pressed up against the side of your face now and carrying a heat behind them you’ve never heard him use in a classroom. Your hand has its own ideas about the silence, sliding slow up from the lapel of his jacket along the line of his throat, fingertips dragging through the soft warmth at the side of his neck before settling there. You watch the way his throat works in response, the small swallow he doesn’t quite manage to hide.
“Are you blaming my advances on how much I had to drink?” you pull back from his neck, lashes fluttering.
“Shouldn’t I?” His thumb traces your jaw, gaze flicking over the color sitting high in your cheeks like he wants you to know he’s noticed. “You’re flushed all over and clinging to me.”
Your fingers curl at the back of his neck where the hair tapers short as you laugh softly at his words, giving a small tug at the strands there, just enough to angle his face down a fraction lower toward yours. The flicker of surprise that crosses his eyes is gone almost as fast as it shows.
“Don’t girls cling to you without being tipsy, Zayne?” Your gaze drifts lazy up at him through your lashes, slurring your words just enough. “I doubt it.”
You watch as his gaze drops slow over your face, considering what you’re implying. His hand at your throat slides a fraction higher, his palm now cupping the underside of your jaw, and that has your pulse picking up under his fingers. The silence stretches loaded enough that you shift your hips an inch against the front of him just for the warmth of him through your dress, and the corner of his mouth twitches, catching it.
It’s not that you really think girls just throw themselves at Zayne on a daily basis. He is smart, funny, and considerate, yet he doesn’t strike you as the type to just have women at his side. That would be Caleb, with all his positive energy and charisma, a true heartbreaker with women hanging around him all day in hopes of keeping his attention on them.
Zayne is the opposite. Or at least, the Zayne you knew before tonight. Quiet Zayne, who girls occasionally gather enough courage to go up to and ask to hang out under the pretense of studying together. But this Zayne is different. Or maybe it’s just another side of him you didn’t know existed, yet somehow managed to capture your attention and keep it.
You’re intrigued, that’s what this is. Intrigued of just how he’ll behave if you push him just a bit more.
He plucks the cigarette from where it’s burned down between your knuckles between two of his own fingers, gentle about the handoff, and lifts it back up between your faces.
“Finish your cigarette.”
You arch a brow at him, the smile pulling slow at one side of your mouth and a little defiant.
“Finish it for me.”
His mouth twitches deeper this time. He lifts the cigarette to your lips without ceremony, holding it for you the way he did before, and you let him, drawing slow with your eyes still up on his while the ember flares. When you pull back, he brings the filter to his own mouth and pulls the last of it down to almost nothing in one long, easy inhale, the line of his jaw working under the dim corridor light in a way that has heat curling low in your stomach for what feels like the tenth time tonight. He drops the spent end to the floor and grinds it out under the heel of his boot.
You don’t wait for him to take the lead this time. Your right hand that has been rsting on his chest simply moves, fitting along the line of his jaw with a grip that’s firmer than is strictly polite, thumb sliding under his chin to tilt his face down toward yours. The small flicker of surprise that flares behind his eyes is barely a breath long before it folds back into the half-lidded heat that’s been settling there for the last several minutes.
“Won’t you kiss me?” the words curl between your mouths like smoke, soft and tempting.
You don’t bother making it sound like anything other than what it is, just a soft, easy question, your mouth already drifting up toward his on instinct. As you move to close the distance, his hand moves to your face, thumb pressing firm against the soft underside of your chin to keep you a careful half-inch shy of getting there.
It catches you off guard. You’d half-expected him to dip into it the second you angled up. You feel the wall of him before you feel the resistance, but he doesn’t move into your hand and doesn’t move out of it either. He just stays like that, with his head tilted slightly, the little smile playing slow at the corner of his tempting mouth.
“Is that all it takes?”
Your brain runs a beat slower than it should, the smoke and the alcohol and the warm pressure of his palm cupping your ass adding up to something you can’t quite manage at speed, so you blink up at him in something soft and confused before the question lands properly.
“Hm?”
“Batting your eyelashes at a guy and sweet-talking him in order to kiss you breathless?”
The word breathless lands somewhere behind your sternum in a way that doesn’t help the current situation where you can only think about how much you want to close that inch between you. Your lashes do a small, slow drag down his face, entirely accidental this time, and you watch his gaze flick down to catch it. Your fingers shift along his jaw, thumb pressing a little harder under the line of his chin like you’re trying to hold him in place by sheer reminder of who started this.
“They usually fold at that.” you smirk up at him, looking as confident as you can be.
He mirrors your smirk, hazel eyes sparkling in what you guess is amusement and wonder.
“I’m sure they do.” His thumb leaves your chin to trace a slow line along the seam of your bottom lip, dragging the smudge of lipstick a fraction further across your mouth. “But you don’t have to do all that with me.”
You blink up at him properly this time, something almost wary threading through the heat, because that wasn’t quite the response you’d braced for. The hand still cupped firm around your ass tells you he isn’t pulling away. The hand at your face tells you the same. So what he’s actually saying takes a moment to settle.
“All what?”
He leans in, close enough that the warmth of his breath skims along your top lip, close enough that for one suspended second you think you’ve actually won, but his voice when it comes is barely more than a vibration in his chest.
“Beg.”
Your breath stops in your throat. The breathy tone he used, dancing across your mouth while his eyes stare you down, it all makes your thighs tense.
“As much as I’d love to get you begging, I tend to reserve that for activities a little more befitting than kissing.”
That one sentence does something to you that you weren’t prepared for, and your whole body responds before your brain has a chance to catch up. The heat climbs hot up the column of your throat, your thighs press together on instinct against the wall and the front of him, and the laugh that tries to come up at the back of your throat dies somewhere before it makes it to your mouth, because you suddenly have no idea what to say back to that.
You decide, somewhere fast and unspoken, that you don’t necessarily enjoy not knowing what to say.
So you do something with your hands instead.
The fingers curled at the back of his neck tighten down hard, the hand at his jaw drops to fist in the front of his jacket, and you push off the wall behind you with one decisive step that brings him with you, his weight following your pull in a way that suggests he had maybe half a second to brace and chose not to. You spin your bodies slowly until you are the one with facing the wall now, and his back finds the brick where yours had been pressed up against it a heartbeat ago.
He goes easily. He goes so easy you don’t entirely trust it, because the corner of his mouth lifts in something that isn’t a smile so much as an acknowledgement, like he’s noting the move down somewhere for later reference.
You take it anyway. You pin him there with the flat of your palm pressed against the front of his jacket, your other hand sliding from his jaw down to grip the side of his throat with a hold that’s firm and just slightly bossy, your thumb resting against the soft hollow under his ear. His hands settle at your waist, both of them now, his cool palms warm again through your dress. His grip is still rather loose, casual even, no attempt to flip you back, just standing pinned with his hands at your sides like he’s letting you have this and intends to enjoy every second of it.
You let go of his jacket to slide your hand down and curl your fingers along the dip of his waist, gripping there. You pull his hips snug against yours in one slow controlled drag, while you slide your hand back up from his throat to cup the side of his jaw, fingers fitting along the line of bone there with a hold that is firm and unmistakably for-keeping, tilting his face down toward yours another small fraction.
He lets the silence sit for a few beats. Lets it work on you. His thumb has started a slow, lazy drag along the dip of your waist again, like he is in no particular hurry about anything despite the position he’s currently in.
“Besides,” he tilts his head a fraction lower, mouth grazing along the line of your cheekbone now, the brush of his stubble pulling another small involuntary shiver through you, “you’re beautiful even when you’re sexually frustrated.”
Your breath catches audibly. You can’t help it. The grip you have along his jaw tightens, your fingertips pressing into the soft skin at the side of his face hard enough to leave a faint imprint, the other hand sliding up his waist to fist loose at the side of his jacket and drag him in another small fraction.
You hold his gaze. You don’t bat your lashes like before, you only lift your lashes very slowly from his mouth to his piercing eyes, licking your lips. Every sensual second of it pointed straight up at him with no question left about what it’s asking for.
“Kiss me, Zayne.”
He leans down to kiss your cheek instead, the brush of his mouth too soft to count, the smirk you can feel against your skin doing the rest of the work. You catch the faint warmth of his breath before he pulls back just enough to watch you suffer through it.
“You’re just teasing me at this point!” The huff comes out half laugh, half complaint, and your body betrays you anyway, leaning harder into the line of him, hips finding the firm shape of his thigh through his jeans. You grind once, slow, mostly to see what he does with it.
What he does is press his thigh up a fraction to meet you, casual as anything, like he hasn’t just made your dress ride higher up the back of your leg. His free hand settles on your waist, thumb pushing under the hem to find bare skin, and you forget, for a second, that you’re standing in a corridor at all.
“You asked me to kiss you,” he murmurs, low enough that you have to tilt your face up to catch it, and there’s a quiet laugh threaded through it that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
You blink up at him, lashes heavy, mouth parted around the obvious answer he’s pretending he didn’t hear. The little crease at the corner of his eye gives him away. He’s enjoying this. He’s enjoying you, scrambling.
“Obviously I meant my lips.” You jab a finger lightly into his chest, the gesture losing all its bite when your palm just stays there, flat against the warmth of his shirt, feeling the slow steady thump of his heart under it.
He glances down at your hand. Then back up at you. The smirk pulls a fraction higher on one side, like he’s clocked the way your fingers have curled into the fabric without permission, and he is going to make you live with the evidence of it.
“Should have been more specific.” It comes out almost lazy, dropped right against the bridge of your nose, and you have approximately half a second to register the unfairness of it before he moves.
He smirks and leans down, rotating you so your back is against the wall again, brick cool through the thin fabric of your dress. His mouth brushes yours, a graze, barely a promise, and his hands come up to cup your face, tilting it the way he wants it with that easy confidence that should not be legal on a college campus.
You close your eyes. You wait for it. You actually part your lips for it. And then his mouth slides down past yours, jaw to throat, lips closing soft and sucking against the skin under your ear.
“Why don’t you—oh fuck…mmm.” Your voice flatlines mid-sentence, the rest of whatever clever thing you were going to say abandoned somewhere you don’t care about. The frustration that had been building under your skin tips, slides, becomes something heavier and lower and a lot less articulate. Your fingers, still flat against his chest, curl until you’re holding fistfuls of his shirt.
That has your arms wrapping around his neck, palm sliding up into the back of his hair where it’s soft and a little damp from the heat of the place. One of his hands leaves your jaw and finds your ass through your dress, gripping firm enough that you feel it in your teeth, pulling you flush against him. He moves slow over your throat, mouth open, sucking kisses in a careful line like he’s mapping for something specific. When he finds it, just under the angle of your jaw, you make a sound straight into his ear that you would not have made sober. He hums against your skin, satisfied, and stays there to suck more marks.
The corridor is loud. There’s music thumping muffled through the wall behind you, somebody shouting somebody else’s name from the bar end, the wet smack of a bottle going over and a chorus of laughter rolling after it. You hear all of it from somewhere far away. The actual noise in your head is the rush behind your ears and the soft, obscene sounds his mouth is making at your throat, and the way your body keeps trying to climb him by half-inches.
You’re thinking about his dorm. You don’t even know if his dorm is empty right now, or if another one of his roommates is there right now. You’re thinking about it anyway, in the vague, drunk way of somewhere with a door that closes, and you’re imagining how fast you could get there if he picked you up off this wall right now and asked.
“Babe?”
Simone’s voice cuts through it like somebody pulling a needle off a record. You feel Zayne smile against your throat before he lifts his head slowly, taking his sweet time about it. His thumb strokes once over the line of your jaw before his hand drops.
You turn your head against the brick. Simone is two steps out of the pub door, one hand braced on the frame to keep herself vertical, the other holding what looks like somebody else’s drink, because she’s not the type to drink that questionable-looking liquid. Her eyes have done the math on Zayne’s mouth and your throat and the gap that is approximately nonexistent between your bodies, and instead of saying anything about it she just goes wide-eyed and breaks into a slow, delighted giggle behind her hand.
“Oh my god,” she shouts-whispers, which is louder than her speaking voice, “okay, okay, I didn’t see anything! I’m looking for Tara. Have you seen Tara? Hi, Zayne.”
“Hi, Simone,” Zayne says, perfectly even, like his hand isn’t still resting on the back of your thigh.
You open your mouth to answer her and don’t get the chance, because that’s when Tara rounds the corner from the bar with Caleb half-draped across her shoulders and a small herd of people you only half-recognise from someone’s seminar trailing in their wake. Tara takes one look at you against the wall, one look at Zayne, one look at Simone giggling into her own wrist, and her face does something complicated and triumphant that you’re going to have to answer for tomorrow.
“Round two!” Caleb announces to the entire corridor, lifting an arm. “Music’s fucking unreal in there, we’re going back in. Li. Bring your girl.”
Your girl. You feel that one land somewhere under your ribs. Zayne’s thumb does a small, deliberate stroke against the back of your thigh where nobody can see it, and you don’t trust your face at all.
“We’re good,” Zayne says easily, already pushing off the wall enough to give you space without giving you up. “You guys go.”
“Booo. Boring.” Caleb grins at him with no real heat. “Suit yourself, man. Text me.”
Tara’s eyes flick from Zayne to you and back, and she doesn’t say a single thing, which from Tara is loud. She just hooks her arm tighter around Caleb’s waist and lets the herd pull them toward the door, Simone falling in beside her with one last giggly look thrown over her shoulder.
The door swallows them. The bass kicks back up muffled. You’re aware, suddenly and very clearly, that you are still flushed from your collarbones up, that your dress is twisted slightly at the hip, that you can feel the wet print of his mouth cooling under your jaw, and that your head has started doing the slow soft pitch that means another drink would absolutely be a bad idea.
You should go in with them. The smarter version of you, the one who isn’t several drinks deep with her thighs still pressed together against a brick wall, knows that. The version of you currently operating is mostly running on the question of whether Zayne is going to put his hand back on your face or not.
He doesn’t. He steps in close again, but only to lean down to your ear, one hand braced on the wall above your shoulder, and his mouth ghosts over the same spot under your jaw that he claimed two minutes ago.
“If I kiss you properly right now,” his voice has gone quiet enough to be just for you, “you’re not making it home alone. So.” he pauses slightly, the barest scrape of his teeth against your skin. “Be specific next time, hm?”
He kisses your cheek. The same chaste, smirking press as before, in exactly the same place, and you feel it like a verdict.
When he pulls back his eyes are doing that mild thing again, the one that doesn’t commit to anything, except now you know better. He pushes off the wall, fishes his phone out of his back pocket, fires off something quick that you assume is the promised text to Caleb, and tilts his head toward the stairs at the corridor’s end.
You follow him with your throat still buzzing and your head full of all the versions of tonight that just got taken off the table, and you are absolutely going to think about the one where you’d been more specific the entire way home.
(credits for the Art go to Raoni - @/raonnni on X)
.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!
content: fluff and comfort, soft yearning, kissing, suggestive if you squint?, lighthearted, established relationship, unedited
a/n: i just think zayne deserves a quiet life where he can be the little spoon ♡ coming back to writing after so long is scary but hi ♡
wc: 1.1k
It’s 11:01, the harsh blue glow of his computer screen illuminates his office, and Zayne is thinking of the comfort of home.
Not the physical structure - all concrete and glass, hard walls enclosed around structured spaces that begged for routine, but the warmth that often resided within.
You, curled up on the couch, book in hand and eyes slowly skimming through the words. You, perched on the counter top, sipping a sweet latte and sighing contently. You, watering the plants on his windowsill and whispering little words of encouragement. You, a warm sun that cast light into every room you stepped into, leaving the space a little darker, colder when you left.
It’s 11:05, as Zayne stares at the remnants of a hazelnut latte sitting on the corner of his desk - delivered to him by you several hours earlier. A drawing of a little snowman poking its head over the sleeve of the cup. A small dose of warmth in an otherwise blurry day. He missed you. Not that you hadn’t seen each other, but this was different. Rushed, fleeting moments existed — small, sweet treats that left behind a craving. Truthfully, he didn’t think he could ever be fully satisfied, not when the treat was gone but the sweetness still lingered on his tongue.
It’s 11:15, and the soft ping of his phone is notifying him of messages from you with hidden notes tucked tenderly between the letters.
- ping
Have you eaten yet? (I miss you, take care of yourself)
- ping
Let me know when you’re on your way! (I care about you, please come back safely)
He had grown accustomed to these secret words and meanings interwoven into the space that was you and him. With each message, his heart ached a bit more.
It’s 11:27, and the lights of Zayne’s office are off. A cup with a snowman drawing is gently placed in a waste bin. His bag and coat are missing from the coat rack by the door and he’s driving to his home.
It’s interesting how home can be anything. Home can be a house, the things gathered to create a space that belongs to the person living there. It can be a family or a person, the people who hold the hearts of their loved ones close. How odd that Zayne never thought of home before you.
Seeing you silhouetted in the ambient light, his cardigan draped on your figure - too big in the shoulders, too long for your frame - the smell of mint tea hanging in the air — this is what it meant to be home. His heart swelled as you turned, that bright smile welcoming him home.
“I see someone has found a sweater to their liking.”
“Yep,” you quipped, hugging the cardigan closer to your body. “I think it likes me more than its current owner. It wants to live with its friends back in my closet.”
Zayne smiled slightly, stepping into the warm kitchen as you placed two mugs on the counter. “Is that so? Well, I suppose I shouldn’t keep it from its true desire.”
His arms circled around your waist, pulling you back securely against him. He tucked his head into the crook of your neck - settling into the warmth and pressing one soft kiss onto the collarbone peeking out from the collar of the cardigan. A contented sigh leaving your lips as you leaned into him, cupping the warm mug in your hands.
“Thank you for this,” he murmured, attempting to stitch every unspoken feeling along those four words. ‘Can we stay like this a little longer?’ ‘I want to be with you - always.’ ‘You’re home to me.’ You had a way of weaving these declarations tenderly into your actions and words. Zayne hoped, by closing his eyes, by holding you closer, these unsaid words would flow to you.
Gently, you turned in his arm to face him, one hand still clasped around your mug. You gazed up at him, placing your other hand on his chest, feeling the warmth there. “I’m glad you’re home,” you whispered. No hidden meanings - stated so honestly as you smiled.
Zayne took the mug from your hand, setting it on the counter behind you, and dropped his forehead to yours. “If I can be a bit…selfish,” he breathed, ghosting his lips over yours. “There’s one more thing I would ask for.” His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and guided your lips to his. Slowly, his lips moved against yours. His hands, cool on your warm face, moved down your shoulders, dipping underneath the oversized cardigan and caressing your waist. Each movement intentional, as if his fingers had memorized the curve of your body - the feeling of you under his hands grounding him.
Again, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing slowly as he released the kiss. His eyes locked on yours, dazed, as his hands tightly held your waist. Words were no longer needed, every movement proclaiming every feeling Zayne had tried to contain. He leaned down to grasp your waist, lifting you onto the counter.
“Oh-”, you mumbled as you felt the cup behind you. “Your tea!”
“Tea,” he said, pressing another kiss to your jaw, “can wait. Right now - I just need you.” His voice was soft as he slowly trailed his lips up your jawline, punctuating each sentence with a light kiss.
Zayne was always so patient, quiet in a collected way. Need was a new word - and your heart ached as his hands pressed in your lower back. Your arms found their way up around his neck, running your fingers up and through his hair. “I’m here,” you whispered, pressing light kisses up his jawline to the shell of his ear. “You have me.”
Zayne took a deep, controlled breath as he ran his hands up your spine, fingers tracing the arch of your back. “I like it when you’re here,” he murmured. His lips found yours again, savoring the way they melded together — relishing in the small sounds you made as he deepened the kiss and held you as though you were keeping him afloat.
He hesitated again, his eyes still closed and hands still pressed against your back. “It would be even better, if you were here all the time.” He chanced a look at you then, barely opening his eyes.
And you were smiling at him, pulling him closer still and cupping his face in your hands. “Is this your subtle way of asking if I would like to move in?” Your lips, still pink from the previous kisses, pressed one small kiss to the tip of his nose - an unspoken answer of ‘I want to be with you all the time too.’
Zayne looked down, the corners of his mouth slightly turning up. “How else will I retrieve all my missing sweaters?” He hooked his hands under your thighs, lifting you off the counter. “I think I’ll start with this one.”
Your warm laughter filled the air as he carried you to his room, the mint teas left to cool on the counter.
MYTHBLOSSOMS 2026 please do not edit, copy, steal, translate my works. do not feed my works to ai or chatbots. all dividers or banners are made by me unless directly specified, please do not steal.
