Think I Need Someone Older: Younger!Zayne X Older!MC Commission
Synopsis: Med Student Zayne has always been in love with his older childhood friend. But watching her put herself in danger the Hunters Association weighs too much on him. He has to confess. But can she see him as anything other than her little shadow?
Warnings: Age-Gap (Zayne is in his 20’s, Reader is near 30/is 30), Pining, Description of wounds, smut, cowgirl, doggy, oral(f), anal briefly, pathetic Zayne, Sub!Zayne, Female Dom!reader, use of ‘Big Sis’ once or twice, angst, bittersweet ending.
A/n: Pathetic Zayne has my heart omg. This lovely commission was requested by @joel-enjoyer !
A dimly lit medical student dorm room surrounds the young medical student, textbooks and notes scattered across the desk. The glow of a laptop screen illuminates Zayne’s tired but focused expression as he watches a live broadcast of Hunter battles. Specifically, footage of you in action. The camera catches a particularly brutal takedown, and he scoffs, fingers tightening around his pen.
"Still reckless as ever, I see." He leans back in his chair, rubbing his temples before unmuting the video to hear the commentator’s analysis of your technique.
A faint smirk tugs at his lips, some things never change. His phone buzzes with a notification: a message from you, sent minutes ago.
His thumb hovers over the screen before typing back, dry as ever.
"Only when you’re not giving me premature gray hairs on live television."
Your sparkly pink chat bubble pops up seconds later. “Hey, gray hairs aren’t that bad😜.”
Zayne scoffs into his cup of tea as he replies. "...But yes. Obviously."
He clicks send, then immediately regrets it, tossing his phone onto the bed like it burned him.
The morning air the next day is crisp as Zayne steps out of his apartment building, dark circles under his eyes betraying his all-nighter.
His bike leans against the railing, but before he can grab it, the familiar purr of an engine catches his attention. His gaze snaps to the sleek black car idling at the curb. Your car.
The window rolls down, revealing you behind the wheel, sunglasses perched on your nose, a smirk already in place.
"Hop in, kid. You look like you’re two seconds from face-planting into the pavement."
Zayne blinks, momentarily thrown off guard. He adjusts the strap of his bookbag, hesitating, pride warring with exhaustion. Finally, he sighs and walks toward the car.
"I had a plan. A schedule. Bike. Coffee. Lecture hall."
He yanks the passenger door open and slumps into the seat, dropping his bag at his feet with a thud. His head lolls back against the headrest, eyes closing briefly before he side-eyes you.
"Did you park here just to ruin my routine?"
You grin, shifting the car into gear.
"Nah. Just figured you’d need a ride after staying up all night watching me work."
His cheeks flush, he’s been caught. He turns his face toward the window, feigning sudden interest in the sidewalk.
You laugh, and he pretends not to notice the way his chest tightens at the sound.
Zayne had spent years watching you, studying you, with the same intensity he applied to medicine. At 21, he was already performing surgeries most residents couldn’t handle, his name whispered in hospital halls with reverence.
But none of that mattered when you were around.
You, who’d been his elder by nearly a decade, who’d ruffled his hair when he was still a gangly teenager trailing after you with stars in his eyes.
You, who never seemed to notice how his gaze lingered a second too long whenever you laughed, or how his fingers twitched to reach for you whenever you were close enough to touch.
He’d tried, once, to move on. A pretty classmate had asked him out, some brilliant neurosurgery resident with a sharp mind and sharper smile. He’d said yes out of politeness, then spent the entire date comparing her to you. The way she held her fork wasn’t right. Her voice was too high. She didn’t have that faint scar above your eyebrow from a fight years ago, the one he’d secretly stitched up for you in his dorm room, hands trembling not from nerves but from how close you were.
After that, he stopped pretending. He buried himself in work, in textbooks, in the cold sterility of the OR. He did anything to keep from dwelling on the way his pulse spiked when your name flashed on his phone. But late at night, when exhaustion dragged at his bones, he’d let himself imagine it. Your calloused fingers running through his hair, your voice gasping his name like it meant something more.
Foolish. Impossible. And yet—
Now, slumped in your passenger seat with sleep-heavy limbs, he steals a glance at your profile. The morning light catches the curve of your jaw, the smile lines forming around your mouth. His chest aches. He’d take a thousand sleepless nights over forgetting the way you looked in this light.
You sigh dramatically and make a sharp turn onto the wrong street, the car jerking slightly as you cut across lanes. Zayne groans, pushing himself upright in the passenger seat with bleary-eyed irritation. His hair is slightly mussed from where he'd been resting against the window, and he squints at the unfamiliar buildings passing by.
"You took the wrong turn," he mutters, rubbing at his eyes before pointing ahead. "The hospital is northeast. This is leading us toward the industrial district."
You drum your fingers on the steering wheel, feigning ignorance.
"Maybe I wanted the scenic route."
He shoots you a deadpan look, unimpressed.
"The scenic route past the sewage treatment plant?"
"Hey, you never know. Might be educational."
He leans forward, tapping the GPS on the dashboard.
"Just—let me reroute us before you accidentally drive us into a ditch."
You chuckle but let him take over, watching as he inputs the directions with quick, precise movements. His brow furrows in concentration, always so serious, even about something as small as this. You can’t help but tease.
"Still a control freak, huh?"
He doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
"And you’re still terrible with directions. Some things never change."
The fondness in his voice is unmistakable.
You bring the car to a smooth stop, but instead of pulling into the school parking lot, you turn into the small bakery on the corner instead. Zayne gives you a puzzled look, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as he glances out the window. The soft, golden light of the bakery beckons, the familiar scent of freshly baked bread wafting through the air.
"Seriously? I need to get to a lecture, not stuff myself with carbs."
You flash him a grin, already unbuckling your seatbelt and grabbing your purse before he can protest further. The playful glint in your eyes tells him arguing is pointless, you’ve already made up your mind.
Zayne hesitates for a second, torn between responsibility and the undeniable pull of your insistence. His fingers twitch toward the door handle before he finally gives in.
"...You’re a terrible influence."
But he’s already stepping out of the car, adjusting his bag over his shoulder as he follows you toward the bakery. The morning sun catches the dusting of flour in the air as you push open the door, the bell jingling overhead.
The elderly owner, Mrs. Choi, looks up from behind the counter and beams at the sight of you both.
"Ah! My favorite troublemakers!"
Zayne opens his mouth to correct her. He is NOT a troublemaker, but you’re already leaning against the counter, pointing at the display case.
"Two of the usual. And throw in an extra cinnamon roll for the grumpy one."
He watches as Mrs. Choi packs the pastries into a paper bag, her knowing smile making his ears warm. When she hands it over, he mutters a quiet ‘thank you’, but you’re already nudging him toward a small table by the window.
He sits, reluctantly at first, until the first bite of the cinnamon roll melts on his tongue. His shoulders relax and you hide a smirk behind your coffee cup.
But Zayne was tired. Tired of you seeing him as just a friend. As someone you wanted to mentor. He wanted, no NEEDED you to see him as a man.
As you tease him about his “sweet tooth” and argue over the merits of coffee over tea, Zayne finds himself struggling to focus on the conversation. He’s tired. Not just physically, but deep in his soul. He’s tired of being the boy who you patted on the head and ruffled his hair with affection. He wants more.
He wants you to see him as someone other than your protegé or your “little buddy”. He wants you to look at him the way he looks at you. With longing, not just fondness.
His fingers tighten around the pastry bag, crumpling the paper slightly as he stares down at the half-eaten cinnamon roll. The warmth of the bakery, the familiar chatter, none of it eases the ache in his chest. He’s spent years swallowing down words that burned his throat, forcing smiles when all he wanted was to—
To what? Grab you by the collar and kiss you until you forgot every other man’s name? Beg you to stop treating him like a child?
Instead, he sets the bag down with a calm swallow of the mouthful of pastry. He meets your eyes across the table.
"You know I’m not that kid anymore, right?"
The words hang between you, heavy. A challenge. A plea.
Your eyes dart over to him as you take a sip of your coffee. “Zayne, you are always-“
He cuts you off immediately.
"No. I’m not always going to be that kid, following you around and hanging onto every word like some lost puppy."
He runs a hand through his hair, trying to gather his words before he slips up and sounds stupid.
"I’m twenty-one. I have a medical degree, for God's sake. I’ve spent years watching you walk into danger, not even bothering to take care of yourself.”
His fingers curl into fists on the tabletop, knuckles whitening. The scent of cinnamon and coffee suddenly feels suffocating. He leans forward.
"And yet you still look at me like I'm the same scrawny kid who needed you to patch up his scraped knees."
The bakery bell chimes as someone enters, but neither of you glance away.
"I don't want your protection anymore. I want—"
He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. The unspoken words hang between you.
The air between you crackles with tension, thick and heavy like the scent of sugar and espresso. His hazel eyes, usually so composed, so clinical, burn with an intensity that makes your breath catch. The way he’s looking at you now isn’t the gaze of a boy. It’s the stare of a man who’s done waiting.
You open your mouth to speak, but he beats you to it.
His hand twitches toward yours on the table, stopping just short of contact. The ghost of his touch lingers in the space between your fingers, charged with everything he’s never dared say aloud.
And for the first time, you don’t see your little Zayne anymore.
But you feel the pit in your stomach settle. You lived…a rough life. You’d seen things that you never wanted to subject Zayne to. Even though you lived more than comfortably now, with your own home and cars and more items than you knew what to do with- you weren’t good for him romantically.
Your fingers tighten around your coffee cup, the warmth seeping into your skin as you force yourself to meet his gaze. The ache in your chest is familiar. The same one that always flares up when you think about dragging someone like him into the shadows of your past.
"You deserve better," you say quietly, your voice steady despite the storm inside you. "Someone who doesn’t come with baggage, with scars that never really healed."
"Don’t dare decide what I deserve," he snaps, his voice low but fierce. "I’ve spent years watching you throw yourself into danger, thinking you had to carry everything alone. But you don’t. Not anymore."
His hand finally bridges the gap, his fingers brushing against yours. Warm, solid and real.
"Let me in," he whispers. "For once in your life, stop running."
The words hit you like a physical blow. Because he’s right. You’ve always ran. From attachment, from vulnerability, from the terrifying possibility of letting someone see the broken parts of you.
But you can’t. You won’t. You pull your hand away and wipe the stain on your upper lip left by the coffee. “I’m sorry. I can’t-I won’t-“
"You can. You just won’t."
The frustration is clear in his voice. Not anger, not disappointment, but the raw pain of knowing you’re still just out of reach.
"Damn it, why are you so stubborn?" he mutters, running a hand through his hair. "You can face down monsters without batting an eye, but the thought of letting someone care about you is what scares you?"
He pushes back in his chair, leaning forward on his forearms, his gaze locked with yours.
"You think I’m blind? I see how you flinch when someone touches you unexpectedly. I see the way you watch doors and windows like you’re expecting an attack. I see the nightmares you try to hide. But you never let anyone close enough to help."
The tension in his shoulders softens, replaced by a weary kind of sadness. He drags a hand down his face, the exhaustion of it all. Years of watching from afar, wanting more, but knowing you'll never allow it.
"I just want to help," he whispers. "Let me in.”
You shake your head, your jaw clenching stubbornly. The thought of opening up, of unraveling the tangled web of your past, is too overwhelming. You reach for your purse, pulling it onto your lap as if it could shield you from the intensity in his gaze.
"You wouldn't understand," you murmur, the words bitter on your tongue. "You've always had it easy, Zayne. A cozy home, a stable family, friends who care about you. You don't know what it's like to carry a lifetime of darkness."
Zayne doesn't flinch at your words, but the muscle in his jaw flexes tightly.
"You're right. I've never lived your life. I've never had to fight for survival. I've never been hunted. But don't mistake that for weakness, or ignorance."
His hand clenches into a fist on the tabletop.
"I may not have scars like yours, but I'm not some naive kid to be coddled and protected. I'm a doctor. I've seen pain. I've seen people at their most vulnerable, their most broken. And I still choose you, knowing the scars you carry. Knowing the darkness that lives inside you."
It’s like talking to a wall at this point. But he’d drag the pickax into the wall again and again to drag you out.
"Don't push me away out of some misguided sense of protection. I'm asking you to let me see you. Not the tough, distant persona you show the world, but the person underneath. The one who's trying so hard not to need anyone."
You push back your chair abruptly, the legs scraping against the bakery floor with a sharp sound. The weight of his words presses down on you, suffocating. Too much, too close. You can't do this. Not here.
Without meeting his eyes, you sling your purse over your shoulder and fish out your car keys, jingling them pointedly.
"Come on," you say, your voice carefully neutral. "I'll drop you off at campus."
It's a dismissal. A retreat. An escape.
Zayne doesn't move at first, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he stands. He doesn't argue. Doesn't push. But the look he gives you as he follows you out the door says everything. He’s not giving up. Not really.
The silence between you is heavy as you both step back into the morning light, the unspoken words lingering like ghosts in the space between you.
The car ride to campus is eerily silent, the quiet hum of the engine not nearly enough to fill the void between you. You glance briefly at Zayne, his face turned toward the window, his gaze lost somewhere far away.
His fingers tap a rhythmless beat on the car door, the only sign of how much he's struggling to keep his emotions in check.
You pull into an empty space near the campus steps and put the car in park. The air still feels tense, like one wrong word will shatter whatever fragile truce this is.
His fingers pause their restless tapping as he stares at the university buildings ahead - the place where he's supposed to be focusing on lectures and labs, not wrestling with this impossible ache in his chest. When he finally turns to you, his expression isn’t calm and collected like normal.
It’s vulnerable and cracked.
"Thanks for the ride," he says, voice flat. His hand hesitates on the door handle. "I'll...see you around."
It's not a question. Not a promise. Just words filling the silence before he steps out into the morning sunlight, his bookbag slung over one shoulder. He doesn't look back as he walks toward the lecture hall, his posture rigid with the effort of not turning around.
You watch him go, your fingers tightening around the steering wheel until your knuckles bleach white. The engine idles.
The clock ticks. Somewhere deep down, you know this is the moment where everything changes.
But you don't call after him. You just drive away.
Three weeks pass in silence. No texts. No calls. Zayne throws himself into his studies with grim determination. Early mornings in the lab, late nights reviewing charts, anything to keep his mind from circling back to you.
Then, one night, as he’s reviewing surgical procedures at his cramped kitchen table, a sound cuts through the quiet. Knocking. Not the polite tap of a neighbor, but something heavier, uneven.
Copper-sharp and thick in the air.
His body moves before his mind catches up, the chair screeching back as he crosses the apartment in three strides. When he yanks the door open, the sight steals his breath.
Slumped against the doorframe, one hand pressed to your side where dark red seeps between your fingers. Your face is pale, sweat-slicked, but your eyes. God, your eyes are the same as always. Defiant. Alive.
"Didn’t know where else to go," you grit out, swaying slightly.
Zayne doesn’t hesitate. His hands are on you in an instant, pulling you inside, already reaching for his medical kit. "You’re an idiot," he snaps, but the tremor in his voice betrays him.
You laugh weakly, wincing as he guides you to the couch. "Missed you too, kid."
His jaw clenches. He’s not a kid. Not anymore.
But right now, none of that matters.
All that matters is keeping you alive.
Your fingers dig into the couch cushions as Zayne peels up the blood-soaked fabric of your uniform. His hands are steady, but his breath hitches when he sees the wound. A deep, jagged gash just below your ribs, still sluggishly weeping crimson.
"What happened?" he demands, voice low and rough. His fingers hover just above your skin, assessing, already mapping out the steps to close it.
You hiss through your teeth as he applies pressure. "Got sloppy," you mutter, jaw tight. "Took on a mission that was... heavier than expected."
"You could have died," he snaps. "You—" He cuts himself off, swallowing hard before reaching for his suture kit.
The silence between you is heavy, broken only by your sharp inhales as the needle pierces skin.
The real question dangled unspoken. Why me? After weeks of silence, why now?
You don't answer right away. Instead, your hand finds his wrist, just a brief squeeze, your fingers tacky with blood.
"Didn't want to die without seeing you again," you admit, voice raw.
Zayne's hands still. His breath stops.
And then he works faster.
The needle moves with practiced precision, each stitch pulled taut with a surgeon's expertise. But his hands betray him.
"You don't get to say shit like that," he bites out, voice thick. "Not after disappearing. Not after—"
The words lodge in his throat. ‘Not after making me think I lost you before I ever had you.’
The wound is ugly, but clean. He dresses it methodically, fingers brushing your skin lighter than necessary when he tapes the gauze in place. When he finally sits back, his glasses are askew, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms smeared with your blood.
"You're staying tonight," he says. It's not a request.
You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off with a glare.
Zayne strides to his small kitchen, humming with residual adrenaline. He yanks open the cabinet door a little harder than necessary, the wood rattling against its hinges. His fingers close around the neck of an expensive bottle. The amber liquid catching the dim light.
The one you gave him last year for his birthday, still unopened. He remembers your smirk when you handed it to him: "For when you finally stop being a workaholic."
Now, he cracks the seal without ceremony, pouring the liquid into a glass with a heavy hand. The liquor sloshes violently, nearly spilling over the rim as he thrusts it toward you where you're propped up on his couch.
"Drink," he orders, voice rough. "It'll help with the pain."
But the way his fingers linger against yours when you take the glass says it's not just about the pain. It's about the way his hands shook stitching you up. About the weeks of silence. About the fact that you showed up bleeding on his doorstep instead of anywhere else.
He pours his own glass, knocks it back in one swallow, and finally meets your eyes.
"Start talking," he says. "No more bullshit."
The whiskey burns going down, but it’s nothing compared to the fire in Zayne’s gaze as he waits. You swirl the liquor in your glass, watching the way the light catches the amber depths, buying yourself a few precious seconds before answering.
"There’s a bounty on my head," you admit. "Old enemies. Thought I’d buried them years ago, but…"
You gesture vaguely to your bandaged side, lips twisting into a humorless smirk.
"Turns out grudges don’t die easy."
Zayne could wring your neck at this very moment.
"And you were just going to handle it alone?"
There’s no hiding the accusation in his tone, the hurt simmering beneath the anger. You meet his eyes, and for once, you don’t deflect. Don’t joke. Just hold it, steady, as you answer.
"I didn’t want you involved."
He scoffs, shaking his head before pouring himself another drink. This time, he doesn’t down it, just stares into the glass like it holds answers.
"Too late for that," he huffs. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, until he finally looks up at you again. “You don’t get to decide what risks I take. Not anymore."
His voice is quiet, but the resolve in it is unshakable. You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off with a sharp glance.
"Either let me in, or walk out that door right now. But don’t you dare come back halfway."
For the first time in years, you feel the walls around you quiver, not from blood loss, but from something else.
You take the alcohol from him and pour another glass. “Fighting Wanderers is the main stuff. It’s flashy for T.V. But the Unicorn operatives have enemies. Outside of those fuckin’ mon-hng fuck!” You curse under your breath at the pain in your side.
Zayne’s face flushes at the noise you make. It’s in pain, he knows that. But it makes his stupid Batman pajama pants grow just a bit tighter.
Zayne's grip tightens around his glass, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to focus on your words. Not the way you bite back another pained noise, not the way your fingers dig into the couch cushions, and definitely not the way his traitorous body reacts to the sound of your voice rough with pain.
He adjusts his posture, grateful for the counter hiding his lower half. "You mean there's more than just Wanderers out there?"
You smirk despite yourself, taking another sip of whiskey before answering.
"Oh, sweetheart," you drawl, the old nickname slipping out before you can stop it. "The shit they don’t show on TV would keep you up at night."
Zayne’s flush deepens, equal parts irritation and something hotter. He grits his teeth.
You sigh, leaning back carefully against the cushions, your expression sobering.
"Fine. Yeah, there are enemies—human ones. The kind who don’t fight fair. The kind who don’t care if you’re a doctor or a civilian." Your gaze flicks to his, deadly serious. "The kind who would use you to get to me."
Zayne goes very still. Then, slowly, he sets his glass down and leans forward, elbows on the kitchen counter.
"Then teach me how to fight them," he says, voice low. "Not just Wanderers. Them."
You blink, caught off guard. "Zayne—"
"No." His eyes burn with determination. "You don’t get to protect me by pushing me away. Not when I can help."
Because you’re still you, you smirk.
"Those Batman pajamas really selling the ‘intimidating warrior’ vibe, kid."
You laugh, then immediately regret it when your side protests. Fuck it, he’s not a kid anymore…right?
The Hunters Association gym is a sleek, high-tech monstrosity—state-of-the-art training mats, holographic combat simulations, and enough weapon racks to outfit a small army. It’s empty at this hour, the only sound the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional beep of machinery.
You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching as Zayne rolls his shoulders, his borrowed training gear completely different from his usual crisp dress shirts. He looks out of place here—too polished, too clean—but his expression is set with stubborn determination.
"Alright, Snowflake," you tease, pushing off the wall. "Lesson one: how to not get your ass handed to you in an alley."
Zayne scowls at the nickname but squares up, mirroring your stance.
You start simple—footwork first. "Balance is everything. If you’re flat-footed, you’re dead." You demonstrate, light on your toes, shifting weight effortlessly. Zayne mimics you, his movements precise but stiff.
"Relax," you huff, stepping closer. Without thinking, you press a hand to his chest, nudging him into proper alignment. The second your palm makes contact, you freeze.
Beneath your fingers, his heartbeat is rapid. Steady, but fast.
Zayne’s breath catches in his throat.
You jerk your hand back like you’ve been burned. "Uh—right. So. Pivoting."
This is going to be a long session.
The next few hours are a blur of drills. Basic strikes, how to break a hold, where to hit to maximize damage with minimal effort.
Zayne is a quick study, his medical knowledge giving him an eerie precision when it comes to targeting pressure points. But every time you correct his form, your hands on his shoulders, your voice low in his ear, you feel the room grow that much hotter.
By the third hour, sweat drips down his temple, his borrowed shirt clinging to his torso. You try not to stare. Try.
"Alright," you say, stepping back and clapping your hands. "Let’s see if you can actually use any of this."
You toss him a training knife, blunt and weighted and take up a defensive stance. Zayne hesitates, the weapon unfamiliar in his grip.
"Nope." You grin, all teeth. "Come at me."
It’s clumsy at first, but he’s smart, adapting fast. When he feints left, you almost fall for it. Almost. At the last second, you twist, catching his wrist and using his momentum to flip him onto the mat. He lands with a grunt, the knife skidding away.
You loom over him, smirk in place. "Dead."
Zayne glares up at you, chest heaving. Then, in a move you don’t expect, he hooks a foot behind your knee and yanks.
You hit the mat beside him with a startled curse. Before you can recover, he’s on you, one knee beside your hip, his hand pinning your wrist above your head.
His breath is ragged. His eyes are wild.
"Not dead," he pants. "Just getting started."
Your pulse thunders in your ears. His grip on your wrist tightens. He’s leaning down, his heart pounding inside of his ribcage. You watch it like it’s in slow motion. You don’t turn your head, you don’t make the move to roll away.
You both freeze as another Hunter strolls in, whistling. Zayne jerks back scrambling to his feet. You stay sprawled on the mat, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.
Yeah. This was a terrible idea.
Two weeks later, the gym feels like a distant memory. Zayne slides a piece of paper across your kitchen counter, the bright paper stark against the worn butcher block.
It bears the official letterhead of Akso Hospital, his name at the top. "Head Cardiothoracic Surgeon." You skim the paragraph, your expression carefully blank as you take in the offer. A prestigious position, a life-changing opportunity... and more direct contact with the Protocore project.
When you look up, Zayne stands across from you, waiting with bated breath.
You take a deep breath. “You did this…to study my disease.” You say, fingers tightening around your cup.
Zayne stiffens, the hope in his eyes faltering at your words. But he meets your gaze, his voice steady. "Yes."
You take another sip of coffee, studying him over the rim, searching his face for any hint of doubt. There's none. Just a stubborn determination that's far too familiar.
There's a part of you, a part you try to ignore, that warms at the idea of having him close by. But there's also a fear, deep and cold, that you can't shake.
The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken tension. Your fingers tighten around the coffee cup until your knuckles whiten, the ceramic threatening to crack under the pressure.
Zayne doesn’t flinch. He leans forward, bracing his hands on the countertop, his hazel eyes burning with a quiet intensity.
"Yes," he repeats, voice low. "But not just to study it."
His thumb taps once against the offer letter, right over the words Protocore Syndrome Research Initiative.
The admission hangs in the air between you, raw and undeniable.
You exhale sharply through your nose. "You can’t just—"
"Watch me," he interrupts, jaw set. "You’ve spent your whole life fighting monsters. Let me fight this one."
The words lodge in your chest like a bullet.
And that’s the most terrifying part.
The auditorium is packed, polished marble floors, the hum of murmured conversations, the occasional flash of a camera. Zayne stands at the podium in a tailored navy suit, his posture rigid with the weight of the moment. His parents sit beside you, dignified and proud, but you? You’re a wreck.
The second his name is called, you’re on your feet, whistling sharp enough to make the elderly board members flinch. His mother hides a laugh behind her glove. His father sighs like he’s used to this. But Zayne?
His gaze snaps to you instantly, like a compass finding north.
And when he smiles, just a flicker, just for you, it’s the same one he wore as a kid, the one that made you promise to always watch his back.
You scream his name like it’s a battle cry, voice already hoarse, hands raw from clapping. Someone behind you mutters about decorum. You don’t care.
Because he did it. He actually did it.
The restaurant is one of those elegant places with white linen tablecloths and gleaming silverware, where hushed conversations and the clink of wine glasses fill the air. Zayne sits across from you, still looking a bit shell-shocked from the events of the ceremony. You smile, the dim light catching the edge of your wine glass as you raise it.
"To the newest member of Akso Hospital’s medical staff."
His gaze flicks to you, warm and almost tender as he taps his glass against yours.
Your home is a paradox. A sleek, modern loft in the heart of Linkon City, all sharp angles and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the glittering skyline. The space is meticulously organized, yet undeniably lived-in. A state-of-the-art kitchen which you rarely use, a wall lined with weapons disguised as art, and a sprawling leather couch that’s seen more sleepless nights than relaxation.
The only hint of softness is the framed photo on the mantel. A younger you and Zayne, grinning after your graduation from the Academy, his arm slung over your shoulders like he’d never let go.
When you finally pull into the private garage beneath the building, you kill the engine but don’t move. The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid.
"There’s something you need to know."
Your voice is steady, but your grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled.
Zayne doesn’t speak. Just watches you, his hazel eyes shine in the dim light.
"Protocore Syndrome isn’t just killing me."
The words hang between you, heavy as a death sentence.
The silence that follows is deafening. slowly, his hand finds yours where it’s clenched on the steering wheel, prying your fingers loose with deliberate care. His touch is warm.
He doesn’t talk until the elevator dings to your home. The air smells like freshly cleaned linens and the relaxing lavender candle you had lit before you left.
Not that those stupid things ever worked.
"Show me," he says while he peels off his suit jacket, the dark brown suspenders exposed to the low blue light of a lamp.
You don’t turn on the lights. Instead, you roll up your sleeve, exposing the jagged, luminous veins creeping up your forearms. They pulse faintly, an eerie blue beneath your skin.
Zayne’s breath catches. His fingers hover over the markings, his surgeon’s mind already cataloging the progression, the rate of spread.
You don’t answer right away. Just walk to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the skyline. When you finally turn back, your expression is grim.
"Long enough to know there’s no cure."
Zayne’s jaw tightens. He steps forward, gripping your shoulders.
His teeth are gritted. He suddenly doesn’t look like the fresh-faced graduate. He looks like an angry man.
"You don’t get to decide that. Not when I’m this close."
You almost laugh. Almost. Because that’s the thing about Zayne. He’s always believed he could fix the unfixable.
"It’s not just a disease anymore," you whisper, breath ghosting over his skin. "It’s evolving. And so am I."
The unspoken implication hangs between you.
You might not be human much longer.
"Then we fight it. Together."
Zayne’s breath comes uneven, his usual surgeon’s composure fracturing at the edges like thin ice under too much weight.
"You keep looking at me like I’m still that kid trailing after you," he grits out. "Like I’m not—dammit—like I haven’t spent every day trying to be someone you could lean on."
Zayne doesn’t curse, not usually. His thumbs dig into your skin to ground himself. Like you’d vanish if he lets go.
"I’m not asking you to promise me forever," he rasps. "Just…look at me. See me. Please."
The last word cracks. And just like that, the dam breaks.
His forehead drops against yours, his breath hot and unsteady against your lips. When he speaks again, the desperation can’t be hidden any longer.
"I can’t lose you. Not like this."
You are looking at him now. Not the prodigy, not the doctor, but the man who’s loved you silently, stubbornly, for years. The man who’s terrified.
Your hands rise to cradle his face, thumbs brushing the dampness beneath his lashes. When you kiss him, it’s not gentle.
It’s a claim. A surrender. A promise.
Zayne makes a broken sound against your mouth and pulls you closer, his arms locking around you like he’ll carve his place into your bones if he has to.
His hands are frantic. No surgeon’s stiffness now, just hunger and desperation. The expensive fabric of your red dress gives way under his fingers with a sharp rip, the sound loud in the quiet of your loft. The silk slithers down your thighs, pooling at your feet like spilled wine. His breath hitches, gaze raking over the newly exposed skin, the way your chest rises and falls with each ragged inhale.
"You’ve always been mine," he growls, voice rough with possession. "Say it."
His palm splays across your bare stomach, fingers pressing into the marks left by Protocore. He’s hellbent on claiming every inch of you, even the parts you’re afraid of. When you gasp, his other hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back until your eyes meet his.
There’s no pity there. No fear. Just fire.
You bare your teeth in a grin. "Yours."
He backs you toward the wall next to the framed photo of you two. His mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and tongue. Spit swaps between your mouths, strings of salvia connecting you like secrets.
His knee slots between your thighs, pinning you in place as his hands roam, mapping scars, tracing ribs, relearning a body he’s memorized a thousand times in his head but never like this.
When his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, tearing them aside with another rough tug, you laugh breathlessly against his lips.
"Easy, doc. That was designer."
He nips your lower lip in retaliation, "I’ll buy you a hundred more. After."
And then there’s no more talking.
You arch a brow, lips curling into a smirk as you trail a finger down his chest. You feel the way his muscles tense under your touch.
“Tell me, Dr. Zayne,” you murmur, voice dripping with amusement, “has all that medical theory ever translated to… practical experience?”
A flush creeps up his neck, but his gaze doesn’t waver. Even when a hint of pink raises to his cheeks.
“You’re insufferable,” he grits out, but the way his voice cracks betrays him.
You laugh, dragging your manicured nails lightly down his stomach, relishing the way his abs twitch under your touch.
When your fingers brush the waistband of his slacks, you pause, tilting your head with feigned innocence.
He’s pulling back from your grip and slowly sinks to his knees. His bangs stick to his head, the cologne around his throat mingling with sweat.
“Let me show you how much of a kid I am.”
And then he proves it. With his mouth, his hands, the relentless press of his body. Until every taunt, every tease, dissolves into gasps and moans and the broken, shuddering sound of his name on your lips.
Turns out, the good doctor’s a very quick study.
Your touch stills Zayne’s descent, fingers twisting in his hair as you lift his chin to meet your gaze.
“You’re on your knees, doc,” you murmur, voice dropping to a purr. “But I didn’t say you could use your mouth."
Zayne blinks, then a flush creeps up his neck.
"You… you don’t want me to—?”
You spread your thighs wider, watching his eyes darkening with something like hunger, like worship as he gets his first look.
Zayne's gaze locks onto the center of you, his hands trembling. You are glistening with wetness. The neatly trimmed landing strip of your pubic hair. Almost like an arrow pointing directly to what made his mouth water.
”God. You’re beautiful,” he rasps. “So perfect."
The words sound like a confession. He looks up at you. You would compare him to a sweet little puppy. If he started humping your leg now you wouldn’t even be surprised.
”Please. Let me taste you. Please. I can do it… better than anyone else. Trust me."
He’s at least ate a girl out on his small loveseat before. He could do this. He could be good for you.
Zayne can barely speak past the sudden want tightening his throat, but he presses his mouth to your thigh. His lips brush the soft skin like he's trying to memorize your taste through touch alone.
”Tell me if I do anything wrong. I…I want to make it good for you. So good."
You thread your fingers through his hair.
It’s like those words are the one’s he waited his entire life to hear you say. Like he hadn’t dared hope for your approval and then he dives in, no hesitation left.
His mouth is hot, desperate, tongue dragging slow and filthy up your slit before circling your clit.
He moans against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core, and his hands grip your thighs. The muscled and plush flesh fits like gloves in his hands.
And god, he’s good. Too good. He’s studying every gasp, every twitch of your body, cataloging what makes you shudder.
When you tug his hair, he moans like it’s his pleasure. He’d happily suffocate between your thighs if it meant you’d keep making those sounds.
His glasses fog up. He doesn’t stop.
You’ve always been a little bossy, but all the confidence in the world can’t prepare you for the feeling of having Zayne on his knees. His mouth on your aching core, his eyes locked on yours like nothing else matters in the world. You thread your fingers through his messy hair.
You guide him. That eager little mouth moves too quick, too fast and needy.
”No, like… like that, kid. Just like-- there--” You get choked up when his tongue hooks under the hood of your clit, teasing that sensitive bundle of nerves just beneath.
”I told you to call me Zayne,” he growls against your slick pussy lips.
You tighten your fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.
"Then earn it," you breathe, hips canting up against his mouth. "Show me you know what you're doing."
His tongue flicks over your clit in quick, filthy circles. His tongue dips lower, pressing inside you with a slick, wet sound that has your thighs trembling. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you just enough to angle you deeper against his mouth, and—
You weren’t expecting that.
Your head thuds back against the wall as he works you over with a single-minded focus, like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted to be good at. His glasses are crooked, his lips slick, his breathing ragged. But he doesn’t stop. Not when you curse, not when your nails scrape his scalp, not even when your hips jerk and your thighs clamp around his ears.
He just grips you tighter and drinks you in, like he’s been starving for this.
That stealthy tongue dips past your clenching hole, to a much more taunt, hidden one that makes you yelp.
He chuckles against your flesh, his naughty dexterous muscle slithering against your asshole. Two fingers are met with grace into your sopping holes. But the thumb that teases your second hole makes your breath hitch. His salvia and insistent pressing eventually welcomes his thumb.
His fingers press deeper into your aching walls, and his voice is a ragged growl.
”God, that's so hot, my love. Are you gonna cum for me? Let me feel it, please. Please."
Your climax crashes over you like a breaking wave. Sharp, relentless and ruinous…and Zayne devours it.
His fingers curl inside you, pressing up and in just the right way as his tongue laps at your clit in quick, filthy strokes, drawing out every last shuddering pulse of your orgasm.
He groans against you, the sound muffled and desperate, like he’s getting off on the taste alone.
When you finally slump back, boneless and gasping, he pulls away just enough to look up at you. His pretty pink lips are slick, chin glistening, glasses askew.
"Y-you," he rasps, voice wrecked. "You’re so pretty when you cum. Should’ve—mm f—should’ve done this years ago."
His fingers slide out of you slowly, and before you can even process the loss, he’s sucking them clean with a filthy, deliberate pop of his lips. The smirk he gives you is downright smug.
"Still think I need instructions?"
You grab him by the collar and yank him up, crashing your mouth against his in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and revenge. He groans into it, his hands scrambling for purchase on your hips, and when you pull back, his lips are red, his breathing uneven.
"Shut up," you pant. "And get on the bed."
You grab Zayne’s wrist, your fingers still trembling slightly from your climax, and drag him down the dimly lit hallway toward your bedroom. The king-sized bed dominates the room, its black silk sheets rumpled from restless nights. A single lamp casts a warm glow over the space, illuminating the framed Hunter commendations on the wall, the stack of medical journals on your nightstand Zayne had let you borrow.
To the left are faint scars marring the otherwise pristine furniture. They are reminders of nights you spent sharpening blades when sleep didn’t’ come easy.
Zayne stumbles after you, his impeccable composure in tatters. His shirt is half-unbuttoned, his hair a mess from your hands, his lips still swollen from your kiss. When you shove him onto the bed, he goes willingly, landing with a soft thud against the sheets. His gaze never leaves you as you climb over him, your thighs bracketing his hips, your fingers already working at his belt.
Zayne sprawled beneath you is a mess. His pristine white dress shirt is rumpled, the collar smeared with the cherry-red imprint of your lips. His dark-framed glasses are crooked, one lens fogged from the heat of his breath, the other reflecting the hunger in his hazel eyes.
His hair, always so meticulously styled, is a tousled wreck from your fingers dragging through it, dark strands sticking to his damp forehead.
When you trail a finger down the exposed strip of skin where his shirt hangs open, he shivers like he’s starved for your touch. He’d let you ruin him a hundred times over if it meant you’d keep looking at him like this.
“You’ve fucked a girl before, right?”
Zayne swallows, his eyes never leaving yours, but he nods. So quickly it's almost desperate. His throat works as he tries to speak, his voice catching on the first word.
"Uh—once. A few years ago. Not—"
You slip a hand under his shirt, his stomach tensing at the contact, and he swallows again.
That makes you pause. There's a tightness to the words that makes your heart flutter just a little.
You the down his dress slacks and his cock springs free. It’s nestled in neatly trimmed pubic hair but God…you should’ve expected your little shadow had such a nice cock.
You tug his pants down his thighs and Zayne lifts his hips, his body arching to make it easier for you.
Your mouth goes dry. Zayne looks away, flushing. He's so damn bashful, like he's embarrassed of how hard he is for you,how much he wants you. For some reason, the knowledge makes your heart throb.
It makes you lean back and just look at him. At the way his eyelashes cast shadows over his flushed cheeks, at the way his body tenses. Hems afraid you'll change your mind.
You reach out and brush the hair back from his eyes.
His eyes rise slowly, meeting yours through the lenses of his glasses. His look is vulnerable, the confidence from earlier replaced by a shaky and raw glimpse into his mind.
"I don't know if I'm good at this."
You have to bite back a laugh at that. Zayne, who's good at everything, worried he can't do this right. You cup his heated cheek and he nuzzles into your hand to seek your comfort.
"It's not a test, Zayne. You don't lose points for making me feel good."
The corner of his mouth twitches, tension bleeding from him at the reassurance. And there it is. That familiar stubbornness you can't seem to get enough of.
"I still want to be good for you," he seems so shy now. Like he might get scolded. "I don't like being bad at things."
You can't help it, you laugh again.
"You're too much of a perfectionist."
You wrap your fingers around the base of his twitching cock and his bravado wavers. A small hiccup of a moan spilling from his mouth.
His hips jerk instinctively, chasing the heat of your touch, but you tighten your grip just enough to still him.
"Ah—fuck—" His head thuds back against the pillows, his glasses slipping further down his nose. "Warn a guy," he gasps.
You smirk, dragging your thumb over the slick head of his cock, and watch his entire body tense. His muscles are locking, breath stuttering, fingers clawing at the sheets.
"You’re loud," you tease, leaning down to nip at his earlobe. "What happened to all that confidence, doc?"
Zayne whines, actually whines, and it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
The pre-cum from his lip leaks over your fingers.
With a flick of your fingers, the clasp of your ice-blue bra snaps free, the delicate fabric sliding down your arms before pooling on the bed. Your breasts spill free. They are soft, heavy, marked with the silvery scars of a hundred battles, a lifetime of survival etched into your skin.
His eyes drops, his lips parting as he takes you in. He looks at every scar, every curve, every inch of you that’s been shaped by violence and yet remains so beautiful to him.
"Y/n," he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you. "You’re perfect."
Before you can tease him, he surges up, capturing your lips in a searing kiss as his settle on your waist. His thumbs brush the underside of your breasts.
"Let me," he murmurs against your mouth. "Let me touch you."
And who are you to deny him?
You sit back so he can lounge in your lap. Your arm and the pillows help elevate him while your palm glides smoothly over his cock. You laugh just a little at the position.
Zayne’s his furrow as he registers the position. his head cradled against your chest, your arm supporting his neck like he can’t hold it up himself. He catches that chuckle and he huffs in embarrassment.
”What?” he grumbles. But he can’t stay mad long enough. Especially when your thumb swipes over the leaky head of his cock.
You grin, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. It’s exaggeratedly sweet, just to fuck with him.
”Nothing. Just thinking how cute you look all tucked in like this.”
His eyes narrow. ”You’re laughing at me.”
You hum, tightening your grip just enough to make his hips jerk. ”Maybe a little.”
Zayne groans, torn between indignation and the overwhelming pleasure of your touch. His fingers dig into your thigh, his breath coming in ragged bursts but he doesn’t try to move. Doesn’t want to.
”Asshole,” he mutters, but the way he arches into your hand betrays him.
The way Zayne goes absolutely boneless at your touch is almost too much. His lips part eagerly, his breathing ragged, his tongue darting out to taste your skin. A taste that quickly turns to greedy, open-mouthed kisses. He sucks at your breast like he could spend hours worshiping you like this, his teeth teasing the underside, a low moan rumbling against your skin as you run your fingers through his hair.
Your fingers are skilled, pumping slowly as you watch his lips seal around your nipple. His tongue swirls around it. One moment he’s lapping at it before suctioning the flesh into hollowed out cheeks.
"That's it, baby," you praise. His cock throbs in your palm and you know you’ve struck a nerve. "Such a good boy for me. Knew that smart mouth of yours was good for something."
Zayne whines, high and needy, his hips bucking into your grip. The pet name makes his cheeks grow hotter but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he sucks harder, he’s trying to prove himself.
You smirk, dragging your nails down his scalp. "Shhh, look at you. So eager. Bet you’d let me do anything to you, huh? My sweet little shadow."
The dig at his age, at the years between you makes him groan, his teeth scraping your skin in retaliation. But his hands clutch at your waist like he’s terrified you’ll pull away, and when you twist your wrist just so, his entire body locks up, a broken sound tearing from his throat.
You laugh, "Knew you’d be easy."
Zayne’s muffled moan vibrates against your breast as your hand speeds up, twisting just right on the upstroke. The kind of slick, filthy friction that has his thighs trembling. His abs clench, his hips jerking erratically, his cock pulsing hot and heavy in your grip. He’s panting around your nipple as sweat beads from his forehead and trails under the arms of his glasses.
His back arches off the bed like he’s trying to escape the pleasure even as he chases it.
“Nu uh, don’t think about blowing your load on my hand. That seed is sacred baby…”
You might as well have shot him where he lay. His lips slacken around your breast. He’s still panting against your tit while he looks up at you with glassy and pleading eyes.
"No—please—" he chokes out, voice absolutely wrecked.
His whole shaft turned purple within mere seconds. The sticky self-lubricant collects onto your palm.
"Sacred, remember?" you remind him, leaning down to nip at his jaw. "You don't get to spill unless I say so."
His entire body is strung tight like a wire, trembling with the effort of holding back. He doesn’t want to disappoint you.
Despite the agony of denial, he doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t beg. Just takes it, his trust in you absolute, his submission achingly beautiful.
You lavish his face with kisses and praises that make him shudder.
Zayne can’t help the frustrated tears that bead in the corner of his eyes. You pretend you don’t hear his pathetic sniffles or the way his heels dig into the mattress. You know, without a doubt, that he’d wait forever if you asked him to.
You ease him back against the pillows with a gentle push, your fingers lingering on his chest as he catches his breath. The second you shift to straddle him, his hand darts toward his discarded pants, fumbling blindly for his wallet.
You catch his wrist, laughing softly as you shake your head.
"Already prepared, huh?" you tease, nodding at the foil packet pinched between his fingers. "Carrying these around just in case your upperclassman decided to ruin you tonight?"
Zayne's face burns crimson, but his grip on the condom doesn't loosen.
"Shut up. I'm a doctor. It's—it's basic hygiene."
You raise a brow, leaning down to nip at his earlobe. "Uh-huh. And how many of those have you actually used, doc?"
His silence is answer enough.
With a smirk, you pluck the condom from his fingers and tear it open with your teeth, watching his Adam's apple bob as you roll it down his length.
"Lucky for you," you murmur, "I like teaching beginners."
The moment you sink down onto him, Zayne chokes like you’ve punched the air from his lungs. His hands are flying to your hips, his back arching off the bed as he’s engulfed in your heat. His mouth falls open in a silent cry, his glasses slipping even further down his nose. His entire body shaking with the effort to stay still.
"F-fuck—fuck—" That little filter he always had flaked away. "You—you feel—god—"
You roll your hips, watching his eyes roll back in his skull.
"Easy," you purr, pressing a hand to his chest to make him stop twitching. "Let me take care of you, baby."
His gaze is hazy, his lips parted, his cock throbbing inside you. When you start to bounce, his composure shatters.
“You’re a nice boy, any girl would be lucky to have you-“ Your inner walls mold around his cock. “You’re smart, educated, f-fuckin’ cock isn’t bad either.” you groan out. The slight curve of his shaft makes the head rub you just right.
He’s loud. Gasps, moans, broken pleas spilling from his lips as you ride him. When you lean down to kiss him, he melts, his mouth sloppy and eager, his hips finally meeting yours in a frantic, uneven rhythm.
God, he’s ruined. And he loves it.
And then. You feel it even through the latex.
He’s fucking cumming. And oh he’s desperate and…crying?
He'd always had too big of an ego to think he'd be a one-pump-chump, but the second he'd felt you around him, he'd realized it was pointless.
You feel the telltale pulse of him spilling into the condom, his hips stuttering against yours in helpless little jerks.
"Already?" you purr, dragging your nails down his chest. "I thought you were a big boy now, Zaynie?”
Zayne growls at the childish nickname, his face burning as he tries to catch his breath. His body is still trembling with oversensitivity, and his glare is weak.
"Sh-shut up," he rasps, voice wrecked. "You—you’re tight—"
You roll your hips again, just to watch his eyes roll back, his cock twitching inside you even though he’s spent.
"Aw, baby," you coo, leaning down to kiss his sweaty forehead. "Don’t worry. Big sis’ got plenty more to teach you."
Zayne groans. He’s half mortified, half aroused and buries his face in your neck.
Bastard’s already getting hard again.
You start to bounce again but he panics. “N-no we must -we have to change the condom Hng!”
His hands fly up to grip your hips, his entire body tensing as you start to move—his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps.
"W-wait—fuck—hygiene—protocol—" he stammers, his voice cracking as you clench around him, his oversensitive cock throbbing at the friction. "N-need to—ah—change it—"
"Doctor’s orders?" you tease, rolling your hips in a slow, filthy circle.
Zayne can’t even form a complete sentence now.
You laugh before finally relenting, lifting yourself off him just enough to let him scramble for another condom, his hands shaking as he tears the foil open.
The second he’s covered again, you sink back down and his moan is downright pathetic.
"Such a good boy," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Following all the rules."
Zayne groans, his hips bucking up helplessly.
You ride him with the practiced ease of someone who knows exactly what they're doing. The way you move is deliberate, calculated, merciless. It has his razor-sharp mind reduced to static.
His glasses are nearly knocked off his face but he refuses to remove them. He wants to watch you are clear as possible.
"C'mon, doc," you giggle, dragging your teeth over his earlobe. "Where’s that brilliant mind of yours now? Too busy thinking with your dick?"
Zayne whines. His fingers drag you down on his stupidly big dick like he can push it straight into your guts.
"Y-you—fuck—" he manages to whine out . "S’not fair—"
You laugh, picking up the pace just to watch his eyes roll back, his mouth falling open in a silent cry.
His thighs tremble, his abs clenching, his cock pulsing inside you. When you finally let him tip over the edge again, his orgasm rips through him like a storm, his back arching off the bed as he sobs your name.
You slow to a stop, watching him come down. He’s twitching even as his cock tries to pump every drop into you. But the stupid condom prevents him from breeding your sloppy hole properly.
"There you go," you coo. "All dumb and happy."
Zayne mumbles something incoherent, his eyelids fluttering shut
You could get used to this.
The second you start to move, he catches your wrist.
"Wait," he pushes himself up on an elbow. "You—you haven't—"
You laugh, leaning down to kiss his forehead.
"S'alright, baby," you whisper. "You did so good."
But Zayne is not ever one to do something half assed. He tears off and ties the condom, pushing you face down into clean sheets. His cock is rubbing through your folds.
The second his bare cock drags against your cunt, Zayne groans. He watches your now empty hole flutter. Like she’s trying to entice him inside like a slutty whore.
"Now," he growls, nipping at your shoulder. "Now you’re gonna—fuck—you’re gonna come."
And then he’s pushing in, thick and achingly bare. His fingers dig into your flesh, his hips snapping against yours like a feral mutt.
He’s starved for you, he’ll die if he doesn’t feel you fall apart around him.
You gasp, your fingers twisting in the sheets, your body clenching around him as he fucks you with a single-minded focus.
His lips curl against your ear, his thrusts relentless.
"This what you wanted, big sis?" Your ass bounces back on his pelvis. The flesh of your bottom shimmers like water. "A kid fucking you stupid?"
His cock is younger, harder, hungrier than anyone else’s, and he knows it. Knows he’s got you addicted.
His fingers tangle in the hair at the nap of your neck. He pulls your back into a beautiful arch so he can gaze upon that pretty face.
"I need to hear you say it" he growls. "Say you love how I fuck you."
He takes you in. The arch of your back, the way you’re trembling, the sounds he works out of you and can’t help but feel a swell of possessive pride. He knows he has the woman of his dreams wrapped around his finger, knows that he’s the only one who can use you like this.
"Where'd you—ah—learn to take cock so good?"
When you don’t answer him beyhond a gurgle from how deep he feels now, his hips slow his fucking until you feel each drag out of his length.
He knows that there's been no one else who could make you need them this much. That there's no one else who understood you like he does. d he wants to hear it from your lips.
"How many other men…how many have you given this to?" His other hand wraps his long fingers around the column of your throat.
"M-maybe… three?" you gasp, squirming under him.
Zayne huffs, his lips brushing your shoulder as he drags his teeth over your skin.
"Try closer to seven," the hard thrust of his cock answers for him. "The pelvic floor doesn’t lie, hm?”
You don’t get a chance to argue. His fat cock is back to its former pace. You swear it has some unresolved beef with your cervix, the way it’s pouncing so deep.
"But none of them," he growls, "-fucked you like this. Would give you everything like I would.”
"S-seven, huh?" you pant, dragging your nails down his forearm. "Guess that makes you the baby of the group, doc."
"Doesn’t matter how many there were," he grits out, his fingers digging into your throat. "I’m the one you’re moaning for now."
"Keep talking," you taunt, arching into him. "See if your ego can outlast your stamina."
He watches the wet, sopping ring form at the base of jock cock as he pummels your cunt. He was balls-deep in the woman he had chased his entire life nearly. He wasn’t going to let you win.
"Watch me," Then he’s driving into you, his youth, his inexperience, all fuel to the fire.
His thrusts grow uneven, his breath ragged and desperate. His hips are stuttering as he fights to hold on, his cock throbbing inside you. His forehead drops against your shoulder, his voice breaking into a whine as he clings to you.
"P-please fuck—" he gasps, his hips jerking erratically. "C-c’mon! Need to feel you—need it—"
You clench around him deliberately, watching his entire body seize. He’s close, so close, but he’s fighting it, his stubbornness adorable. His body is weighing down on you, forcing you further into the mattress. He’s using his size and weight to manhandle you into your orgasm.
"Please," he begs, his voice cracking. "Just—once—let me—ah—"
And when you finally let go, when your body tightens around him in release, he sobs. He twists you around on his cock. “W-wanna see your face. S-so pretty, pretty girl. P-pretty-Hng!”
Zayne chokes, his entire body locking up as he spills. He pulls out at the last possible second, pulsing against your stomach. But his aim is terrible.
The first stripe lands hot and thick across your belly, the next splatters higher. On your breasts, your collarbone, and then—
—a final, mortifying shot lands right on your chin, dripping down onto your lips.
Zayne freezes, his eyes wide, his face burning with humiliation.
"I—I swear that wasn’t on purpose—"
You lick your lips and watch his cock twitch pathetically against your thigh.
"Sure it wasn’t, baby," you purr.
Zayne whimpers, collapsing onto the bed beside you. He’s utterly ruined.
You smirk and roll over, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. The lighter clicks, the flame casting a brief glow over your bare skin before you take a slow drag, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.
Zayne watches you through half-lidded eyes, his voice hoarse when he finally speaks.
"Those things will kill you."
You tap ash into the tray. "Plenty of things are gonna kill me, kid. Might as well enjoy some of ‘em."
He scowls at the nickname but doesn’t argue. He just reaches out, his fingers trailing up your wet thigh.
"Not if I have anything to say about it.”
You arch a brow, taking another drag before leaning down to blow the smoke gently into his face. He coughs, glaring, but his grip on your leg tightens.
And when you kiss him again, tasting nicotine and defiance, he doesn’t pull away.
You take a deep inhale of the cigarette. “What if you can’t fix me?” You finally speak. “You need to prepare for that outcome.”
The cigarette burns slow between your fingers, ember glowing in the dim light as you exhale a plume of smoke.
"I don't accept that." His voice is steel wrapped in velvet.
You turn your head to look at him, really look. The moonlight cuts across his face, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw.
"No." He sits up abruptly, the sheets pooling around his waist. "You don't get to ask me to prepare for that. Not when I'm—" His throat works. "Not when I've just—"
The sentence dies unfinished. He reaches for your cigarette, plucking it from your fingers and stubbing it out violently in the ashtray.
"I will fix you," he vows,"I will tear apart every research facility, burn every medical textbook, dismantle every fucking molecule of that disease if I have to. But I will not—" he almost can’t finish the sentence. "I will not entertain a world where you're not in it."
You want to argue. Want to tell him to be realistic. But the way he's looking at you, it’s like you're his religion, his reason, his first and last breath. You stop the words in your throat.
So instead, you pull him back down to you. And when he kisses you this time, it tastes like desperation and promise and forever.
You let yourself believe in forever too.
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