rene

use yourself

[lonelydew]

ιt's so ᥴoᥣd. . .

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ᥲᥣoᥒᥱ ᥲgᥲιᥒ. . .

ᥕhᥲt's thᥱ ρoιᥒt?

this is a blog for adults only. all the writings in this blog belong to me. do not copy, repost or feed into ai. © ᥣoᥒᥱᥣydᥱᥕ 2026.

[cherrieemei]

another one💪🏼💪🏼

[zaynessbeloved]

🔞 rafayel dirty talking to you in lemurian while he fucks you slow and sweet until you're begging, making you guess whether he's praising you or defiling you.

⋆. — content warnings: canon-compliant, begging, intimate/emotional sex, praise kink / kinda degrading kink as well (for mc), love confession

—

The vibration of his phone buzzing against the wooden worktable was the only sound in the studio, a relentless, mechanical plea for attention that Rafayel was pointedly ignoring. 

Thomas had called three times in the last ten minutes—likely about the gallery opening next week or the interview Rafayel had promised to attend but was currently skipping—but the artist seemed far more interested in the iridescent powder coating his fingertips.

“You’re going to have to answer him eventually,” you said, leaning against the doorframe.

Rafayel didn’t look up. He sat hunched over his mortar and pestle, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing the slender, deceptive strength of his forearms. He was grinding down a rare conch shell he’d found while “wandering” (flaking) earlier that morning, turning the ocean’s memory into a pigment that shimmered like crushed pearls.

Mentally, you braced yourself for the usual routine. This was the dance you knew. Rafayel the elusive genius, you the grounding tether. You felt a familiar mixture of exasperation and fondness—a soft, worn-in feeling, like slipping into a favorite coat. 

You watched his hands, those deft, dangerous hands that could slit a throat or paint a masterpiece with equal precision, and felt a quiet hum of admiration. He was being a brat, yes, but he was your brat.

“I don’t have to do anything,” he huffed, his voice carrying that familiar, petulant lilt. He finally glanced at you, blowing a stray lock of purple, wavy hair out of his eyes. “Especially when my muse finally decided to walk in. Do you know how boring it is to mix colors alone? It’s tragic, really. I could faint from the solitude.”

He was acting the part, engaging the defense mechanism you knew so well. Deflecting responsibility with theatrics. But as you walked closer, the air in the room shifted. It wasn't just the smell of sea salt and turpentine anymore. It was the heavy, static charge of intent.

He spun on his stool, abandoning the pigments, his legs spreading to create a space for you between his knees. 

It was a trap you willingly stepped into.

“You’re exaggerating as always,” you murmured, stepping into his personal space.

“And you,” he countered, his hands immediately finding your waist, pulling you flush against the V of his spread thighs, “are late, cutie.”

The moment his skin touched yours, the air in the room seemed to grow heavier, charged with the scent of sea salt, turpentine, and that underlying, bitter-sweet fragrance of burning driftwood that was uniquely him. 

He looked up at you through his lashes—those impossible eyes, the color of the deep ocean mixed with the soft pink of a dawn sky—and you saw the playfulness bleed away, replaced by a darkening hunger.

This is different, your mind whispered. Usually, he sought comfort—a hug, a lean, a whine for attention. But this grip on your waist was possessive. It wasn’t the grip of an artist needing a muse. It was the grip of a drowning man finding land, or perhaps the ocean claiming a sacrifice.

“I missed you,” he whispered, the childish facade dissolving. He buried his face in your stomach, his breath hot through the fabric of your shirt. “Thomas is loud. The world is loud. I just want... quiet.”

But Rafayel didn’t really want quiet. He wanted you.

The transition from the sulking artist to the demanding lover was as fluid as the tides he commanded. One moment he was complaining, and the next, he had swept the pigments aside, lifting you onto the edge of the sturdy oak table. His hands were everywhere at once—deft, artistic fingers that knew exactly how to manipulate your body just as they manipulated canvas. 

He unbuttoned your shirt with maddening slowness, his gaze tracing every inch of skin he exposed like he was inspecting a masterpiece for flaws, only to find none.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “My beautiful princess.”

When his hand slid up your thigh, his palm was searing hot—a reminder of the fire that burned beneath his aquatic nature. You gasped, your hips instinctively bucking into his touch, seeking friction, but he held you down, his grip firm.

“Have a little bit of patience,” he chided softly, though you could see the tips of his ears turning a bright, telltale crimson. “We have all night. Why rush art?”

He’s nervous, you realized with a jolt. The redness of his ears betrayed him. That small crack in his armor made your heart twist. It wasn't just lust driving him. There was a desperate, frantic energy to his touch, as if he needed to memorize you, to imprint you onto his very skin.

He knelt between your legs, discarding his own shirt to reveal the pale expanse of his chest, dusted with those small, dark beauty marks that you had memorized like constellations. The bond mark over his heart glowed faintly, a red pulse syncing with the thudding rhythm in your own chest.

Then, he leaned in, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear, and the shared language vanished.

A low, vibrating hum resonated from his chest, traveling through his jaw and directly into your spine. He spoke, but the words were ancient—Lemurian. The sounds were incomprehensible to your human mind, a melodic, liquid syntax that felt like water rushing over stones, yet raspy with a raw, guttural need.

You shuddered, your hands tangling in his purple hair as a wet heat pooled instantly between your legs. The physiological reaction was instantaneous, but your mind was reeling.

What is he saying?

You didn’t know, and that was the torture of it. Was he worshipping you? Was he calling you his lover, his beloved bride? Or was he whispering filthy, possessive things about how he was going to ruin you, how he owned every breath you took?

“R-Rafayel,” you whined, the sound wrecking out of your throat.

He didn't stop the flow of strange words. As he began to move inside you—a slow, rolling rhythm that ground against every nerve ending—your mind raced, trying to catch the meaning behind the sounds. The syllables were dark and heavy, dripping with a possession that felt ancient. The tone was low and reverent, almost like a prayer, but there was a filth to it, a hunger that sounded dangerous. 

Is he praising me? Telling me how tight I am? Or is he defiling me?

The uncertainty maddened you. You felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with being naked. He had retreated into a part of himself that you couldn’t access, a part of him that was 800 years old and alien and powerful. It made you feel small. It made you feel like a human playing with a god.

You imagined he was whispering about how easy you were for him, how wet you got the second he looked at you. “You’re so slick, making me slide so easily,” maybe? Or perhaps, “You were made to take this, you mold to me so perfectly,” 

The uncertainty maddened you. Every raspy vowel that brushed against your earlobe sent a fresh wave of arousal straight to your pussy, making your inner walls spasm and clench around his thick length. You were desperate to know if he was worshipping you as a goddess or using you as his personal plaything, and the not-knowing was making you breathless.

Rafayel paused mid-thrust. He had felt the change in you—the way your breath hitched, the way your gaze had glazed over, focused intently on the side of his face as if trying to read his very soul.

He pulled back slightly, his heterochromatic eyes narrowing with amusement. The flush on his cheeks had deepened, but a smirk played on his lips.

“You’re distracted,” he whispered in a language you did understand, his voice rough. “What are you thinking about, cutie? You’re clenching around me so tight all of a sudden.”

You blinked, trying to find your voice. “I... your words. The language...”

“Oh?” he pushed his hips forward, just an inch, making you gasp. “You like it when I speak my native tongue? Even though you don’t understand a single syllable?”

“I'm trying to guess,” you confessed, your voice trembling. “I'm trying to—fuck, to guess what you’re saying to me…”

Rafayel chuckled, a dark, vibrating sound that you felt deep in your belly. He leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes dancing with wicked delight. “And? What does your dirty little mind think I’m saying?”

“I think…” you swallowed hard, your face heating up. The vulnerability of admitting your dark thoughts felt like handing him a weapon. “I think you’re saying... that I’m a mess. That you own me. That... that you love ruining me like this…”

Rafayel’s pupils blew wide, swallowing the blue and pink irises. He looked absolutely delighted by your confession, his ego preening under your arousal.

“Is that right?” he purred. “You think I’m saying such filthy things?”

He didn’t confirm or deny it. Instead, he leaned back to your ear, his breath hot and wet, and started speaking again—faster this time, raspier. 

The words poured out of him, lower and rougher than before. He dragged his cock out slowly, letting the friction burn, then snapped his hips to bury himself deep, punctuating the foreign sentences with the slap of skin against skin.

You cried out, your mind fracturing. The sounds were definitely filthier now. You could hear the sharp edges in his tone, the growl of a predator playing with its food. He was teasing you with the unknown, using the language barrier as a weapon to overstimulate you.

“Rafayel…” you sobbed, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging in. “P-Please! I can’t—fuck, fuck, it’s too much!”

He ignored you, or perhaps the pleading only encouraged him. He kept up the slow, tortuous pace, grinding against your swollen entrance while he whispered that incomprehensible, liquid fire into your ear. You were dripping wet, the slick coating his cock and your thighs, creating a messy, erotic sound that mixed with his voice. You felt exposed, vulnerable, and completely at his mercy.

You felt completely at his mercy. And beneath the pleasure, there was a pang of something sharper—fear? Insecurity? Does he see me? Or does he just see the bond? 

“Raf, I’m b-begging you,” you whined, your hips bucking, trying to force him to go faster, to end the torment. “I need... I need to cum. Please, n-need to cum—wanna cum...”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, seeing the way you were unravelling, your eyes rolling back, your body trembling with the need for release. He looked at you with a terrifying, possessive adoration, but he didn’t speed up. Instead, he slowed down even more, his hips grinding in a circle that rubbed directly against your swollen clit, teasing the edge of an orgasm he refused to let you have yet.

“Begging already?” he murmured, a low, satisfied chuckle vibrating against your chest. “But we haven’t even discussed what I’m saying to you, ma petite artiste. You look so confused... so desperate.”

He leaned in again, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear before he rasped another string of those indecipherable, liquid syllables. The sound alone was overstimulating, a sensory overload that made your toes curl.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a seductive growl. “What do you think I'm saying, hm? You’re so wet, clenching around me every time I speak... you must think I’m saying something terrible."

“I…” you gasped as he hit a deep, sensitive spot and held there, denying you the friction you craved. “I think... you’re saying I’m a slut. That... that you’re going to ruin me, have your way…”

Rafayel laughed, the sound dark and raspy. “Is that what you think? That I’m defiling you?” 

He withdrew almost completely, leaving you aching and empty, before sliding back in with agonizing slowness, stretching your walls. “Guess again, cutie. If you get it right... maybe I’ll let this pretty pussy cum.”

“Fuck, f-fuck…” you sobbed, your hands scrabbling at his shoulders. Tears of frustration pricked your eyes. You felt stripped bare, your darkest insecurities laid out for him to critique. “Please... you’re saying... you own me? That I’m yours?”

“Getting warmer,” he teased, nipping at your jawline. He began to thrust a little harder, but the rhythm was still torturously controlled. “But you’re missing the point. You’re thinking too much like a human.”

He switched back to Lemurian, the words flowing faster now, breathless and urgent. He sounded desperate, almost pained, his voice cracking with emotion. “...Bushiagen...”

"I don’t—fuck, I don’t know!" you cried out, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. “I don't understand! Just fuck me, please!”

Rafayel stopped moving entirely, burying himself to the hilt. He framed your face with his hands, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were swimming with a mixture of lust and profound, ancient tenderness.

“I’m not dirty talking you, my love,” he whispered, his thumb brushing over your wet lip. “I'm making love to you. I’m confessing to you. Every word... is a vow.”

Your breath hitched. The realization hit you harder than any physical thrust. All those raspy, guttural sounds that had made you feel so dirty, so used, so delightfully degraded... he hadn’t been defiling you.

He had been praying to you.

“I'm telling you that you are my soul,” he rasped, starting to move again, but this time the slow and sweet rhythm felt different—it felt heavy with devotion. It felt like a burden he was sharing. 

“I was saying,” he rasped, switching back and forth from Lemurian to your shared language, the words vibrating against your skin, “that my heart beats only because you are holding it. That I would burn the entire world just to stay inside you for one more second.”

The confession shattered you. 

It made the pleasure sharper, deeper, but it also broke something open inside your chest. You weren't just being fucked. You were being worshipped by a god who had knelt before you, a god who was terrified you might not understand the depth of his need.

You thought about all the times he had shown you this love without saying it. The way he remembered your coffee order. The way he threw tantrums just to keep you in the room for five more minutes. The way he stood in front of you during danger, shielding you with his own body. He had been screaming these vows in silence for months, for years, perhaps for lifetimes.

And now, hearing them spoken aloud, hearing the raw desperation in his voice, it was too much.

“Rafayel…” you choked out, and then you were crying. Really crying.

Not the pretty, single tear of a movie scene, but messy, heaving sobs that shook your entire frame. You cried for the 800 years he had waited. You cried for the loneliness he tried to hide behind his paints. You cried because you felt indescribable—worthy and unworthy all at once, held by a love so vast it threatened to drown you.

“That’s it,” he groaned, feeling your walls spasm as the emotions overwhelmed you. He didn't pull away; he didn't look awkward or confused by your tears. He kissed them away, messily, swallowing your cries, his tongue tangling with yours. “Feel it... Feel how much I love you. Don’t you dare close your eyes. Look at me.”

He began to drive into you with reckless abandon now, abandoning the game. He wanted you to feel the weight of his love physically, slamming into you with a desperation that matched his words.

“Repeat after me,” he commanded softly, his lips hovering over your ear. He whispered a phrase in Lemurian—one melodic, breathless word.  “...Bushiagen...”

 “...Bushiagen...” you repeated blindly, through your sobs. You didn't know the literal translation, but you felt the intent vibrating through your very bones. It felt like a lock clicking into place. It felt like coming home.

“Again,” he rasped, thrusting deep and hitting your cervix, sparking a blinding white light behind your eyes. “It means ‘You’re mine’. Say it as you cum for me.”

“...Bushiagen...” you screamed, the words turning into a broken moan as the orgasm ripped through you. “...Bushiagen...”

He groaned your name, a raw, broken sound, and buried his face in the crook of your neck. He thrust one last time, deep and hard, holding himself there as he poured his heat into you, his body shuddering in violent unison with yours. You could feel the pulses of his release, hot and voluminous, filling you up as he whispered the words over and over against your sweat-slicked skin, searing the vow into your soul.

“...Bushiagen… My beloved bride... mine... always mine.”

He collapsed forward, his weight heavy and comforting, his heart thundering against your chest in a rhythm that perfectly matched your own.

And even as the high of the orgasm began to fade, leaving your limbs heavy and your mind hazy, the tears didn’t stop. They flowed silently now, soaking into the pillow, into his hair. You held him and realized that you would never be the same.

Tonight, he had given you his heart, and his voice. He had stripped away the last layer of his defense, and let you see the terrifying, beautiful truth of his devotion.

It was a feeling you couldn’t name. It was terrifying. It was heavy. It was the most beautiful thing you had ever felt. 

It was Bushiagen.

© zaynessbeloved 2025. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!

if you liked it, you can buy me a coffee here! it would be very appreciated<3: https://ko-fi.com/zaynessbeloved

[lonelydew]

do it yourself.

ft. fem!reader, xavier

synopsis: you're not in the mood, so when your boyfriend gets horny and handsy, you tell him to help himself.

tags: nsfw (mdni), explicit sexual content, free use reader (kinda), p in v sex, ass groping and spreading, pwp, unprotected sex | wc: 1.5k heavily inspired by a tweet that no longer exists, but they captioned this art

also on ao3 .ᐟ

a/n: enjoy <3

After a few minutes of lousily lying in bed on your phone, you start to feel Xavier’s restlessness. You had thought nothing of his lingering palm on your thigh at first, or how, inch by inch, his fingers crawl further up your leg. But now, you finally glance at him. He’s staring at you with an intensity that makes his usually sparkling blue eyes dark.

You release a knowing sigh, putting your phone aside.

“I’m feeling lazy right now, so… Do it yourself,” you offer, but you hadn’t anticipated the knot that forms in the pit of your stomach when you hear your boyfriend’s quiet reply.

“Okay.”

You pretend not to be surprised that he would take your offer and that the hairs on your skin are not standing upright when he moves around. He plants his knees on either side of your knees, setting his hands on your hips and flipping your body around. You land on your stomach with a bounce.

A “hold on” is on the tip of your tongue, but it dies when his palm presses between your shoulder blades. “Relax.”

The gentle command erases any thoughts from your mind and melts your joints—you fall limp, your cheek sinking into the plush pillow and your body into the mattress.

You have always been attuned to him. You find it unfair sometimes because it makes him get away with so much, but you really wouldn't ever change it—

You gasp when he pulls down your shorts—his shorts—and your panties in one fluid motion.

You only just realise that you’re leaking when the air catches your pussy, making you shiver. It’s pathetic, really, especially after making it seem like you don’t care. Yet, you’re lying there, folds already glistening because of his rough handling.

When you realise nothing else is happening, with a huff, you twist your neck to see what's up.

His eyes are on your pussy. He slides a digit through your folds in one swipe, making you purr, then his eyes find yours.

“You’re so wet already.” He smirks. Your eyes flutter shut, embarrassed. You really, really wish he hadn't noticed. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

You turn your face into the pillow, grumbling, and he chuckles.

He shifts, the mattress groaning under his movements. You can’t help yourself when you peek at him again, the anticipation biting. He’s tugging off his boxers, his eyes glued to yours. But when his cock flings upward with a slap on his tee-covered stomach, your gaze follows the movement. You gulp. Audibly.

He’s so hard already... And wet with blobs of precum gathering at his tip.

You’d be drooling if you weren't somewhat sane right now.

You always liked the shape of his cock, how thick and curved it is—how it hits the right spots inside you. That train of thought makes your pussy squeeze around nothing.

And to your chagrin, Xavier sees it, his following chortle letting you know that. When it comes to you—and your pussy—nothing will pass his eye if he has anything to do with it.

Your neck is starting to hurt, so you lay your cheek on the pillow again, only to feel hands grasping your asscheeks and pulling them apart. You hear Xavier’s appreciative hum.

“Pretty…”

His comment has you breathing out slowly, your ears burning.

It also makes you a bit impatient—the need to have him inside you overwhelming, but you suck it up. You had left it all up to his hands. Now, you ought to suffer with want.

Soon enough, you feel his cock head jab at your entrance before sliding away. You face-plant into the pillow to muffle your frustrated groan at the loss.

It's not really a loss, though. You do enjoy it—you enjoy the glide of his cock between your ass, the slight prod of his thumb at your puckered hole and even the feeling of being edged when his cock snags at your entrance at times.

Actually, you think he might be trying to get you to cave in and beg. You do consider doing it, just for a split second.

You try to discreetly look at him as if you could ever read his intentions from his face if he’s in charge of it, but he’s already looking at you.

“Gonna put it in now.”

You sigh in relief, nodding too eagerly. You're sure he notices that, too, even if he doesn't react to it.

He crawls over you, his warmth radiating on your back, cocooning you. His t-shirt hangs over yours, mending together evenly because of the same shade of grey.

His hands sink into the mattress beside your shoulders.

Without another word, Xavier eases himself inside you, the ride so wet, he bottoms out instantly. The breath you didn’t know you were holding is jostled out of you in a sharp gasp as your hands come up to strangle the pillow.

You hear him grunt above you.

“You can do whatever you were doing on your phone earlier,” he raises. His voice has no bite in it, but is so teasing nonetheless. He's a menace. "Don't mind me.”

You don’t even spare the phone a glance, wherever it is, and shake your head, petulantly. "It's f-fine… ngh…”

"Okay. Suit yourself."

He thrusts into you, drawn out and slow—makes you feel it, every inch of his length from base to tip, every raised vein.

Soft moans get swallowed by the pillow you stuff your face into.

“I want to hear you,” he says before digging your chin from the cushion. Your mewls are now unmasked to him and yourself. “You know, you’re enjoying this too much for someone who wanted to be lazy about it.”

You want to scream out that you can’t help it because it’s him, but the words don't make it out. Instead, you moan, albeit begrudingly.

“But… you feel so good...” He sighs your name. “Want more.”

That’s the only warning before he speeds up, and all you can do is lie and take everything—feel everything. You’re utterly at Xavier’s mercy… He usually does what he wants, and you go along with it, but this time, you enabled it.

And you love it. You'd do it again.

Now, he’s drilling his dick into your sopping cunt, frenzied, possessed. His agile hips move smoothly, slapping your ass on each thrust and jerking you up the bed. The bed rocks and grunts, forming a discordant melody with your wanton cries and the rough and continuous slaps of Xavier’s hips on your backside.

“Fuck,” you sob, so painfully pleasured by his unrestraint.

You will be so sore later on—the thought barely makes it across your mind.

It feels too good to think.

You bend your head a little, wanting to see the person who's hitting dead on your sweet spot, consistently. His eyes are sewn shut, mouth ajar with almost unnoticeable sound of staccato breaths passing through them.

He's so pretty.

Suddenly, he leans down to press his nose in your hair, greedily taking in gulps of your scent.

Fuck.

“Gonna cu—” Your orgasm cuts you off, choking you.

Xavier’s moan is echoing when you clamp down on his cock, trembling violently, the sheets beneath you becoming wet as you come.

That orgasm empties you of your energy—it leaves you feeble but so satisfied.

“You—” he starts. “I think you... God.”

Not only do you come embarrassingly quickly, but you spew through everything, making a whole mess. “S-shit…”

“You’re so hot,” he whines before starting to move his hips again. The pleasure starts to gnaw at you, but you accept it. You take all that Xavier gives you, like a champ, even if you have to moan and groan about it. “Gonna fill you up. You want that?”

“Yes…” you whisper, stuttering on the syllable.

“Didn't hear you,” he teases. He gives you a sudden, single deep plunge that makes you feel a sampler of tomorrow's aching sore.

“Fuck… Please… Come inside me. I need it.” Your words slurred.

“Okay… Anything for you.”

You whimper from the unexpectedness when a palm is placed on your cheek, turning your head and kisses the rest of your life out of you. You receive his tongue easily and quite quickly, letting him explore you like he has a billion times before.

He spills into you, chest heaving by the end of his orgasm. He hums into your mouth, then gives your bottom lip a gentle nip before breaking away. You watch the string of saliva that bridges from your lips pop.

Then, the room is silent—except for the sounds of laboured breaths.

Xavier slides out of you, his softening cock soaked with your slick, resting on your ass. And you’re dozing off already, unable to fight the sleep that usually comes with an evening orgasm.

“I guess we’ll change the sheets tomorrow.” He moves from over you to roll your body to the side for a while and then back. You no longer feel the wetness under you but rather the dry warmth and softness of a towel. “Sorry I made you tired.”

You barely hear him.

a/n: thanks for reading <3

[lonelydew]

laced for you.

ft. fem!reader, xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus, caleb ꒰ separately ꒱

synopsis: you want to dress up in lingerie for your boyfriend as a surprise for vday, but things don't go as planned when he sees you in it before.

tags: nsfw (mdni), suggestive, lingerie, them touching and prodding at you and your lingerie | wc: ~350 each

a/n: a repost from yesterday (the links are to the lingerie visuals), happy belated valentine's day, and a special one to those who spent it alone like me...

divider by diviniyae .ᐟ

ᰔ⭑.˚ ─ xavier

⭑.˚ lingerie here .ᐟ

You twirl in the mirror, the thin, flowy cotton floating in the air.

It's perfect. The blue is perfect, and it’s a perfect fit. You love styling at the top. You look like a personification of innocent seduction. He will be so shocked when he sees you in this. You watch yourself snicker in the mirror.

There is a sudden flicker you catch from the corner of your eye, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

Maybe trying it on in your living room—where the balcony is, by the way—wasn't the brightest idea, considering the recipient of this gift almost never uses the front door.

Slowly, like a closing, creaking door that was set ajar, you turn, hoping that since you move with no haste, your fate will change.

But no!

Xavier is at your balcony door, his blue eyes trained on you with a dangerous glint in them.

You smile weakly, figuring that you should let him in even if you think twice about it. You stride towards him, bare toes padding on the floor cutely.

As soon as you let him in, he bombards you, “Why are you wearing this?”

He strides towards you as you make steps backwards to make room for him, only stopping when you push at his chest.

“Xavier, calm down,” you laugh. “It’s for you for Valentine's Day. Tomorrow. It was supposed to be a surprise. I was trying it on to make sure it fits.”

“Oh.” He visibly deflates, tenseness dissipating.

But his eyes light up impossibly as he scans you once more. His eyes linger for a bit at the top of the lingerie where your nipples peak through the lace. His intense gaze has you swallowing nervously.

Even though your surprise is ruined, you still hope he likes it.

His eyes trail down to, and he tugs at the skirt of your lingerie, lifting it to reveal the panties that are barely concealing anything.

“Xavier!” you gasp with a reprimanding tone, but you don't brush his hand away.

He looks up at you. “Can I get my gift now?”

ᰔ⭑.˚ ─ zayne

⭑.˚ lingerie here .ᐟ (the green one)

As you peel off each layer of your hunter uniform from your body, you start to feel a little strange. Not only do you feel the chill of certain eyes piercing through your form, but you also feel like you're forgetting something.

You remember what you had forgotten too late, unfortunately.

You totally forgot you were wearing the lingerie you had bought for Zayne. You had never worn lingerie before, and trying it on for the first time felt uncomfortable. To get adjusted to it, you decided to wear it during the day, at work. Well, the outcome was favourable. You did get used to it, but at what cost?

The cost is you stripping in front of Zayne after returning home together, not remembering that you're wearing the lingerie underneath—the green, one-piece lace with a heart cut-out at your lower back and ass that Zayne should not be seeing right now, but is definitely seeing right now.

"Uhm—"

"My love," Zayne calls out from behind you, sounding a bit closer than he was a second ago. His hand finds home at your back already. You turn to him. "What is all this?"

You sigh. "Your Valentine's Day surprise that isn't a surprise anymore, I guess."

He hums appreciatively. "You look ravishing. I'm sure I'll still be in awe if you were to wear it again tomorrow."

He says that, but he steps back, giving you a shameless once-over, hazel eyes gleaming with interest. His hand that had never left your back starts strumming the lace, sending shivers along the corners of your body. You can tell his hand intends to go further down, but you interrupt innocently, "So, tomorrow, this time."

"Yes.” He nods. He moves away, taking his hand off you like it pains him to. “Tomorrow."

You reply with a nod of your own before you saunter to the bathroom, deciding that it's best to finish disrobing there. As you do, you feel the familiar weight of someone’s intense gaze on your back.

ᰔ⭑.˚ ─ rafayel

⭑.˚ lingerie here .ᐟ

When you hear the door ring, you frown. You weren't expecting anyone. You grab a robe, throwing it on over the pink, miniskirt lingerie you were admiring yourself in a second ago. Then, you make a trek to the door, peering through the peephole.

"Rafayel?"

"In the flesh, cutie!" he chirps from behind the door.

You tighten the robes around your body before opening the door and inviting him in. You see the bouquet in his hands—flame lilies and roses.

Oh.

"You know, Valentine's Day is tomorrow, right?"

He steps further inside your living room, looking too expensive to be in this apartment.

"I know, cutie," he drawls the last word. "But I was so excited. I couldn't sit still." He hands you the bouquet. "For you, lovely." You smile, dipping your nose into the flowers. Of course, they smell amazing.

"Thank you, Rafayel. They're lovely." You place a sweet peck on his cheek before going to the kitchen to empty the vase of fake flowers and replace them with the beautiful arrangement.

You don't realise that Rafayel had followed you silently until you spin away from the dining table. You chuckle.

"You can have a seat, you know. I'm going to change and be right back,” you say, gesturing to your robe. “After, we'll do whatever you want.”

Unfortunately, not ensuring that he sits down is your first mistake.

You remove your robe, quickly trying to remove the lingerie next, but you pause when you hear Rafayel behind you.

"So, that's what you're hiding under there." Perhaps you should've locked the bedroom door. Second mistake. “Explain yourself, pretty.”

You turn to see him cockily leaning against the doorframe, purplish-pink irises dark and unstill as they roam your decorated figure.

You shrug, dejected. “This was a surprise for you.. You know, for tomorrow. That's why I was trying to hide it.”

“No need to be discouraged, cutie. You're stunning, and since I'm here, you can give me my gift now.”

"As in...?" Your heart paces in your chest.

"Yeah," he replies coolly, his head nodding towards the living room.

You concede, whispering a tiny "okay,” trying to hide how riled up he had made you from that one reply. You tiptoe towards him, yelping when he slaps your ass when you pass him on your way out.

"Rafayel!"

ᰔ⭑.˚ ─ sylus

⭑.˚ lingerie here .ᐟ (the red one ofc)

“Where are you, sweetie?”

You hear Sylus and his footsteps in the corridor, and panic almost runs you over.

What the hell is he doing here?! He shouldn’t return this early!

Quick thinking has you scampering to his closet, as fast as the lingerie dress would allow you to. Maybe coming to his house was a bad idea, but you usually come here at this time. It would be suspicious if you didn't.

“Are we playing hide and seek, kitten?” he calls out again, deep voice coloured with genuine interest. Surprisingly.

He is in the room now, and you watch him from the gaps in the large, black closet door.

Maybe dragging it off would be best, but you will mostly tear the lace. And frankly, you would rather that he finds you in lingerie in his closet than find you butt naked in here.

“No, I’m just inside the closet," you eventually speak up. "Uhm… You don't have to come in, though. It’s all good—”

The doors are flung open before you can finish.

Fuck!

His raised eyebrow falls into a smirk at the sight of you.

“You just barge in like that?!” you shriek.

Sylus doesn't regard your words, eyes busy raking over your body.

“So this is what you are up to.”

He steps inside the room, stalking towards you. You feel like a helpless prey to a silent predator with how he circles you. You feel his ruby red eyes’ heated stare piercing the lace, your skin.

The following silence wrecks your nerves.

Could he say something?!

He stops in front of you, and when he finally touches you, it is to unfold your arms so he can stare brazenly at your chest.

“Is this for me?” He looks at you as he asks.

You scoff. “Who else would it be for? It was for tomorrow.”

He pinches the red fabric at your waist, pulling at it, then releasing it to watch it slap against your skin. You can’t help but react to his faint touch, your waist jerking to the side.

You hear his signature cocky grin.

“It still is for tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it.”

ᰔ⭑.˚ ─ caleb

⭑.˚ lingerie here .ᐟ

Sometimes, you wish you could strangle Caleb, but you love him too much to.

Surprises are impossible with this man. You realise as much when he throws the lingerie you bought for him on the coffee table in front of you.

You jump up from the couch, flabbergasted.

"Where did you get that?"

"I will be the one with the questions here, Pips." When he understands that you'll more or less comply, he continues, "So, what's this for?"

"Take a nice guess." You cross your arms over your chest, eyes in slits as you regard him.

"'Kay, okay. I get it." He nods. "You know, you don't have to bother yourself with things like these for me, but since you're offering, how can I say no? You should try it on fer me right now."

"What?" you whisper, eyes wide.

He laughs. "You heard me, Pips. Chop chop."

You stare at him for a moment.

"Fine," you hiss. “It’s for you anyway.”

You grab the cotton, about to head to your bedroom, but you hear his tuts, catching your attention again.

"You can change right here."

You huff, seemingly annoyed, but all this actually excites you. You don't bother arguing, though, because you know you wouldn’t win.

He sits on the couch where you once were, legs spread wide like he's inviting you to sit on his lap or kneel in between his thighs.

You don't make it a show when you change, and he doesn't seem to care, clearly satisfied with anything that's you.

You just lock what needs to be locked and tighten what needs to be tightened.

"Voilà!” you exclaim with fluttering hands, a hint of sarcasm in your tone, when the orange lace is successfully donned.

"Come 'ere," he calls softly, low and dripping with desire,

You easily step towards him—you can't find a reason to be unruly right now.

The moment you are hovering over him, he gives your ass a nice squeeze, dimpling your skin. He pulls you down to sit on one of his thick thighs, fingers scraping the fabric over your stomach and your thighs, leaving goosebumps all over.

"Let's practice for tomorrow. What do you say?"

a/n: thanks for reading <3

[lonelydew]

listened to rafa’s tipsy tender moment again, god i love him, if i write a flash fic about him eating you out while drunk, just know this is your warning

[lonelydew]

now playing.

[lonelydew]

the vibe for this valentine's day fr.

[lonelydew]

you find fleshed-out drawings/sketches of you and rafayel doing kinky smexual stuff, and you confront him about it (but only because you'd like to get those activities off the pages and do it irl) 🤤🙂‍↕️

[lonelydew]

should i write this fr? i’m feeling it, but it would take a while 😔

[lonelydew]

whatever it takes, right?

ft. fem!reader, xavier

synopsis: you and your partner break into a masquerade ball on a mission to retrieve information, and you'll do anything to see to it that you succeed.

tags: nsfw (mdni), explicit sexual content, soft fuck or die, but no fucking, dry humping, clitoral stimulation, undercover mission, pwp | wc: 2.3k

also on ao3 .ᐟ

a/n: listen if you see any plot holes or whatnot, unsee it, i needed them to dry hump, and i used convoluted writing to do it #sorrynotsorry, if he's ooc, please forgive me, i'll get good one day (hopefully)

It’s always like this.

Leaving the scene unscathed or unseen is often the most challenging part of a mission. But you’re used to it. Even if it takes all the veins and ridges of your brain to think of a way out, you get it done.

It’s something you’re good at.

In a single file, you and your partner take side-heel steps along the wall of an empty hall that’s perimetered with closed wooden doors, praying that no one busts out from behind one of them.

You can’t even try to imagine how Xavier is feeling or what he is thinking right now—you rarely can, to be honest—but your mind is flipping through ideas of how to escape the current scenario. Your chest pounds against your ribcage, trying to be louder than your thoughts and the hurried footsteps of your blown cover over the rhythmic melody from the masquerade event in the adjacent ballroom.

It’s too often that influential people hold events at places that house important artefacts or information. And people tend not to keep quiet as well. There will always be a slip of the tongue about some confidential details, unknowingly, in the presence of alert ears.

That is how you were able to find the secret room in this mansion.

With Xavier's skill level, it didn’t take much for him to sneak in and retrieve the drive, but nothing could have really prepared you two for the door having a timed automatic lock once opened.

Luckily, Xavier is extremely fast, and you only deduced that having some device would have disabled the timed lock. The absence of that device sent security after you.

It happens, though. Almost all the time.

As far as you’re concerned, you didn’t miss any security cameras, so the guards might not know what you look like or that there are two of you. If that’s the case, you two are still very much disguised in your silver ballroom wear and masquerade masks. Your colour coordinating with Xavier was not intentional—

A particular idea winks in your head like a flame, but it flickers.

It’s not… appropriate.

Xavier, who is ahead of you, suddenly stops, whispering, “There is security heading towards us. We have to go back.”

“Let’s go in,” you offer just as quietly. His head twists to look at you, and you nod towards the door you had paused in front of. The gold-plated sign reading “Storage” glistens almost provokingly at you.

He frowns, and you reckon it’s either uncertainty of your intentions, disbelief of your seemingly flawed plan or both. You sigh. “I… have an idea.”

He doesn’t protest, so you don’t hesitate any longer to turn the knob gently, pushing the door open, thanking the heavens it's actually not key-locked. Xavier slips inside and closes the door before you even spin to him, his nimbleness always something to admire.

“They will check this room when they pass by here.”

“I know,” you agree as your eyes comb through the room. It is a regular storage room, its shelves filled with cleaning supplies. “It’s… neat” is all you think before your eyes catch the camera pointing right at you, but you had already disabled those.

“You said you had an idea,” Xavier starts, pulling you out of your observation.

“Yes… It’s—”

“SEARCH EVERY ROOM IN HERE!”

The shout pierces through the air, knocking some urgency into you.

You don’t have time for this.

“Fuck.” It comes out as a harsh wisp of air, slicing through the room. Forces you into action, you order, “Open your pants and lie on the floor.” He quickly follows your command, albeit very confused, if his slitted eyes are anything to go by. “…We’re gonna pretend to be having sex.”

You feel a little less guilty about being so demanding when understanding settles on his face, but it’s unnerving how he wordlessly bends down to lie on the floor.

You shrug the straps of your dress off your shoulders and drag your dress upwards. Eyeing his ruffled form, you breathe in deeply. He had pulled out his shirt from his pants, probably for a more believable result. You see a smidgen of abdominal muscles and silver hair trailing from beneath the waistband of his peeking underwear.

Then, you take in those pretty eyes staring at you from between the silver mask as he patiently waits for you.

He is so committed to the role, you'd think he was the one who "suggested" this, and you are the person who reluctantly agreed, so you're stalling.

The echoes of nearby doors being kicked open give you another push, and you straddle his hips, bottom lip being trapped between your teeth when you land square on his crotch and feel the imprint of his cock against your clothed pussy. He's semi-hard, but your focus is on hoping he didn't see anything underneath your dress when you lifted it in the rush.

You cringe at the stupid thought. There are more pressing matters, like getting out of this place alive and with the hard drive.

But this won’t ruin your relationship with him, right?

It’s no news, to you at least, that you like him. You like him a lot. But you've never actually told him that, and you don't even know if he likes you any more than as a friend.

Friends don't do this.

You know there's a million other ways you can get out, but you can’t think of any right now. And you're sure the only reason he's putting up with this is that he wants this mission to be completed just as you do.

It needs to succeed.

You lock eyes with him—the blue glistening with an unfamiliar intensity, his lashes hanging low. It’s such a seductive expression—you don’t think you’ve ever seen Xavier's eyes quite like this before.

Warmth blooms throughout your lower stomach, spreading to your core. You try to stop yourself from gulping. You fail.

“What’s your plan?” he asks in a voice lower than you know. There is a rasp to it that sets your mind ablaze.

You breathe in and out, eyes closing then reopening. “I-I’m gonna—”

The sudden loud thud of another door kickstarts your hips. One hefty drag of your groin against his has Xavier groaning, pearly whites gritted. If he weren't wearing the mask, you would have been able to see this full expression. You don't wish to sound like a sadist, but you want to see it so badly.

“Sorry,” you whisper, hands resting on his hard chest. “They‘re close by. I just want them to think we were already...”

“It’s okay. I know.”

"Then... I'll continue..."

"Okay," he sighs quietly, and you would have missed it if you weren't so zoned in on his face—the part of his face that’s not hidden.

You grind your hips more slowly than before. You don't want to forget that this is, unfortunately, a part of the mission, but you're enjoying it a little. The fabric of slacks grazes your clothed cunt, chipping at your clit ever so often. If you were to ever forget yourself, the situation you're in, you'd be chasing after the feeling it brings, hoping it becomes longer-lasting and deeper.

That wouldn't be... ideal.

"Oh,” you exhale when you feel him hardening against you. In an attempt to comfort him, you lightly pat his chest, fearing he might feel embarrassed about this. "It’s inevitable. It’s alright. I'm... sorry for all this.”

A sharp husky breath escapes him—he chuckles at you.

“We should make it more believable, don't you think?” His hands slide up your thighs to your hips in a sensual way, in their wake, leaving heat beneath your skin and raised skin beneath your dress.

“Yeah.” You're ready to hear him out.

But he doesn't say anything. He only thrusts upwards, knocking air out of your lungs. If he didn't have a grip on your hips, you would’ve jolted too far, probably tumbling down on his chest. Stunned, you try to find an answer in his eyes, but they're murky.

“Yeah, keep your eyes on mine, and let out some moans.” Your jaw slackens in disbelief. “This was your idea. Go through with it.”

Fresh slick gushes into your already wet panties at his forward tone. You've probably messed up his pants, too. He probably feels it. God.

“R-right.”

“I’ll help you.” He grinds up against you again. His fully hardened cock makes you feel more than you did before. A throaty moan slips through your sealed lips before you realise it. Quickly, you slap your hand over your mouth.

“Just like that, baby.” Baby. He removes your hand from your mouth. “We need them to hear, no?”

“Xavier..."

"You don't want them to?" he asks, light and airy with a grin on his lips. But you didn't hear him as you're a bit distracted trying to meet his thrusts.

The friction is delicious, but it's still not enough.

He repeats the question—patient as ever, but louder so that you hear it this time.

“I dooo.” Your whine is a little louder than intended.

His thrusts onwards are pointed and unceasing, unfailingly rubbing against your clit and stimulating you despite the barriers.

His hand creeps under your dress, only stopping when he's at the inside of your thigh. There, he taps, asking. You breathe out, closing your eyes, nodding. You've accepted that you've lost your mind, but at least you're not alone in this.

At least it's with Xavier.

A violent shiver runs down your spine when his fingers push the seam of your panties aside. They find your clit, the glide of his pads easy because of how soaked you are. Your body arches so prettily as your hands find and squeeze his shoulders. You’re rendered weak against these breathtaking motions he applies to your nub.

You aren’t even privy to the staccato moans that escape from your lips or even your head lolling backwards.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “Keep moving your hips with mine.”

You whine, trying your best to, but you can barely keep up with the foreign pressure on your clit and the confined length sliding between your folds.

“My starlight…” he calls oh so softly. His finger leaves your nub, creeping towards your entrance.

The door opens with a crash.

Your body tenses up before you roll to the side, half a mind lamenting your once-approaching orgasm, while the other is in genuine panic. Xavier sits up with the speed of light. Before you realise it, he's hovering over you, shielding you from the eyes behind him.

He doesn’t even spare a glance at the people behind him, eyes only on you. He leans down to kiss your neck, the fingers that were once inside you now holding your waist firmly. You gasp, confused and shaken by his behaviour, but you lightly push at his chest.

“Xavier, they’re here,” you whisper, broken, and he finally glances backwards.

A man covered in black from head to toe steps inside, his form tense at the very awkward situation. He clears his throat.

“You shouldn’t be doing this in here. Get out.”

Xavier smiles at you, backing off from you to pull up and button his slacks. You push down your own dress. He stands up first, stretching out his hand for you.

You take his hand, and he helps you up with ease. Embarrassed, your eyes stayed glued to the floor—you’re not acting, even though this is what you wanted. You straighten out your dress with your singular free hand because he doesn’t let the other go as he guides you towards the door.

You scan the outside to see a group of about six to ten men dressed the same.

The same man from before, the leader you presume, raises a palm in front of Xavier, stopping him.

“You didn’t see anyone else around here, did you?”

“No. I was busy touching my lovely woman.” Your face heats up. My. “I’m sure she was too busy to focus on anything else either.”

With that, you two step off, striding down the hallway.

“People just can’t keep it in their pants.” A low grumble echoes as you walk off.

You don’t even hesitate. You and Xavier pass the ballroom, making your way straight to the car in the parking lot. The engines roar as you drive off.

“You think they’ve realised yet?” you ask.

Xavier hums. “Maybe we should have kissed until your lips are swollen to sell it more.” You chuckle nervously. “But even if they have realised, it’s already too late for them.”

“You’re right.”

There’s silence for a beat.

“That was... good, quick thinking from you back there.”

“Yeah… Thanks… To be honest, a part of me can't believe we made it out.” The breath of relief you release trails off into silence again, this time, the awkward kind. You feared this. “Xavier… About earlier… We did that…”

“Yeah. We did that, and I… enjoyed it.”

You scoff. “Who wouldn't enjoy that?”

“Well, I enjoyed it because it was you.”

Silence envelopes once more before you could mutter a single,

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He laughs. His fingers tighten on the steering wheel, your eyes keen on his movements. “I guess that means we have a lot to talk about.”

His gaze grazes you for a second before turning back on the road.

“Y-Yeah. But first, let’s just carry the drive to HQ.”

He takes a hand off the wheel, and it lands on your thigh. You try not to tense up. “You still have it, right?”

“Yeah. It's… in my bra.”

“Good.” You hear and see him smirk, and you know it’s not because he’s not joyous over the fact that you have the drive.

He’s a loose cannon. He's always been, but this is another side to it.

You huff, looking out the window in fake upset, but he squeezes your thigh.

“You wouldn't do something like that with someone else, right?”

You glare at him and sigh.

This is going to be a long night.

a/n: thanks for reading <3

[lonelydew]

you find fleshed-out drawings/sketches of you and rafayel doing kinky smexual stuff, and you confront him about it (but only because you'd like to get those activities off the pages and do it irl) 🤤🙂‍↕️

[lonelydew]

you love it when zayne kisses you while both of you are wearing glasses.

And Zayne kisses you any chance he gets, so it happens very often.

Sleep had gripped your mind and body as you lay on your bed. The thoughts of staying up for Zayne’s return wafted through your mind weakly. You don’t know how long you had dozed off before you feel a dip in the mattress behind you. You stirred when an arm wrapped around your waist.

“Zayne?” you called out, voice groggy.

“Yes. I’m here, my love.”

“Hmm.”

You spun around, facing him, but before you could even take him in properly, he leaned in to give you a wet peck on your lips. You hear a sharp ‘clack’ sound, and glasses you didn’t realise were still on your face skew diagonally after colliding with his face.

You hum, in question, adjusting your glasses before looking at him whole.

He’s already comfortably in his pyjamas, but—

“You’re still wearing your glasses.”

“You as well.”

“Yeah. I meant to stay awake for you.”

There is a hint of a smile on his lips before kissing you again. This time, deeper, longer, wetter, telling you without words how he missed you so much.

And you use the motion of your lips and tongue and the caress of your thumb on his cheek to let him know it’s very much reciprocated.

The movement of your head makes your glasses collide once, twice, and thrice more.

The sounds from the metal on plastic seamlessly harmonise with the sounds from your mashing lips.

You like it. So much.

When your lips part, you are giggling.

“Looks like our glasses want in on the action, too," you chirp as you set your glasses straight again. You also fix his glasses for him.

“I thought you would take them off.”

“Well…” you drawl the word. “Maybe I like bumping glasses with you, Zayne.”

His low, rhythmic chuckle warms you up. “Well then, be my guest, my love.”

You can’t recall how long you kiss him for before falling asleep, but you wake the next morning, glasses touching glasses and mingling shallow breaths.

a/n: for my fellow glasses-wearing zayne mains, lovers and enjoyers, love y'all <3 (glasses4glasses supremacy lmaooo), thanks for reading <3

[lonelydew]

i’m going to touch this man

[lonelydew]

꒰ LINKS ꒱

ঌ˚.‎‧ MOST RECENT FICS

⟢ do it yourself. ⟢ laced for you. ⟢ whatever it takes, right?

ঌ˚.‎‧ OTHER

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[lonelydew]

꒰ BEFORE YOU FOLLOW / DO NOT INTERACT ꒱

× this blog will contain works that are on the darker side, i will do my best to correctly tag and highlight my writing, and you do your due diligence to read tags

× no minors please (mdni), have integrity, blogs with no age and minors will be blocked on sight

× misogynists, racists, homophobes, lesbophobes, biphobes, transphobes, islamophobes, zionists are not welcome here; this is not a space for any sort of bigotry

× respect should go both ways; please be nice in comments, reblogs, strawpage gimmicks and asks

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× i tend to be a slow writer, please be understanding; i have nasty cases of perfectionism and adhd

× if you're cool with this, continue on, my friend

[lonelydew]

꒰ ABOUT ME ꒱

hellooo, my name is irene, but i like rene better (yes, i'm forcing you to call me a nickname jkjk). i'm 24, afro-caribbean and my pronouns are they/she/he (i don't have a preference).

i love lads (ofc) (i'm a fishsnow main), clairebell (if you love this, let's be friends immediately!) and other thai gls, gl comics (read murmur now!), ptn, fnaf, brooklyn nine-nine, ghosts, abbott elementary, demon slayer, svsss, mdzs and tgcf. if you are fans of any of these, you are more than welcome to scream about them in my asks (please).

i love music a lot… like a lot. i don't have a preferred genre, but my constant artists are the weeknd, katseye, rakiyah, barnacle boi, blackswan, vaporgod, bts, txt, lsfm, doja cat, ariana grande. i have music recs under the #ঌ˚.‎‧♡ rene's music recs ꒱ tag but also recommend me music, please. when moots (from other platforms) rec me music, they're usually so good that they literally consume my soul. also, i LOVE horror movies. my dream date is getting scared together watching a horror movie at the cinema. fr.

for prompts, headcanons or anything else, feel free to hit me up in my asks.

in regards to may posting schedule: there is none :D. there will be slow periods, but i will always be writing.

and i always come back (lmao).

anyway, enjoy my blog and thanks in advance for your support. i hope i can make you all feel things (•̀ᴗ•́ )ゞ

[lonelydew]

18+ | your husband!zayne can read you like a research paper.

Sometimes, you want to be annoyed that he knows you so well, but you really can’t be, especially when he is never forceful about it. But there are times when you never realised you needed him, and he shows up at the right time with the right things to say, blowing your mind and worries away.

Makes you wonder what admirable deed you did in your past life to be able to obtain such a man.

A soft, low chuckle breaks you out of your reverie.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, but his eyes and fingers remain occupied by the laptop.

You laugh, a bit embarrassed. “Just thinking about how attentive you are.”

His lips curl up into a smile that you hear. “I am only this attentive because it’s you.”

You think he's just saying nice things like he always does with you, but you can't help but feel all fuzzy inside, and a small smile forms on your lips.

“Well, I’m really enjoying the ice cream.” You raise the cup of cream. “I feel like a little kid because it really lifted my spirits. When… did you realise I was down? I mean, I wasn't able to see you until just now.”

“On our call earlier."

You gawk at him. "And I was trying so hard to seem okay."

"I've been observing you long enough to know when you do that." He looks up from the laptop screen. "I could… I would watch you for the rest of my life.”

“That’s kind of weird,” you joke, but your smile is bright, and your heart is overflowing with adoration for him.

Your husband. Your Zayne.

He smiles at you, amused, before going back to clicking on his computer.

You’re pretty content with just staring at him while having your dessert, but soon, after you finish eating and put the cup aside, your focus goes elsewhere for a moment, a random tune humming from your lips. You fail to see the second-long glance Zayne makes at our way.

Your eyes find his form again, and you make the horrible mistake of zoning in on his arms that are left bare because of the rolled sleeves of his dress shirt. His forearms and all the visible veins that run across them are mouthwatering. The veins cross paths with his beautiful scars, but eventually carry your eyes to his long, skilled fingers.

Visuals of Zayne touching and holding you with those hands invite themselves into your mind, and you find your breathing now more shallow, a dull aching at your gut. You clear your throat, thinking you're successful in being inconspicuous about your arousal.

“I think I'm going to leave you to your work now. The bed is calling me.”

You jump to your feet, stretching your body.

“Are you sure you want to do that when I can help you with your... situation?” He closes his laptop and loosens his tie.

Deflating, you feel defeated but even more turned on.

“Can you stop doing that?” you huff.

“And if I said no?” He gets up out of his seat, sauntering towards you. He stops right in your space, making you replace your reply with silent anticipation and goosebumps.

He smirks. “No other objections, I presume?”

“No,” you say under your breath.

He hums, nodding. “I’m glad you see the benefits of my being so vigilant.” He bends his knees to swipe you off your feet. You gasp, arms hooking around his neck quickly for support. His arms secure you from under your back and knees. “In this case, you won't have to go to bed alone right now.”

a/n: no thoughts brain full of zayne 😃