you have to forgive the printer because it's one of the most machine-ass machines we interact with on a day to day basis. that thing says kerchunk. hardly anything says kerchunk these days. you can't get mad at her when she kerchunks up a little.
First request since entering lads fandom so here goes nothing
May I request Zayne accidentally proposing to MC during sex? And getting absolutely flustered after. I'm obsessed with this man i swear
just imagining him losing himself so deeply into the intimacy of the moment, letting all his guards down and just simply feeling everything he's feeling... and then just saying it... oh, i'm crying. my shayla:(((
tyyy for the request! hope you like it~ ♡ (p.s. not proofread)
🔞MDNI ⋆. — content warnings: suggestive, love confession during sex, marriage proposal mid-sex
The air is thick with sex and the low, ragged hum of Zayne’s breathing.
His mouth is at the hollow of your throat, open and panting, tongue tracing the frantic flutter of your pulse. One of his hands is splayed across the small of your back, fingertips digging into the supple flesh there, anchoring you to him. The other one tangled in your hair, holding tight as if you were the only fixed point in a world that had begun to spin off its axis.
You are pinned so perfectly beneath him that the whole world has narrowed to the slick, relentless slide of his body into yours. He’s not holding back tonight—hasn’t been for what feels like hours—and every deep, rolling thrust presses a broken sound from your lips that he chases with his own, mouthing at your jaw, your throat, the sweat-damp hollow of your collarbone as if he wants to drink you down.
“You feel—” he grits out, and the rest of the sentence is lost to a shudder that wracks his spine. His hips slow, grinding even deeper.
The shift in angle makes you arch, nails digging into the flexing muscle of his back. He groans, a sound ripped from somewhere so deep it’s almost pained, and his forehead drops to yours. His eyes are squeezed shut, dark lashes fanned against flushed cheeks, and his composure has been frayed thread by thread until all that’s left is the raw, desperate man trembling inside you.
You can feel the tension coiling in him, the desire to keep you close. The telltale hitch of his breath, the way his rhythm stutters and then catches, harder, needier. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, hitching your leg higher around his waist, and the new depth punches a gasp from both of you. He’s talking now, a low, breathless litany against your skin—my love, my darling, you’re everything—and the words are so saturated with reverence that they feel like prayer.
Then his mouth finds the shell of your ear, his voice a ruined whisper. “I can’t—I don’t ever want this to end. I need you. I need you forever. Please, will you—”
He breaks off with a sharp, stunned inhale, but the words he’s already let slip hang in the humid space between your bodies like a struck bell.
Marry me.
You freeze. He freezes. For one suspended heartbeat, the only movement is the involuntary clench of your body around him, and you watch, dazed, as the reality of what he’s just moaned into your ear crashes over him.
Zayne’s eyes fly open, wide and glassy with pleasure that is rapidly being eclipsed by outright horror. The flush that was already painting his cheeks and chest deepens to a violent, boyish scarlet, spreading down his neck and over the tops of his shoulders. His hips have stopped moving entirely, though he’s still buried to the hilt, and the sudden stillness is almost unbearable.
“I—” he starts, and his voice cracks. Zayne, whose voice never cracks. He looks utterly, catastrophically wrecked—hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen and glossy, pupils blown so wide there’s only a slim ring of hazel left. “That was not—I did not intend to say that out loud. Not like this. Not while I’m—” he makes a small, strangled gesture between your bodies, as if to indicate the absolute indecency of the circumstances. The movement shifts him inside you in a way that makes you both suck in air.
You should probably help him. You should say something. But the sight of him floundering in the aftermath of his own accidental proposal is so endearingly human that you can’t quite stop the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. Your chest feels impossibly full, a honey-warm bloom of affection tangling with the lingering heat low in your belly.
“Zayne,” you grin up at him, but he flinches like you’ve just pronounced his death sentence. “Did you just propose to me in the middle of—”
“Yes,” he cuts in, voice strangled and mortified. “And I am terribly, acutely aware that this is not how one is supposed to—there were plans. There was a restaurant and flowers. A ring. I’ve had the ring for months—” he groans, dropping his forehead to the curve of your shoulder, enveloping you in the heat radiating off his skin. “Months, and I ruined it because I couldn’t control my own mouth during—during—”
“Really, really good sex?” you offer, unable to resist.
He makes a wounded noise against your neck. “Please don’t say it like that, my love.”
You laugh, breathless and a little wild, your fingers coming up to card through the damp strands of his hair. He shivers at the touch, still buried deep inside, still half-hard and thrumming with a tension that has nothing to do with lust now, or so you think. “Zayne. Look at me, baby.”
It takes a moment, but he lifts his head. The expression on his face is a war zone. Embarrassment, frustration with himself, and underneath it all, a raw, quivering hope that he’s trying valiantly to hide. He looks so devastatingly beautiful like this—vulnerable and stripped bare in every possible way—that you feel your heart clench right alongside the rest of you.
“Ask me again,” you nudge softly. “Properly.”
His throat works up and down, your eyes tracing the movement with hope and excitement. The flush hasn’t faded, but something in his eyes steadies. He shifts his weight to one elbow, freeing a hand to cup your face with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting. His thumb traces the arch of your cheekbone, so softly it makes you melt even more under his touch.
When he speaks, his voice is still a little shaken but steadier, every word with purpose behind them now.
“I love you,” he confesses. “I have loved you so long I don’t remember what it felt like before. I want to fall asleep with you and wake up with you and have you steal my shirts and drink my coffee and interrupt my charts with doodles in the margins. I want everything. Every argument, every quiet morning in our home, every messy, inexplicable, wonderful moment of being with you. Will you—” he gulps softly, a ghost of his earlier fluster flickers across his features, but he pushes through it, earnest and achingly sincere. “Will you marry me?”
The answer is already spilling from your lips before he’s finished. A whispered, fervent yes that he catches with his mouth, kissing you with a depth of emotion that steals your breath away. The kiss turns heated almost immediately, the suspended passion roaring back to life, and when he finally rocks his hips again, you both moan into the space between your mouths.
Afterwards, tangled in sheets and each other, he buries his face in your hair and mutters something that sounds like I can’t believe I proposed to you mid-coitus, and you laugh until your sides ache, pressing kisses to his burning cheeks while he tries, and fails, to maintain any remaining shred of dignity.
It is, you decide, the most perfect proposal you could have ever imagined.
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