Why Zayne would be the most likely to get you pregnant by accident: A thesis by Soul
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆Yes I’m taking this dead serious and you should too… I’m kidding I just think this is funny I wasn’t expecting this much of a reaction to the initial post so now here we are… enjoy my thoughts :)
He's very in tune with your body, including your cycle.
Maybe too in tune with it. He knows your cycle like the back of his hand, knows it like all the cardiology textbooks he memorized in grad school. Hell, he can tell where you are in your cycle simply by the way you smell, by the way you taste... you get my point.
Zayne knowing you this well is touching, honestly. But it's also his biggest kryptonite because god dammit he just can't resist you. Especially when he knows you're ovulating.
2. He prefers taking preventative measures rather than you taking preventative measures.
Zayne knows how hard birth control can be to your body. The pill has a side effect pamphlet that could double as a queen size blanket. An IUD is a painful insertion process even if you get pain meds. They mess with your hormones, with your cycle, can cause more issues than benefits in his opinion. It's just not worth it.
While he is more than willing to get a vasectomy for you - something that is reversible for when the time comes that you do actually plan to try for children - you keep telling him that condoms are more than effective and it's not worth the recovery process at this point... ;)
3. Zayne is very easily persuaded by you in the heat of the moment.
If you didn't catch my drift from above... you are very convincing when asking Zayne to take the condom off and fuck you raw.
He won't do it before sex, no he won't do it before or during foreplay either. But let him slip inside, let him feel how soft and warm you are... or at least let him try because that oh-so-thin layer of latex his holding him back from so much... and then try asking... he'll slip it off in a heartbeat. Consequences be damned... he'll pull out... or at least try.
4. Zayne's diet and life style provide him with pretty healthy swimmers... even with his sweets intake.
Zayne eats good, works out, tries his hardest to get enough sleep. All because of you, all for you. He now treats his body with care, even though he can't resist those damn macaroons, his healthy habits tend to balance out his unstoppable sweet tooth. Making the overall quality of his sperm good, strong, and... well... eager.
5. Zayne has an incredibly high sex drive.
Listen... he's pretty insatiable. The more frequently you do it... the higher the risk... and I mean the second you convince him to take the condom off he is not slipping a new one on for the next round... rounds.
In conclusion, Zayne is the most careful among all the love interests. He is so precise with everything he does that it’s almost… bound to happen? Listen, fate has never been outwardly kind to this man so the irony would just be comical at this point. Not that he’d be upset!
Zayne would love to be a dad, so if it happened a little ahead of schedule? He’d welcome them with open arms.
"Do you understand the covenant you are about to make?" His hands hover around yours, tracing the rim of the wheel, lighting the runes there. “That your body, your soul, will be offered to this altar. And to me?”
read on ao3
➻➻ ABOUT | 2700 words. zayne x fem!reader.
➻➻ TAGS | MDNI. rituals. offerings. altar sex. porn without plot. power dynamics. soft dom zayne. light dom/sub. shameless smut.
NOTE: I suddenly had a visceral need to indulge in ritualistic intimacy (with hella religious subtext) with Zayne. This is also a direct attack on @starmocha who's been sending me the filthiest god!zayne fanart all day as I wrote this (ily). Please enjoy this descent into hell xx
You enter the temple on slightly weakened legs, cold and slick with the salt of your sweat, clutching the place on your chest where purple, red, and grey tinge your skin. The walls are etched with scenes of destruction and rebirth, the kind of carvings meant to outlast empires. The air is thick with resin and spice, incense curling into knots that cling to the stone columns, and the torchlight trembles as you move farther from the doorway behind you.
Even through the aches, you feel the sacred weight of the place pressing down, and for a blessed few seconds, your world is reduced to the hush of this temple's inner sanctum and the sounds of your breathing.
The temple is colder tonight, the silence pressing close to your lungs. You’ve walked these halls before, sometimes with nothing but bruises, sometimes with shallow cuts and scrapes. And yet it has always welcomed you, if not with his company then with his silent, omniscient presence.
This time, you sense him before you fully see him: a shape unfolding from a shadow by the altar, a silhouette that seems to reflect the firelight rather than absorb it. He's outlined against white marble. Someone who looks like a man, but has the power of a god. One that has been summoned by many but understood by none.
He watches you with patient composure, eyes like the depths of a lush forest in the night. Your injuries are more brazen on your skin than usual, and for a beat, he studies them with an intense, almost wrathful expression.
He's clothed in silks the color of polished garnet and cream ivory. Gold drapes his musculature and contours as if he were an offering himself rather than the receiver of them. Delicate chains pour down his arms, heavy strands resting across the sides of his bared chest, dipping under the cut of his pectorals. His arms, encased in skeletal-shaped gold, gleam with a divine elegance, the design covering his forearms and hands as though metallic bone has grown over flesh.
“Back so soon,” he observes before his eyes deliberately scan your person. "But this-" he continues, his voice echoing in an empty room, accusatory but also strangely… tender. "-this is worse than the other times."
You continuously come to this temple to be unmade and remade. As aggressor and injured, as blasphemer and supplicant, as somebody who knows the ledger of debts owed to gods and also knows how to tally the offerings. You usually offer him the necessary things: the melodious hymn from the back of your throat, out-of-season herbs and blooms, incense and animal bones, valuables that you've pilfered from your quarry. In exchange, he's offered you and your injuries time and sanctuary from a world out to get you.
“I had nowhere else.” You force yourself nearer, seeking the familiarity of these walls, the safety of his healing, divine presence, even as your bruises ache and your pulse flutters like a candle flame.
He steps closer as well, and where he moves, shapes dance across marble walls until you watch his shadow become one with your own. He places his hand over an abrasion on your chin, and the touch is paradoxically calming and electrifying. His power shimmers over your exposed skin, and the ache of the scrape is wiped away.
Something like curiosity flickers across his face. “There are gods who mend. Why do you not seek them? Why choose a god on the path of destruction?”
"Because you've never turned anyone away." You answer with the simple truth. "Because you've never turned me away.
"You romanticize the power I wield." He shakes his head, insistent fingers moving to soothe another cut on your arm. "Nothing any god offers is without a price."
"And yet." You close your eyes only long enough to savour the warmth of his hand. "You’re the only one I’d be willing to pay that price to."
He studies you for a long moment, the candlelight illuminating the swipe of red darkening his cheeks.
“You know the cost.” His hand hovers near the deepest wound on your clavicle, the one painting your hand the colour of his sash. “Destruction cannot be undone without an offering."
“I know, I've thought of that. I have nothing of worth to give.” Your voice is quiet but steady. “But I can offer you myself.”
His features harden, and his words resound with divine command even as the words themselves are downright petulant when he says, “No. I will not allow any more of your blood to be spilled.”
“Yes. You don't need my blood. My body is just as valuable. I am worthy in my own right,” you counter, your voice rising with a resolve that surprises even you. “I've decided that I will bind myself to you. I will learn your rites, keep your altar. I will nurture worshippers of you, and I will be the protector of this temple. I will become the priestess of the God of Annihilation.”
His gaze intensifies again, green flickering in the torchlight as something possessive flashes across his gaze. “You speak with the certainty of one who understands the shape of devotion. Show me your determination to bind yourself to me,” he challenges.
His eyes follow you as you move with confidence, with certainty and purpose for the first time since you were cast away, and you feel the weight of his expectation. His regard. His... reverence.
The torchlight refracts off the rippling surface of the water in the center of the temple, where a circular blossom-speckled pool shimmers in muted torchlight. At the base of it sits a wheel of fate, its spokes etched with symbols that seem to shift when you glance at them, a reminder that every destiny is fluid in this place.
You wade through the lukewarm pool, reach the stone wheel, and place your hands upon it, feeling a molten heat surge through you. The exact moment you gasp at the sensation, the water around you ripples, and his presence envelops you. A mirror image of your shadows on the wall. It's so quick that it makes your chest flutter. And you wonder if he is as eager as you to bind you to him. If this is his quiet way of making sure you don’t change your mind.
A combination of hot skin and cold metal descends your shoulder blades and back to the base of your spine. The warm water laps gently against your thighs, heating the sensitive space between them.
"Do you understand the covenant you are about to make?" His hands hover around yours, tracing the rim of the wheel, lighting the runes there. “That your body, your soul, will be offered to this altar. And to me?”
"I do." You exhale slowly, letting the heat of the water and the pull of him ground you in this act of transcendence. “Carve my fate into yours." A demand and an offering all at once.
Turning toward him, you try to add the words that would seal it, a litany, a rite of passage for anyone giving themselves to a god’s service. But before they can leave your lips, his mouth is on yours, claiming it with a hunger that is almost devout in its gentleness. A strong arm presses you closer and, careful to avoid the injury on your jaw, he tilts your head, deepening the kiss so that every gasp, every heartbeat, becomes part of this consecration.
Your hands grasp at the cloth and chains over his heart, and his hands push through the soaked sashes pooling at your hips. The warmth hits you at the same time his palm squeezes your inner thigh, causing you to shiver.
Heat and want are already pooling in your stomach, and even if you had any protests, they would've shattered around the moan you release when two of his fingers slowly slide through your slick with ease and hook perfectly up into your spot. Knees buckling at the combination of his thick fingers and the ridged skeletal jewelry penetrating you, you break your kiss to steady yourself against the wheel and pant uneven breaths over your hands, which press into the glowing runes in the stone.
He doesn't stop, though, continuing to leave his mark on you while drawing his gilded fingers in and out. Branding his lips and teeth and mouth into the space beneath your ear, the skin stretched over your thudding pulse, across the small scrape on your shoulder, down your shoulder blade, sucking your skin into his mouth with deliberate, claiming pressure. Every score of his teeth, every hot tremble of his breath leaves you shaking as your inner walls tighten around him.
Unexpectedly, he stops, eliciting a pleading whine from your throat. Removing his fingers to turn you around, he cradles you in his arms in the water, his height arching your back over the shimmering light of the runes behind you. One of his hands supports your neck and head, while the other presses into your collarbone, tracing over the healed, un-bloodied skin, where your deepest injury had marred you only a few minutes ago.
“These waters are not intended to cleanse you.” He rasps, stroking his fingers against your skin and gazing deep into your eyes. “These waters will stain you. They will mark you as mine.”
You nod, words falling apart with each inhale and exhale.
"Not in the name of your worship." His hand disappears below the water and starts to move, and you only realize what's happening when you feel a silky hardness ten times hotter than the water around you align with your center. "But in the name of our fate."
He thrusts forward in one fluid motion, every contour and ridge filling you entirely. The stretch is so overwhelming, it knocks the breath right out of your lungs as you close your eyes and let yourself ascend. Let yourself become one with a god.
"Not in the name of the holy," he groans as he drives himself in once and slowly drags himself back out, making choppy waves ripple in the pool over and over and over again until you hear a keening whimper slither its way out of your throat, the sound only muffling when his lips find their way back to yours. "But in the name of our desires."
"Not in the name of the gods," he whispers into your throat, biting the skin above your jewelry and then sucking it to soothe it. "But in the name of me."
He completes the last word on another hard, deliberate thrust, tearing your body and your shout open in the most devastatingly exquisite way that has you bearing even more of your throat to his searing mouth.
Every drag of him inside you is a stretch that has your body burning and pleading for more, even as it starts to shiver from the sheer force of the sensation. Pleasure curls low in your belly, so tight and sharp it feels like it could consume you whole.
This is the culmination of every one of your meetings in the shadows of this temple. The nights you stumbled here, bruised and desperate. The way he'd always whisper your name, like all the prayers he'd heard for his own. The nights when you swore you saw hunger burning in his eyes before he turned away. All of those fragments and stolen moments now converge here, carved into you with each slow roll of his hips, with each kiss that leaves your lips raw and sanctified.
But as his slow, worshipful pace continues to drag on, your patience, in turn, continues to break. Every part of your body, every crevice, every vein, every pore has become a chalice overflowing with electrifying pressure until your hands are forced to ease it. With a frustrated moan, you rip your nails from the skin of his back, forcefully grab his hips, and start trying to push them into you at the pace you need.
You’re thwarted and punished for your impudence almost instantly, one of his hands snapping around your wrists and pinning them hard to the stone as his weight bears down on you, the contours of his biceps swelling with restrained force. The glowing runes flare and cast their light into his eyes, turning his gaze molten gold as it fixes on you, unyielding.
He leans in, voice a sharp blade against your lips. “Impatient,” he admonishes, and you realize his punishment is far from over when the movement of his cock inside you stops.
He presses himself closer until the shape of the jewels on his chest presses cool indents into the fiery heat of your exposed skin. “I will take care of you from now on.”
Air leaves you in ragged bursts; sobs tear out of you between gasps, raw and hungry as you nod obediently.
"Say it," he whispers, strands of his hair falling like sheets of silk around you, closing you in with him like a confessional.
"You will take care of me," you pant, more plea than agreement.
“That’s such an innocent way to say it,” he says, voice softening with a new, almost playful edge. “But you’re far from innocent, aren’t you?” The fingers of one hand tighten around your wrists, a reminder of consequences and claim, as his other thumb drags across the pulse under your jaw. “Tell me you want me to own you.”
You do everything in your power not to move your hips yourself, not to give in to the friction your body craves. Every nerve is tingling, every breath ragged and desperate, and oxygen stumbles in your throat. “I want you to own me,” you finally manage.
For a moment, he simply holds you, his chest rising, the wet heat of his skin against your cheek, then a small, almost tender sound leaves him. “Yes,” he breathes, as if confirming something he’s been waiting to hear.
Then, finally, his hips start moving again. You whimper in veneration as his cock slips in and out of you in hard, fast, relentless thrusts that create the exact rhythm your body had been begging for.
Relief and need coil together in your stomach as tightly as he coils himself around you, letting go of your wrists to shield your back from being scraped on the stone with one forearm while driving your hips back and forth along his length with the other.
You shiver against him, tearing off gold chains one by one as you claw your way to his skin, offering yourself fully. Each mark and scrape of your nails is a prayer etched into the body of the divine.
Fiery heat begins to gather in your belly again, spreading throughout your body. You feel the heat of your wetness cut through the lukewarm water, your own arousal trickling into the sacred pool that your bodies are submerged in.
“I waited for you,” you whisper against his mouth, as you took everything he had to give.
Claim me. Make me yours. Bind me to you forever.
“Of course you did," he coos. "You could never take care of yourself as well as a god can.”
He angles your hips further, and suddenly, he's brushing against a little gathering of sensitive nerves, and you are screaming into the softness of his throat as your orgasm rips through you without warning, evidence of your ecstasy spilling from all sides of you.
You babble incoherently, unsure if you're even conscious, or if you've slipped into a permanent state of bliss. Crying, sobbing. Clawing his robes. Trembling uncontrollably, like a leaf enduring hurricane winds.
He holds you through the tremors, both of you slick and shining, bodies pressed together as the heat and devotion settle. And there, in the deepest part of you, he spills his seed. It fills you to the brim, and you welcome it.
It's otherworldly. Supernatural. Transcendental.
Slowly, you feel the results of your ritual, the mixture of your arousal and his seed, spill from within you into the sacred pool, all baptized together into the altar, a living testament of the covenant you had just forged.
You leave yourself, exit your body, ascend until you find yourself observing the moment from above. The way you tremble beneath Zayne, the God of Annihilation, the one you've given your mind, body, and soul to. The one you will belong to for all eternity.
♱⋅── ZAYNE is just a perfect husband, even more than they know.
♱⋅── MDNI just horny thoughts about zayne, once again.
"Zayne is such a wonderful husband."
The entire hospital knows of the mystery lady who seems to be the only thing more important to the man than surgery itself. The one who, if you ask about the cute homemade bento box or a cup of caramel coffee (with whipped cream on top) and a sticky note on the side, will say, “my wife got it for me,” with a smile that you might have thought impossible for him to make.
"Zayne is such a wonderful husband."
Even your apartment neighbors know him as such, the sweet elderly lady on your left always greeting him with a hug and a coy smile, asking what goodies he brought for you today. It’s his own fault, really, always bringing back a new bouquet of flowers, groceries he noticed you running out of, or a new pile of books you begged him to pick up from the library on his way over.
"Zayne is such a wonderful husband."
Especially in your eyes.
Especially when he’s been stuck in the hospital or on a god-forsaken business trip, pushed away from you for days (although he insists anything more than 24 hours is unbearable enough), and nothing can keep him from you once he returns.
He’s such a wonderful husband, especially when he has you on your back, gasping for air and mercy you don’t want as he forces your legs up higher, quivering thighs shoved against your chest.
It’s hot, too hot, and not even Zayne’s Evol can keep up, sweat making long black strands stick to his forehead, dripping down his neck and back as you claw against every ripping muscle there, incoherent, burning up from the inside as you beg for more and more and more.
You were a mess already, undone by an hour prior of tortuously delicate touching, Zayne’s tongue giving unwavering attention to your clit and nipples, building you up until you practically ripped his pants off and demanded that he be inside you. Not that he could ever refuse you.
Now you think it might have been a mistake, feeding an insatiable beast.
You’ve already cum on his fingers, and yet you feel something build again, a pressure that feels more like a complete loss of control, intense and overwhelming as you gasp into Zayne’s neck, scrambling to push him off even as his hips fuck into yours.
“Wait,” a moan, muffling yourself into your palm as Zayne’s thumb goes to your poor abused clit again, misreading your blabbering as an indication you’re close. “Wait! No, no, it’s not. It feels different, just–”
Finally, he freezes. Pulls out, and immediately drops to his stomach, large hands pushing your thighs to your shoulders, tongue already at your cunt. “Don’t stop me.”
The please at the end of his sentence is swallowed by a guttural groan as he tastes you again, rich, heady, intoxicating. His eyes, half-open and lovedrunk, were locked on your face, never leaving, drinking in your unraveling expressions with terrifying devotion as you writhe and arch desperately into his mouth.
“That’s it, love,” he leaves a kiss on your shaking legs before forcing you to hold them up yourself, his fingers immediately curl inside you. The horrible pressure in your stomach coils tighter, threatening to explode. “That’s it, good girl. You’re doing so good for me. Fuck.”
And then his tongue joins his fingers, gently circling your clit as his fingers mercilessly piston in and out of you until they hit a spot that makes you scream. Everything inside you convulses, a violent, helpless shudder that rips a delirious sob from your chest as something bursts. You feel it even as the world spins, thighs and ass slippery and filthy as the obscene sounds of skin on skin are magnified, covered only with Zayne’s low, guttural moans, swallowing everything you give him.
He can’t stop, panting against your cunt, leaving kisses and licking the spray of your release up your abdomen before he’s hovering atop you once more.
“Again.”
Zayne flips you over, hands bruising your ass and waist in ways that make your eyes roll back, a moan ripping from you as Zayne’s hand pulls on your hair, forcing your limp head off the pillow and back, lips meeting yours in a wet, sloppy kiss that has saliva and sweat running down your throat. You think you might be losing consciousness or maybe just your sanity, but gods, you never want this to stop.
"My prince..." you whine as Zayne's long cock drags pleasurably along your inner walls, making them ripple and clench wetly around his velvety column. "We shouldn't...Our marriage...isn't yet offical..."
"So?" Zayne's breath tickles your ear as he leisurely thrusts into your moist channel. His tone was calm and unworried, like he couldn't be bothered with the consequences. "From the moment we were betrothed, haven't all the elders been fixated on us making an heir?"
"But my prince...ngh...even if they...mhm...implied it...I don't think they...ooh...meant before...marriage..." you say breathlessly as your breasts bounce with every rock of his hips. Sensibility had no place here, not when your desires for Zayne were twisted and raw, insatiable and powerless to say no to him.
Zayne grasps your chin with his fingers, forcing you to look at him as he lazily ruts, his hips lying flush against yours each time until you could feel his thick head softly kissing your cervix with each stroke.
"Aren't you the prince's beloved consort?" He asks, eyes hazy, as though he were drunk on your body, the heat and wet muscles of your sex drawing him deeper into you. Your cheeks heat up as you remember his declaration and nod.
"Then who else but the beloved consort should bear my heir? Married or not, you're mine." He leans down to whisper in your ear. "Even if you're with child before that happens."
You gasp as he gathers you against his chest, his heart hammering against your ear as you cling to him, silk garments rustling from the languid strokes, your little mewls of pleasure filling the air of his private bedchamber.
zayne's thumb hovers over your name on the screen. he wants to call you, but he's hesitating for a few reasons. it's late, you're probably already asleep, and both of you have just started going out exclusively and seriously. he's not sure if you've reached the stage of your relationship where he can call you in the middle of the night without it being a burden. but he's feeling restless from his shift at the hospital. there's a small sense of comfort that you can bring him just by talking to him, even if it's just for a few minutes.
he presses down on the screen. the line starts to ring. his heart is beating quickly, and he feels guiltier as each ring finishes. he's about to hang up and just leave it be when your voice comes through from the other end, croaky and thick with sleep.
"zayne? hello?"
"sorry," he mutters. "did i wake you?"
"well, yes," you chuckle. "it's almost two in the morning. what's wrong?"
"forget it," he says quickly. "sorry to disturb you. go back to sleep."
"no, it's okay. i'm awake now anyway. what's up?"
silence. zayne is thinking of what to say.
"i just... wanted to hear your voice."
you pause for a moment.
"like... like this?"
he smiles to himself. "yes. just like this."
"tough shift at the hospital?"
"yes."
"well, i'm glad you called me."
"you are?"
"sure. it's nice to know that i'm the first person you thought to call."
his smile grows wider. his shoulders feel lighter, his chest feeling less tight. "thank you," he whispers. "i'll let you go back to sleep."
"are you sure? i don't mind staying on the line a little longer."
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.
$15.99 MAIN COURSE 1 ━ ZAYNE 黎深
synopsis. when you lose your memory from a strange wanderer's protofield, zayne takes it upon himself to nurture you back to health. but he just can't help but remind you just who he is.
wc. 7.3k please mind the content warnings.
━ ✧ cw: mdni, explicit sexual content, coercion and manipulation, inappropriate doctor-patient dynamic, dubious consent, angst with comfort, reader has amnesia and zayne takes advantage, prev. established relationship, mating press, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering
━ ✧ an: day one of kinktober! please note that for kinktober i am doing slightly darker themes. you could consider this out of character for the guys, but i've tried to write it as realistically as possible. i did provide a good amount of plot and build-up to give more depth to the situation and make it less ooc. the coming kinktober fics will NOT be as long as this one. i got carried away. please make sure you read the warnings. if you are uncomfortable by them, do not read.
Zayne supports you across the threshold of the front door of his home, making sure to keep his hands on yours shoulders and upper arm. His jaw clenches as he watches you look around curiously, noting the lack of recognition in your sparkling eyes.
"You'll be staying here while you recover," he murmurs softly, "Let me bring you to your room."
You turn to him, your eyes wide and trusting while you nod. Your fingers clutch him desperately, almost fearful that he might disappear and leave you all alone in this unfamiliar place.
"Is this your home?"
Zayne's heart clenches painfully. You really didn't remember.
"Yes, it is."
"It's really nice," you say, almost awkwardly. Zayne doesn't say anything. Even if he trusted himself to speak, he'd have difficulty finding the right words.
Zayne gently pushes the door open to the master bedroom. As he assists you to the edge of the bed, he quickly moves to the nightstand to turn over the photo frame that sits there, deftly tucking it away into the drawer. It'd only confuse you if you saw them now.
"Isn't this your room?" you ask, noting that despite how modern, clean, and minimalist it is, it has an air of comfort that would indicate it's been frequently lived in. Zayne pauses as he makes his way across the room, subtly hiding mementos and keepsakes that might reveal the true nature of your relationship with him.
Beyond the convenience of the attached bathroom, Zayne wanted you to be surrounded by something familiar, even if you didn't remember it. And you'd definitely spent countless hours in this very room.
When he gives you a curt nod, your eyes widen and you stare down at your fingers as they fidget nervously, "I-I can sleep on the couch. I don't want to impose."
Zayne chuckles, almost darkly—undeniably fractured at your words, "No, absolutely not. This bedroom has an adjoined bathroom and you'll need the privacy."
You jump in surprise when a hand gently grips your shoulder, not realizing Zayne had made his way beside you. At your reaction, Zayne releases you instantly. A myriad of emotions that you don't understand briefly flicker across his face before he returns to the stoic and professional doctor you knew him to be.
"I'll be sleeping in the guest room, no one needs to sleep on the couch," his tone leaves no room for protesting, "You're my patient—it's my job to ensure your recovery."
His gentle tone and reassuring words appease you, and you nod slowly. Even if you wanted to insist further, you didn't want to upset him—unbelievably grateful that your doctor would go so far to take care of you. You didn't want to be a burden, much less do anything that might upset him.
"I…" you trail off, intimidated by his intense gold and olive eyes, "I'm sorry you have to do this. It must be troublesome…to have to bring a patient home."
A patient.
Right. He was your doctor and nothing else.
At least that's what he'd let you believe when they brought you into the hospital—the effects of a wanderer's protofield causing you to develop a type of memory loss similar to retrograde amnesia.
But it wasn't quite the same. The effects of this specific Wanderer were highly random and had little rhyme to its reason. You remembered your name, small things like your favorite color, your favorite foods. But things that shouldn't have disappeared, like instinctual human connections, had been wiped clean from your memory.
The blank look of confusion on your face when he'd hugged you would always haunt him. It wasn't just that you didn't remember him—which you didn't—but it seemed you'd also forgotten what it meant to embrace someone, your hands hanging limply at your sides when he'd held you.
Zayne had fought tooth and nail to be the doctor to treat you. Yes, he was your primary care provider so you were allowed to have your routine appointments with him. But when you were brought into the emergency room, trauma procedure dictated that doctors were not to treat loved ones—especially not their significant others.
But you latched onto the him as your doctor. Someone you could trust. The only person you seemed to trust, as when anyone tried any orderlies tried to touch you, you panicked and instantly sought him out. Something about him you just found comfort in.
You—your state of mind—had been far too fragile, understandably confused, agitated, and scared. He couldn't bear the idea of taking away the one thing that had become a constant for you, when you felt like you had nothing.
Especially not when no one could be certain if this was permanent. More than anything, he wanted to protect you. Your memories…maybe they'd come back, maybe they wouldn't. But that was nothing compared to the idea of you fracturing further if he didn't tread carefully.
It was agonizing to see you like this—not knowing if you'd ever remember him. Remember what you'd had together.
"It's no trouble," he finally says, clearing his throat of his strangled emotions. He hesitates before continuing, "It's…normal. I'm your doctor. It's my job to make sure you're taken care of."
Not knowing any better, you nod, accepting the explanation. You watch Zayne busy himself around the room, coming in and out of the connected bathroom. Finally, he comes to sit beside you on the edge of the bed, gently setting a towel into your hands.
"I started the bath for you. You're not injured too badly but you have quite a bit of bruising. The warm water will be good for you."
"There will be clothes on the bed for you when you come out. I'll redress your bandages after you're done."
As he turns to leave, you find yourself clutching him.
"W-Where are you going?" you say, almost panicked. The idea of being alone in this unfamiliar place terrified you, the echoes of your lost memories deafening in your mind.
Zayne visibly softens. His hand impulsively raises, just centimeters shy of your cheek. He aches to hold you, but decides against it, instead tucking your hair behind your ear.
"I'll just be in the kitchen," he murmurs, "You need something to eat."
He pauses, hand lingering before he pulls it back to his side and speaks again, "Do you want me to stay?" He hopes you'll say yes—craving proximity and connection. It was easy for him to be reliable and strong, you needed him and that came above all. But he was suffering too.
Yes—your mind cries out. But you purse your lips, determined to not bother him more than you already had by just existing.
"No…no. I'll be okay," you give him a half-hearted smile, trying to reassure him. He keeps his face stoic, not wanting you to see the disappointment he feels deeply. He looks reluctant, regarding you for a few moments before standing again.
"I'll be downstairs if you need anything. Anything at all."
His eyes linger on you for a second longer before he forces himself to leave. The sight of you, beautiful as ever, but vulnerable and broken, threatened to barrel through his sensibilities—through his resolve.
You watch his back as he retreats, not understanding the ache you felt in your chest at the sight of him leaving.
—
"Not hungry?" Zayne says gently, watching you twirl your spoon in your congee.
Your eyes snap to his, surprised, "N-No, I am." You bring the porridge to your lips, taking a spoonful and forcing yourself to swallow.
Zayne's lips tighten, catching on immediately to what you're doing. He gently pries the spoon from your hands, setting it back into the bowl.
"Please. Don't appease me. It's alright if you can't eat. It's alright if you don't want to be alone."
You find your eyes stinging, inexplicably drawn to the raven haired doctor's words—finding immeasurable comfort in them amidst your inner turmoil.
"I am hungry," you admit, "I just…" You struggle to find the words, not wanting to articulate the depth of the wallow of your anguish. You'd spent the entire day willing yourself to remember something, anything.
But of course nothing came.
Zayne stands from across the table and makes his way to the seat beside yours. He gently takes the bowl from your fingers—his hands incredibly cold but you don't flinch.
"Your memories don't define you. You'll always be…" he clears his throat as he trails off.
"Your memories will return with time," he tries to ease your worries, though he knows his promises are uncertain. Blowing gently on a spoonful of congee, he carefully brings it to your lips. Your eyes widen with surprise, not expecting this level of care from a doctor.
But for that reason it makes you more inclined to eat, wanting to show your gratitude for the man that had taken it upon himself to care for you until your memories returned. If ever.
After you swallow the spoonful, the hearty porridge warming your entire body, you whisper, "What if they don't?"
Zayne doesn't think twice as he gently lifts your chin, his eyes searching yours, "If they don't…We—You can always make new ones."
He catches himself, nearly letting too much slip out. You don't notice his brief stutter, instead wondering why this man's words had such a hold over you.
Zayne's eyes aren't on yours, irises pointed downwards before they flicker back up. His jaw ticks, knowing he shouldn't be touching you like this but he can't stop himself.
A warmth blooms in your chest as his breath fans across your flushed face. You don't understand it, figuring the congee was probably too hot.
As your cheeks flourish, looking up at him like a trusting baby deer, Zayne loses himself just slightly. For a second, he forgets that you'd been been gone for weeks, on the same mission that led to your current state. He forgets the ache in his heart that you occupied, that still throbs even as you sit right in front of him.
He forgets that he's supposed to be nothing more than an overbearing doctor to you. That second is all it takes for instinct to take over, his body drawn to yours by forces far greater than his measured self control.
It's second nature for him to nuzzle his nose against yours—his lips drawn to you like two opposing magnets. You stop breathing when his lips brush against the corner of yours, but you don't pull away.
Before you even have a chance to decide if you like or hate the feeling, Zayne pulls away and clears his throat—cursing himself inwardly.
He'd kissed you—if even just barely. He couldn't take that back. All he could do now was hope you wouldn't think too deeply into it.
You watch him curiously as he resumes feeding you, "Why did you do that?"
The green-eyed doctor freezes before bringing the spoon to your lips again, doing his damn best to remain impassive.
"Why did I kiss you?"
You cock your head with intrigue, searching your head for familiarity, "Kiss?"
Zayne keeps his concern to himself, not wanting to concern you further. How was it possible that the Wanderer's protofield could manipulate your memory this drastically? That long standing symbols of emotion would lose their meaning?
He could practically feel the ice freezing over in his veins as the depth of your vulnerability sinks in.
"A kiss…It can mean a lot of things."
Zayne didn't often find himself speechless. But these waters were incredibly treacherous to navigate—he had to find the perfect words to explain himself.
"Sometimes, you don't have to use words to express how you feel."
He blows onto the steaming spoon, "A kiss is to show affection. Gratitude. Or even remorse. It can mean many different things." He clears his throat briefly, hoping you'll buy into his ridiculous explanation.
"It means I care about you," he settles on, "I'm your doctor."
He looks composed, save for his red-tipped ears, leading you to believe the brief touch against your mouth was normal. A normal doctor and patient interaction. It shouldn't make your heart race—like it currently was.
Finding the right words to explain how you felt had been a struggle for you ever since you came to, in the Akso Hospital. And they were particularly difficult to form right now.
Quickly, almost so quick Zayne doesn't even have the chance to register it, you lean in and press your lips to his, like he had done to you. Except they land square on the center of his mouth.
The metal spool clatters against the table, Zayne clearing his throat and scrambling to pick it back up. His voice is hoarse.
"What was that for?"
"You said a kiss could show gratitude," you explain, "I'm grateful that I have a doctor who takes such good care of me. Thank you."
Zayne's eyes darken and he looks down, stirring the bowl, "Right, of course."
When he looks back up, there's an expression on his face you don't understand. It makes you think you've done something wrong.
"You're welcome."
"So if I care about someone, I should kiss them? Just like that?"
Zayne's lips press together, his grip tightening on the spoon before setting it back in the bowl.
"No."
Before he knows what he's doing, he's taking your face gently in his fingertips. His quiet voice underbellies his stern words—the commanding nature of them sending shivers down your spine.
"You shouldn't do that with anyone else."
His eyes nearly glow as he beholds you with an intensity that made your heart quicken.
"Only your doctor. Only me. It wouldn't mean anything with anyone else, not until your memories return."
Releasing you before you can speak, Zayne stands abruptly. He clears the table, bringing the bowls to the sink.
"It's getting late, you need to rest."
Only when you leave does he exhale, quickly readjusting his painfully tightened pants.
—
You awaken with a start, breaking free from a terrifying nightmare. Images of bloodshed, hospital walls, creatures that weren't human.
You were certain these were fragmented memories. And that scared you more than anything.
Burying your face in the pillow, you desperately try to fall back asleep. But it's hard to ignore the hollow echoing in your brain—scarily devoid of anything meaningful. Except now, bits and pieces of terrifying memories.
You're not sure which was worse.
Nearly in a trance, you find yourself standing at the foot of the room Zayne had said he'd be sleeping in, your fingers gently grasping the doorknob. Biting your lip, you contemplate turning it. He'd said you should come to him with anything.
But the thought of being a burden, of bothering him until he got sick of taking care of you, made you physically sick to your stomach.
You had nothing. You couldn't lose the one person who cared. Even if it was just your doctor.
But still, you carefully and quietly push the door open—almost as if possessed by instinct.
The glow of an open laptop screen, the only light in am otherwise pitch black room, surprises you. The light bounces off the reflection of Zayne's glasses, the doctor sitting up against the headboard, typing on the keys.
He looks up from the screen as the door creaks open, your hesitant eyes peeking through.
Instantly he's up and beside you, cold fingers gently enclosed over yours, "Are you okay sweetheart?"
You're so surprised by his quick movements you don't even register the foreign nickname.
"N-No! I'm fine. I just had a hard time sleeping," you whisper sheepishly, looking down at your hands, enjoying the feeling of his skin against yours.
He looks at you skeptically, seeming to be able to read you like an open book, "Did you have a nightmare?"
Your hesitation answers for you. It almost scares you, how well this man knows you.
Gently, he takes your hand and leads you back to the room you were sleeping in.
"I'll sit with you until you fall asleep."
Warmth blooms in your chest, the relief visible on your face. But still, the heavy weight of fear crushes you—not wanting to burden him further.
"No it's okay, I—"
But Zayne pulls you along gently, wrapping an arm around your waist. His cold fingers tickle the exposed skin of your hip.
"Please. Let me."
The desperation in his voice shuts you up. You couldn't quite figure him out.
As you climb back under the covers, Zayne sits where your feet are. The space between the two of you feels charged, awkward even. Honestly, you doubted you could sleep this way either.
"You can lay down too," you suggest, intimidated by his shadow at the foot of the bed. He's quiet as you tap the comforter beside you—his voice strangled when he finally speaks.
"Don't worry about me. Just get some rest."
Summoning your courage, you sit up, voice small and hesitant, "P-Please? It'll help me sleep."
At the tense silence, you instantly feel idiotic for even having asked—your cheeks burning, "F-Forget it, I'm sorry."
Your eyes burn a hole in your fingers that rest on your lap, feeling too shameful to look up—until the bed beside you dips. Zayne softly grasps your chin, tilting your face back up to stare into his.
"Don't be."
He coaxes you back onto the bed, laying down beside you. Zayne doesn't dare face you, instead staring at the ceiling above—afraid what would happen if he looked at you. His entire body burned knowing yours lay just inches from his. That if he reached out, he could touch you. The thought alone made the pressure build beneath his pants.
But he couldn't.
With Zayne beside you, the weight in your chest seemed to dissipate. Like clockwork, your eyes start to droop and it isn't long before you fall back asleep.
You're unsure how long you're asleep before you're gently awoken by the feeling of fabric pressed against your cheeks, scratching you softly. The first thing you notice is how warm it is—how safe you feel. Happily, you snuggle closer to the source of comfort.
When a tentative, but sturdy and strong, arm wraps around your waist, your eyes dart open in surprise.
Your heart starts to pound as you peer up, realizing you'd curled up next to Zayne in your slumber, pressed right against his solid body.
"Zayne?"
He stiffens noticeably, but he doesn't release you—praying you don't mention the obvious. He shifts infinitesimally, careful to make sure his groin doesn't brush against your body.
He clears his throat awkwardly, "Sorry. I must've…fallen asleep."
There's a brief silence before you respond, "You're hugging me again."
Again. Zayne realizes you must be referencing when he'd embraced you at the hospital—when he'd had to explain what a hug was.
"I should let you go."
But he doesn't.
You look up at him shyly, "You don't have to. You're warm."
The darkness hides Zayne's widening eyes. At your words, he's encouraged to hold you tighter—throat constricting with emotions. Gently, he buries his face into the top of your head—breathing you in slowly.
He'd missed this—missed you—so terribly.
But unfortunately, the deceptively innocent action only makes his cock harden further and his shame grow deeper.
Your eyes flutter shut at the undeniable coziness of his body. Something repeatedly pressed into your scalp, tickling you. You're reminded of dinner, when he'd pressed his lips against yours.
"Are you kissing me again?"
Zayne's lips still, but his fingers tighten against your hip, his restraint wearing thin with you so damn close to him, so close he could feel your breath against his collar.
"I suppose I am."
You look up at him—repeating his earlier words, "Because you care about me?"
"Yeah. You could say that," he whispers, voice husky with unidentifiable emotions. Your curious gaze lets him really see your eyes, and he finds himself instantly lost.
Feeling emboldened by the safety and comfort he provides you, you crane your head towards him—wanting to convey the depth of your gratitude for him. This new method of sharing how you felt was far easier than finding the right words to say.
Zayne freezes when your soft lips meet his. He's still—almost as if not wanting to move, lest he scare you off. Not when he needed this intimacy.
The kiss is innocent, just a simple show of gratitude. Your breath is heavy when you pull away, trying to regain a steady rhythm. But Zayne gently pulls you back, tucking your head under his chin. He holds you tightly, almost so tight you can't breathe.
"Please…" he whispers, your name rolling off his tongue desperately, sounding tortured. Your heart falls when you realize maybe you've upset him somehow.
"D-Did I mess up? I'm sorry—"
Your words drown out when Zayne kisses you again, his lips cold and soft against yours. You squeak with surprise but hold still, trying to understand the emotions he was trying to convey. A kiss meant he cared about you.
Why did he care about you so much?
Zayne's cold fingers weave into your hair, gripping the back of your head—holding you captive. Your body tingles when you feel his tongue swiping against your mouth, eyes widening and lips parting in surprise.
A foreign sound escapes you as the feeling of his tongue against yours overwhelms you.
Zayne groans, instantly consuming your moans—relishing in the sound. You don't kiss him back, but your tongue yields to his. You let him gently probe your mouth, more curious than you are submissive.
The guilt gnaws at the recesses of his mind, knowing he shouldn't be doing this. Not when you barely knew who he was, when you barely understood what this meant.
He pulls away, breath labored. Your own breathing is uneven, entire body tingling.
"What did that mean?"
Zayne hesitates, the guilt echoing loudly, "Kisses…are also signs of physical affection. In some cases…"
The words tumble out of him, desperate to repair any trust he may have just shattered. He needed to be the one to take care of you—he wouldn't let anyone else be responsible for that.
"Physical affection can be therapeutic. As your doctor, I'll do anything to aid your treatment."
The words come out so smoothly—so confidently, they put you at instant ease, "Oh. Does it feel good for you, too?"
Zayne's jaw clenches. Your inadvertent admission that you'd enjoyed it sends his mind reeling, his restraint wearing thin, "It does."
He clears his throat—using every shred of discipline he has remaining to pull away, "You should get some rest. I'll check on you later."
"W-Wait," you clutch at his shirt, your eyes flutter unassumingly, "I-If it feels good, then can we…keep doing it?"
His heart hammers painfully. How could you be so trusting? So innocently naive to the effect you had on him? He clears his throat, trying to maintain his sorry excuse for a professional and nonchalant facade.
"Of course."
He grasps your chin again, molding himself against you—trying to hide how eager he's grown. Your fingers tug at his shirt as his tongue finds yours again. His fingers tentatively latch onto your hip, his thumb rubbing the exposed skin there.
Your soft mewls drive him to insanity, practically hypnotizing him. His hands are compelled, moving on their own and finding deeper purchase in your unbearably delicate skin.
Zayne has mapped and memorized every single bruise you came into the hospital with, making sure his touch is nothing but tender and healing. Therapeutic, as he'd claimed.
He's trapped in a never ending cycle of guilt, shame, and desire. He knows he's taking advantage of your vulnerability, of your innocence, but he can't stop himself. Not when you're being so beautifully receptive to him.
"This is normal?" you ask, a glimmering streak of saliva on your chin. The sensations you feel are so foreign, yet familiar—scaring you. So you seek reassurance from the one person you trust.
"Doctors do this for their patients?"
"…Yes. They do," he whispers huskily, pushing away the guilt and pulling you towards him instead. You feel something hard and warm pressed against your stomach, enjoying the sensation of his body against yours.
This was a different kind of hug than you'd grown accustomed to, but it was pleasant nonetheless.
"But I'm your only doctor," he states firmly, stroking your jaw tenderly, "Remember that."
You nod. You only wanted him as your doctor anyways.
"Good girl," he murmurs, fingers gentle on the back of your neck—pulling you in for another kiss. It was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on what was right and what was wrong.
His praises make your tummy flutter. This time when his tongue enters your lips, you try your best to reciprocate. Your own tongue gingerly strokes his, your body burning.
Zayne groans at your boldness, the sound making you squirm in his arms. You feel his fingers trace the curvature of your spine, resting at the small of your back against your bare skin.
He moans your name, rocking gently against you. The longer he kisses you, the more your muscles ache—tension building in your flesh at the sensation.
The sensation terrified you. It didn't hurt, but the feeling was so foreign you couldn't be sure if it was normal.
"Z-Zayne," you whimper, "Something feels weird."
Zayne instantly rips himself away from you, "Am I hurting you?"
"No," you croak—unsure what it is you're even feeling, "B-But something feels wrong…"
Zayne holds your face with both of his hands, inspecting you, "What hurts, sweetheart?"
"M-My legs," you whisper. The term he uses for you rings loudly in your ears, but you're too nervous to ask about it. You part your thighs and gently take his hands off your face, guiding them to the space between your legs.
"Here."
Zayne goes rigid, his breathing so audibly strangled it terrifies you. His fingers tremble against your body, almost hesitant to touch.
Was something wrong with you?
It takes a moment before he speaks, choked, "Let me see what's wrong."
You nod shakily, letting Zayne lay you on your back as he gets on his knees and descends—situating himself at your calves. His fingers softly grip your ankles, spreading your legs apart.
"I need to examine you," he explains while he gently tugs your sweatpants down.
In nothing but your panties now, you feel incredibly exposed. The cool air is drafty against your bare skin, making you realize there's an uncomfortable wetness between your legs.
Were you bleeding?
The look on Zayne's face doesn't make you feel any better. His jaw is slack, his eyes intense as he stares at you, and his fists clenched at his sides. His mind is a tempest of desire and disbelief as he feasts on the sight of your soaked underwear, glistening against the moonlight.
For a second, he just admires you. He can feel the sweat forming on his temple as he takes it all in—mouth starting to water.
You'd gotten this wet from just a few kisses?
"May I touch you?" he rasps, his doctor's pretense trembling pathetically. You nod instantly, trusting him without fail.
"Tell me if this hurts," his strong voice reassuring you. You nod, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers move your panties to the side.
A moan rips from your lips when you feel his cold length fingers graze along the sensitive area at the apex of your thighs.
"Painful?" he whispers, withdrawing slightly.
"N-No," you whimper, "It just feels…w-weird. I don't know how to explain."
It felt like someone took a match and lit it inside you, you're entire body burning. The fire seemed to emanate from just below your tummy, spreading in all directions from where Zayne's skin met yours.
"You're okay, nothing's wrong. Don't worry," he reassures, one hand stroking your hair while the other remains glued to your body—thumb rubbing up and down your slit gently.
"This sometimes happens…" he whispers, "With physical affection."
You writhe under his touch, still unaccustomed to the odd sensation. But perhaps it had to do with his earlier words.
"Mmmmgh…o-oh…" you moan, toes curling, "S-So it's nnngh—normal?"
Zayne hesitates to answer, knowing he should stop—go back to his room and leave you alone.
But he can't. Not when your entire being intoxicated him to insanity—your trust, your vulnerability. You.
"Yes, it is."
You cry out when his thumb presses against a particularly sensitive part on your core, your body thrashing upward. Zayne's other hand carefully presses against your stomach, securing you back down.
"You're okay," Zayne presses his lips against your ear, ghosting a kiss along the shell, "Does it feel good, love?"
The name slips out before he can stop it. Deliberately, he strokes your clit—hoping to distract you from it.
"Ahh y-yes…" you whimper, clutching his shirt—his muscles bulging underneath. The feeling was similar to how you'd felt when you were kissing him. Only more intense.
Zayne watches hungrily as your hips rock ever-so-slightly against his fingers, mesmerized at how your body reacted—as if you hadn't completely forgotten him.
How much were you willing to accept?
"Tell me when to stop," he coaxes you, fingers finding your entrance—stroking it tenderly. At your pleasured sounds, Zayne carefully breaches your defenses, one finger finding its way inside of you.
"Zayne—!" you pant as you feel his finger inside of you.
"Don't worry," he preemptively soothes concerns you had yet to voice, "Just relax. This is normal."
He could deal with the regret later.
His middle finger bottoms out inside you, his thumb pressed diligently into your hardened clit. His own erection throbs furiously but he ignores it, drunk on your pleasure.
"I-Is it supposed to feel like this?" you wail as your fingers dig into the comforter.
"What does it feel like?" His words coax more from you while his finger continues to gently work in and out—tender and slow.
"L-Like…" you gulp, struggling to string words together amidst this sensation, "Like I need to use the bathroom?"
Your face burns with embarrassment, mortified by that idea. But Zayne's lips quirk in a slight smile as he realizes your body wants release.
"Yes, that's normal."
Zayne continues his ministrations, breathing heavily as he watches his finger disappear repeatedly inside of you, glistening with your nectar.
You'd let him past every instinctual barrier, trusting him completely with your body. That though alone made Zayne greedy for more—knowing you'd more than likely give it to him.
His finger slips out of you, coming up to his nose so he can smell your essence. The scent makes him groan audibly, pushing him closer to the border of desperation.
"Let me inspect you a bit closer," he says, "Just to make sure everything's okay—no abnormalities."
"Closer?" you ask curiously, gasping at the emptiness. But even before he has a chance to explain, you nod. There was no reason for you not to trust him to safeguard your well-being.
"Closer," he reaffirms, hooking his arms around your thighs and tugging you closer to him—to his face. Your eyes widen when his warm breath hits your quivering lips.
"I just need to make sure everything's okay."
"Okay," you breathe out slowly, trying to settle your erratic heart as Zayne comes increasingly closer.
"Good girl," he murmurs. It's the last thing he says before you feel the tip of his tongue in between the wetness between your thighs.
Zayne holds you firmly when you thrash, choking on your own breath. The sensation is unreal, spreading like wildfire throughout every appendage in your body.
"O-Oh god—Zaayne—!" your spine aches as you arch off the bed. The shock and confusion in your voice is clear, but your legs wrap around his head—caging him to your cunt.
With precision, his tongue breaches the last of your defenses—exploring desperately. Your cries of pleasure spur him on, that familiar sound like music to his greedy ears. his own arousal grows so thick it feels like it might burst.
"You're doing so well," he grunts into your core, his nose stroking your clit.
His praises make you mewl, wanting more than anything to be perfect for him. The perfect guest, the perfect patient, the perfect person.
"I-It feels…" you whimper, trying to find the words.
"Good?" he suggests, croaking with delirium—giving your clit a gentle flick.
You squeal, tightening around his tongue.
"S-Soo good," you cry, "Is it—nngh..supposed to? Feel this good?"
"Yes," Zayne growls, working you close and closer to an explosion you can feel coming, "Only with me."
Your stomach flutters at his words. Only with him.
Only he, your doctor, could make you feel like this.
His words—combined with his expert tongue— makes your gut coil tightly, almost painfully. And Zayne can tell instantly, knowing your body better than you ever had. He reaches out to untangle your fingers from the sheets, intertwining them with his own.
"Oh god, I feel like I—oh god!" you cry, trying to stave off that same feeling from earlier. It felt like it might tear you apart.
"It's alright," he murmurs sweetly, coaxing you towards oblivion, "Just let me take care of you. It…It's my job to take care of you."
When Zayne's finger enters you, just like it had before, his lips latch onto that sensitive bud crested between your legs. The dual stimulus cause that knot in your abdomen to burst—painfully and explosively intense.
After lapping up your pearly essence, Zayne releases your poor clit and replaces his mouth with his fingers. He repositions himself so he can devour your lips, wanting you to taste yourself on his eager tongue.
"Zayne, I…" you trail off breathlessly when he pulls away, at a lost for words and oxygen. Your entire body was covered in goosebumps, trembling with riveting sensations that made it difficult to think.
"Shhh," he soothes, kissing your temple once more and laying back beside you, "Sleep now. You're tired aren't you?"
Your heavy eyelids make you realize perhaps what Zayne had done to you was also a means to help you sleep better. He really was an incredible doctor.
Just from the way he was treated by the other staff at Akso, you could tell he was held to the highest pedigree. But now, you really understood why.
What would happen when he couldn't take care of you anymore? When he didn't want to?
You start to panic at just the thought alone, deciding then and there you want to make sure you are perfect for him. That you can make him feel like he's just made you feel.
"Zayne," you croak, voice still broken from the way you'd screamed, "C-Can we do more? Can I…"
You pause and gulp as his unreadable stare makes you shrink. But the anxiety of losing him makes you press further.
"Y-You said it feels good for you too, right?"
Zayne does his best to remain calm—but his erection lurches at your sweet, naive, little inquisitions, "Yes, that's right."
He wants to tell you that you don't have to worry about this—about reciprocating or pleasing him. But the mere thought of burying himself inside of you once more is more than he can bear.
"Of course we can do more," he whispers huskily, "Are you sure?"
You nod, trying to keep your nerves from showing. Zayne kneels beside you again, capturing your chin with his fingers.
"I'll show you. I'll teach you what to do," he does his best to keep his voice level—professional even.
You watch, teeth digging into your lip as Zayne kneels between you, slowly pulling his sweatpants and boxers down in one motion. His cock, thick and swollen, springs free and hits his stomach, leaving a shiny path of pre cum against his abdominal muscles. It makes you gasp with awe.
He wraps his fingers around his base, stroking languidly—never taking his eyes off of you even as you watch his hands.
"You can touch me," he encourages—driven insane by the way your gaze, practically begging you to do something.
When you hesitate, Zayne gently takes your hand and wraps your fingers around him. He hisses softly, hips bucking just slightly as he fights to maintain his composure.
Mesmerized, you jerk him slowly in your fist—just like you'd seen him do himself.
"I-Is that okay?" you ask, looking at how he leaks onto your fingers. It's warm, making your body tingle with excitement.
Zayne bites the inside of his cheek so harshly that he almost draws blood. Genuinely, he wants to say no. That it's not okay. That having you touch him like this, with those innocent and unassuming eyes, was undoing him in terrifying ways.
"Yeah, you're doing great," he groans, his head thrown back.
Your chest flutters excitedly and you find yourself briefly wondering if Zayne has ever done this with anyone else. He'd said it was normal after all.
"D-Do you do this with your other patients?" you ask, cheeks flushing.
Zayne's face snaps to yours, quickly scrambling for what to say.
"No. But it's…normal. Doctors will sometimes do this if their patient's prognosis is particularly….complicated."
His explanation rings empty on your ears; all you care to hear is that he doesn't do this with anyone else.
Zayne removes your hand and gently raises your arms to remove your pajama top, pushing you down—hovering above you. He pries your arms away from your chest as you move to cover yourself.
"Skin-to-skin contact," he explains, "Is known to have healing properties."
He seals his body against yours, lowering himself until his abs press against your stomach. His cock rests in between your thighs.
You gasp at the pressure, your arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders. Your entire body shudders as his hardened member parts your lips, pressing against your quivering entrance—still sensitive from his tongue.
Before he pushes into you, he finds a way to justify himself and ease the guilt, "This will help relieve some of the tension. Promote healing."
"O-Okay," you whisper, consenting fully. It was more than just wanting to appease him now. You craved the way his treatment made you feel.
The wind is knocked out of your diaphragm as Zayne pushes himselfinto you. Your name rips out of Zayne's mouth like a mantra, his muscles trembling as he eases himself into you, inch by torturous inch.
"O-Oh—Zayne…" you moan, arching into him, inadvertently taking him deeper.
"God…You're doing so well," he grits, trying to control his enthusiasm, "P-Perfect."
You mewl with ecstasy, entire body tingling at his sweet words and massive erection splitting you open. It doesn't hurt like you thought it might. The stretch stings at first, but mostly…it feels good.
"Hah…J-Just like that. This will help, I promise," he gently thrusts as he continues to reassure you, doing his damn best to normalize this situation. Luckily for him, it didn't seem you suspected anything.
The way you respond to him, your perfect little moans, slowly whittles away his resolve—his pace increasing, fingers digging in harder, kisses growing more torrid.
His mouth trails down your jaw, dancing across your collar, until they find your hardened nipples. He latches on gently, rolling it between his skilled lips.
You can already feel that same tension building in your abdomen again, growing increasingly intense with every thrust.
"Zaaaayne," you slur, squealing as his teeth deliberately graze against your pebbled flesh.
He releases you with a wet pop, "Yes, sweetheart?"
Your mind goes blank, forgetting what you'd wanted to say, instead asking, "Nngh…Why do y-you—o-oh…call me that?"
Zayne's hips freeze, his fingers flexing in the soft plush of your ass—contemplating how to respond. For a moment only the sound of your beautiful moans and skin slapping against skin can be heard.
Finally, he speaks, "It's just something I call you. It suits you."
Your mind reels at the implications, but before you can voice your thoughts, Zayne drives into you hard. Your eyes roll back, his name spilling from your lips.
Zayne groans at how receptive you are, "We used to do this all the time." The confession comes out without thinking. The closer Zayne gets, the more he craves connection—lowering his inhibitions and obliterating his carefully crafted filter.
"You'd always let me," he gasps, burying his face into your neck, "Always gave yourself to me."
Zayne's cock repeatedly slams into a particularly sensitive spot inside of you, making your vision blur.
"O-Oh—!" Your body tightens, making Zayne groan—grinding his pelvis against your thighs, the obscene amount of bodily fluids starting to drip onto the sheets below.
"Y-You're squeezing me so tightly, beautiful," he rasps, unable to stop himself, "Hah…Your body remembers me, doesn't it?"
"W-We did this before?"
Zayne growls, not letting his rhythm break for even a second—chasing a release that was just within reach.
"We used to do this all the time."
That admission drives you wild, your stomach churning with that same feeling you'd felt when Zayne had his tongue buried inside you.
And Zayne can feel it too—the way you tighten at his words, how excited you get from the knowledge that this wasn't the first time time he'd claimed your body.
"Yeah, do you like the sound of that, sweetheart?" he rasps, maneuvering your legs from around his waist to over his shoulders.
As you whine and nod, Zayne continues, "You might not remember, but I do. Every inch of your body. Every time you cried out my name. Every single time we did this."
"I-I want to remember too—" you gasp, "O-Oh God Zayne, c-can't hold on anymore—!"
Zayne lets out an unnatural sound, pressing deeper into you until your thighs touch your chest.
"You will remember," he rasps, getting increasingly closer as he jackhammers into you wildly, "And even if you don't, I'll always be in here."
He gently taps on your forehead, tracing his finger from your forehead to your breasts, right over your thrumming heart. He keeps moving down, down, down…
You squeal when Zayne presses into your clit with his thumb, never breaking eye contact with you as he whispers, "And here. Inside you."
Your nails rake down his back as his words push you to climax, sparks of vicious electricity searing through every nerve in your body as you scream his name repeatedly.
"You'll never forget me, my love," he croaks as he prepares to unleash inside of you—not even thinking to stop and pull out.
"I won't let you."
Zayne clutches the headboard to tightly the entire bed groans in protest—his cock throbbing as he explodes inside of you, groaning out your name repeatedly.
You gasp as something hot seeps into you, intensifying your orgasm until you're convulsing under Zayne's heavy body. He holds you gently in place, whispering sweet words into your ear as your eyes roll back.
"Just like that my love, let it out," he murmurs, voice muffled against your hair. His own climax still courses through his muscles, causing him to tense up as he holds you. But he focuses on soothing your tremors.
He releases your legs, rolling gently to the side and pulling you with him. He holds you from behind, his cock still buried inside—plugging you with his seed.
"You're perfect," he kisses the top of your head, deeply enjoying your scent mixed with the smell of sex and sweat.
You mumble happily, your eyelids heavy—matching the way your body now felt. Ragged, exhausted, and unbearably satisfied.
As you fall asleep, you can vaguely make out his deep dulcet voice.
.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.
✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. the dividers in this post are by @/cursed-carmine. please do not reuse my usual blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.
zayne loves being your certified walking a/c whenever summer rolls around. You were already regularly affectionate with him, but now that the heat had fully settled in, you’d started clinging to him without even thinking about it.
Wherever he moves, you move.
Right now, you’re curled up against his side on the couch, one arm loosely looped around his while he reads through a stack of medical files. The steady rustle of paper and the faint scent of antiseptic from earlier in his shift should’ve been enough to keep him focused—but you’ve basically turned yourself into a very warm, very determined attachment.
Zayne doesn’t seem to mind.
At least, not until he shifts to stand.
“I need to grab something, I'll be back in a second.” he says quietly, already setting the files aside. The second his weight leaves the couch, you immediately latch onto his arm.
“Nooo.”
You tug again, firmer this time, face pressed into his sleeve like you’re trying to physically anchor him in place. Zayne glances down at you, a small smile playing on his lips as amusement dances in his eyes.
“…You won’t melt in the few minutes I’ll be away,” he says, voice calm, almost teasing.
You look up at him with full seriousness. “It's worse. I’ll boil.”
That earns a quiet exhale of amusement from him, the corner of his mouth lifting as he studies you like you’re a particularly dramatic patient. “Mm,” he murmurs. “Then I suppose I’ll have to properly diagnose you.”
You blink. “Diagnose me with what?”
Zayne shifts his grip under your arms before you can protest further, lifting you with effortless ease against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Acute separation sensitivity,” he says simply. Your protest dies immediately into a small, satisfied noise as he adjusts you against him, one arm securely around your back while the other gathers what he needs from the nearby table.
“Is that even real?” you mumble, already relaxing again.
“No,” he replies softly. “But your symptoms are consistent.”
You huff a laugh, looping your arms properly around his shoulders as he starts walking. Your lashes quickly flutter shut as you listen to the steady sound of his heartbeat beneath his shirt, the coolness around him easing the heat that had been clinging to your skin all afternoon.
It’s unfair, really.
How easy it is to melt like this in his arms.
The way his steps stay steady even while carrying you like you weigh nothing at all. The way the faint chill of his evol lingers just enough to keep you comfortable without ever becoming too much. The way his presence alone feels like relief.
You shift slightly, tucking your face closer into his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
“Then you’d agree with twenty-four hour care?” you murmur sleepily, voice muffled as you nuzzle into him. “Since my condition is so severe.”
There’s a pause.
“…Severe, hm?”
You nod against him, completely unbothered, already half-drifting.
His hold tightens just slightly, instinctive and careful as he adjusts you more securely against his chest. When he speaks again, his voice is sweeter than before. “I suppose I wouldn’t have much of a choice,” he says, a faint smile in his tone.
“If it’s that serious.” Warmth blooms in your chest at that, even through the cool air around him. You relax fully then, letting your weight settle completely into him, your breathing slowing as the rhythm of his heartbeat lulls you further under.
“…Good,” you mumble, eyes finally slipping shut for good this time. “Because I like you as my doctor.”
That earns a low chuckle from him.
And a moment later, you feel it—his lips pressing gently to your cheek, lingering just long enough to make your heart stir even as sleep pulls at you.
“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m afraid I’m already committed to your case.”
♡ princessxmin please do not alter, copy or translate my work !
