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lola-writes · 1 year ago

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Duty Is Sacrifice

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Velaryon/Strong!reader

Word Count: 2,6k

Themes & Warnings: Winterfell, pov. first person, feelings realization, fluff and smut, fingering, orgasm

Summary: Queen Rhaenyra sends you to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. In him you find not only an ally, but something deeper as well…

Song: Skin and Bones (Cinematic) - David Kushner

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3

Likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

The wilderness beyond the Wall sprawled before me atop the outlook, an uncharted immensity dripping with anathema. A frozen wasteland, it held a cold that seemed to seep into your very soul, promising to turn your bones to ice with a single, lingering glance.

The stories from the seasoned rangers down below had painted a vivid picture, but this, this was a masterpiece beyond mere words. The frigid air, a living entity, tore at my dark hair and the borrowed furs – those very furs my stubborn pride had initially dismissed. Now, the only thing missing from mirroring those same hardened rangers was a permanent furrow etched between my brows, a testament to countless nights spent battling the elements.

Their Lord was a wall of warmth which prevented the gnawing chill from consuming me. His massive form broadened at my side, his very presence thawing me. Turning to him, I observed the furrow deepening between his brows as he regarded me, though it wasn’t a testament to the cold, but rather something concerned.

“Winterfell beckons, Princess,” he said, his timber thick with northern accent, “Let us return to warm you.”

His gloved hand, rough yet surprisingly gentle, reached out for me. Relief washed over me as I grasped it, the worn leather a welcome anchor against the treacherous turret steps.

“Blazing fires. Hot stew. How’s that sound?” His stoic expression nearly cracked to the rumble in my stomach. I noticed I was still supported in his grasp well beyond danger, when I felt his thumb tracing reassuring circles on the back of my hand, sending a delicious shiver snaking down my spine.

Gently, I returned it to my side. “That would be most pleasant, thank you my Lord.”

Days had bled into one another at his side, treating, feasting, drinking, strategizing, and though I had no doubt I had fixed him as an ally to my mother’s claim, some other heat beneath the veneer of alliance had begun to simmer in his gaze, a spark that mirrored the disquiet blooming in my own chest.

The iron cage groaned its descent down to Castle Black, echoing through the black shaft like cries of the damned. From the moment I stepped foot in Winterfell, he’d woven a tapestry of comfort. He recalled every detail I mentioned in passing, and behind his every effort to make me feel at home was a gesture conforming to something I’d previously told him I enjoyed – a steaming mug of my favorite herbal tea, a book on a subject I’d once expressed interest in. He was unlike any man I’d encountered. Each word he uttered was a silken caress, so gentle it felt like he feared his own timber could bruise me. But a heavy weight had settled in my chest. My replies had now become clipped, mere whispers that barely escaped my lips. There was so much more at stake now beyond my desires. Duty loomed heavy on my shoulders. I feared any careless words or lingering glances could brittle the alliance with the Starks to pieces.

We mounted our horses and begun our nigh-on two days ride back to Winterfell. Though not as biting as the Wall’s teeth, the wind on the Kingsroad still carried a relentless edge. The only warmth to be found radiated shyly from the small fires Cregan’s bannermen had built, and the thick fur I wove tightly around myself at night.

As the colossal granite form of Winterfell finally clawed its way up from the horizon, a wave of exhaustion crashed into me, settling heavy in my bones. Dismounting was an ordeal. Every muscle in my body throbbed in protest from the days’ ride. My legs, leaden weights, buckled before I could even consider lowering myself.

But before I could hit the ground, strong arms, surprisingly gentle, encircled my waist, and lifted me from the saddle before I could even think to react.

We stood there, my body swaying slightly in his arms, our eyes lingering on each other for a second beyond my comfort. His eyes, normally the clear blue of a summer sky, were now a stormy gray, swirling with unspoken concern. A tremor of something akin to fear danced in my chest, battling the unexpected flutter at his touch.

“Apologies, my Lord,” I stammered, cheeks flushing with a heat that had naught to do with exertion. “Dragon saddle is one thing, but I fear horseback is another entirely.” I smiled apologetically.

Cregan’s fingers lingered on my waist, a gentle caress that singed through my leathers and into my very skin, sending a jolt through me. He withdrew them slowly, and my side ached from their absence.

“Fret not, Princess,” he rumbled, his voice a warm current, “Two days on horseback have felled men twice your size.”

I giggled to his obvious attempt at comforting me. “I wouldn’t bet on that,” I replied, taking trembling steps toward the castle.

Once in my chambers, I collapsed onto the bed; sleep, thick and heavy, stealing the day. When I finally opened my eyes, the only light in the room spilled from the dying embers in the hearth.

A gnawing hunger, cold and insistent, hollowed my gut. With a deep breath, I rose, and dressed in my house colors, the fabric thick with responsibility. Then, I descended the steps in my hunt for scraps.

The massive oak doors of the Great Hall ground open, revealing a cavernous space bathed in the flickering, golden glow of a roaring fire. Laughter and the murmur of rough voices hung in the air. Fur cloaked figures huddled around the immense hearth at the far end, casting dancing shadows on the towering walls. Lord Stark sat amidst his bannermen; tankards raised in boisterous revelry.

The merriment dipped as I entered. Heads swiveled my way, some splitting into knowing grins. The bannermen rose in unison, scattering like startled crows, their boisterousness replaced by a respectful chorus of greetings and a flurry of curt bows.

“My regrets for missing supper,” I said, drawing Cregan’s heavy gaze. His shadowed form, a giant even in the flickering firelight, rose with a quiet grace that belied his imposing physique.

“You need not worry,” he said, ladling steaming stew from a small pot over the fire and offered me the bowl with one hand. A grateful smile lit my face as I accepted it.

“You grow quite comely as a serving girl,” I jested, a flicker of triumph igniting in my chest when his mouth quirked up into a faint smirk, a flicker of warmth dancing in his eyes, a rare concession on his normally stoic face.

I settled onto the bench beside his chair and began devouring the stew, its meat and vegetables soothing the ache in my belly. As I ate, I stole glances at Cregan, his face bathed in the rich firelight, a mask of unreadable emotions.

Regret, sharp and unwelcome, tightened in my chest as I observed him. I had a duty fulfilled, but a heart unsatiated. I had come to Winterfell to remind him of the oath his house swore to my mother, and he had not left me wanton. Yet, the journey back to Dragonstone loomed large in my mind. The prospect of leaving him, perhaps for a very long time, cast a long shadow. Unless he too agreed to join us.

“The Queen’s sworn allies are too few to win a war for the throne,” I declared, my voice tight with the weight of responsibility, “She needs your men.”

His jaw clenched, his stoicism returning like a steel mask. “Cursed be the Hightowers,” he growled, venom lacing his voice. “But winter is coming. War of dragons is never a small ordeal. If the Queen is in need of my men to defeat the usurper, you must allow me to wait out the winter.”

Despair clawed at my throat. Memories and tales of past winters surfaced, stretching on for months, even years. Without the full support of the North, we could be crushed before winter even loosened its icy grip. Perhaps reduced to cinders beneath the wrath of the dragons.

“It will be too late,” I pleaded, the urgency in my voice cracking the carefully constructed façade I had built.

Cregan met my gaze, his eyes a stormy gray. “It’s the best I can do, Princess. I hope you will forgive me.”

A spark of anger ignited within me, battling the tendrils of despair. “You swore an oath, Lord Stark.”

He held my stare, unwavering. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said, “You will have two thousand greybeards that can be ready to march at once.”

“What of you?” My voice trembled, tears welling up before I had the strength to stop them. “What if this is goodbye?”

Understanding suddenly dawned in his eyes, and his brows furrowed in what I thought was despair. He came to sit beside me, the wood groaning under his weight. His large, calloused thumbs painted the tears across my cheeks.

“I assure you, Princess,” he said softly, “This is not goodbye.” His hand came up to grasp my chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting it up to meet his intense gaze. “I swear it,” he vowed, steel threading through his words. Hope surged through me; a lifeline cast into the churning sea of anguish.

Starks do not forget an oath.

“The Hightowers were doomed the second they put the imposter on that throne,” Cregan rumbled, his voice a low caress.

The space between us seemed to have dissolved, his calloused hands engulfing mine in a firm, reassuring grasp. Silence stretched, thick with unspoken emotions, tension dripping like honey. I waited for him to say something else, but he remained still, quiet, his fingers slowly and gently exploring mine, each touch sending sparks of lightning up my arms. I met his gaze, my breathing shallowing as I realized his lips were but a whisper away, his dark eyes shimmering with heat, flickering with an unspoken hunger that seethed beneath my skin with each second.

“Their betrayal…” His voice was barely a whisper, his fingers ceased their dance with mine, and began their path up my arms, “…will not go unpunished,” he said thickly, his hands now grazing my upper arms, up my shoulders, ceasing at the curve of my neck, the movement sending a sizzling sensation through my blood.

With the cold that had plagued me so these last few days, I began to fever. My lips parted as if I was suddenly short of breath, and I felt a curious pulse that drifted between my thighs. My whole body, like to an unseen force, drew closer to him, and he tensed beneath his leathers. His frame vibrated with desperate restraint, the fire in his eyes warring between duty and sacrifice.

“I am a man of honor,” he groaned. My stomach tightened as his hands inched up my neck and traced the line of my jaw, his coarse thumb brushing across my lips.

Something tugged on my stomach from the inside as the fiery heat of his fingers burned through my skin. My breaths came out ragged and shallow while he remained silent, as though he was immersed in concentration.

Without knowing the full implication of my words, I whispered, “Dishonor me.”

For the storm, only just contained, raged wild in his eyes, a low growl sounded from deep in his chest before he crashed his lips to mine.

I received them with a low, beckoning gasp. My palms came up to his neck, my nails running the length of it as he explored my lips, the roof of my mouth, my teeth, and under my tongue. Then his lips traced my jaw, finding my ear, breathed his warm air into it, nibbled my lobe, then covered my throat in wet kisses. I tilted my head to grant him access, as low, sensual mewlings poured from my lips, something carnal infiltrating my veins.

His hands came down to my waist, and I gasped in surprise when he lifted me and placed me in his lap, my legs latching around his back.

He was so big and warm and hard. His eyes were lazy and dark as his fingers began to lightly trace down the side of my neck, then hooking into my dress to bare my shoulder. He kissed it with an open mouth and moving tongue, and I quivered beneath his touch. Then, with a sharp sound of a tear, he had pulled my dress all the way down my abdomen.

He groaned at the sight of me, his lips slightly parted, his hands delicately cupping my breasts as if he’d found treasure. When the cold made me shiver, he leaned into me to lend me his warmth, while his lips tantalized me, drawing close to my hardened nipple, blowing it with hot air, then backing off, kissing across my breastbone to the other, until I forced his mouth to it.

He hummed with throaty satisfaction, latching onto it and giving it one slow suck, grazing the skin with his teeth. I threw my head back with a gasp. White heat shot like lightning between my thighs, before pulsing into an empty ache. I swayed into him, bucking my hips into his groin, feeling him harden beneath me. He suckled my other breast in warm, slow pulses, circling the areola, drawing panting moans out of me, before he found my lips again.

Gathering my skirts, he moved his hands underneath them, gripping the fullness of my thighs, kneading them, squeezing them, to the point it pinched me, and I bit his bottom lip in protest.

Cregan Stark was a gentle giant in all matters but things salacious.

A throaty sigh escaped his lips as his hands found my buttocks, kneading the flesh between his fingers. Hot, slick tingles pooled between my thighs, and my fingers curled in his hair. My body hummed in anticipation as his finger slid downward, a groan pouring out of me as he grazed over my wet opening.

“Oh, Princess.” The words were like magic on his lips, shooting through my core in throbbing pulses.

His other arm snaked around my waist, locking me to his body as he explored and moistened my folds, leaving me a bucking, moaning mess in his lap.

I felt empty and sickly. A fog had infiltrated my vision, my skin, my mind, my inhibitions. I coveted him. I needed him, more than I needed anything else. His eyes alone could touch inside of me, but I could not explain the pulsing, throbbing, delirious effects of his hands, his mouth, his tongue, and I ached for more. I felt unfinished, incomplete.

Until he slid a finger deep inside me, and I gasped. Hot, sweet pressure filled me, and once I adjusted, he introduced another, threatening to overfill as he fingered me.

Fast and then lazy.

Over and over.

The room filled with wet squelching noises and my moaning squeals. His deeper, throatier moans vibrated through his chest and lit me on fire, burning in my lower stomach, blazing, desperate for feed, or I would disintegrate.

My nails dug desperately into his shoulders, as any attempts of filling myself up to completion were in vain by the power of his grip around my waist. He trailed every inch of my neck, kissing it as it if were my mouth, with lips, tongue, and teeth. His fingers penetrated deep and curled inside of me, rubbing something within that sent pressure bursting into tingles and flames, my veins burning up like dragon fire, and stars sparkling behind my eyelids. I cried out with the purest ecstasy as my body shuddered and clenched around his fingers, and he groaned against my skin with dark satisfaction as I clung to him desperately.

Once my trembles ceased and I managed to catch my breath, he took my cheeks in his hand and kissed me fiercely, passionately, his fires still boiling for release.

“I am coming with you,” he declared.

Tag list: @koyaa66648 @longlivemyblues @melsunshine @urdadsfavs @the-great-ladyg @barackosteaa @elysyannemimi @80sstradlin @hgyura @telltale-vixen @nyxbranwenn @tortargaryen @naxal-jlt @flowercrownsandherondales @red-hydra @lanadelray1989 @crumbledcastle28 @midnightcrw @prismaudee @nsr-15

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steinfellds · 3 months ago

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office brat

pairing: wandanat x afab!reader

summary: you piss natasha off and she calls wanda into her office to deal with you.

content: brat taming, dom!wandanat, small mommy kink, strap on (r receiving), finger sucking, voyeurism, orgasm denial, pussy eating (n receiving), degradation.

When Natasha's pen scratching faltered for the fifth time, and she took an irritated breath, you knew you were getting closer to getting what you wanted. Her patience was running thin.

"Sit fucking still," she growled, slamming her pen and turning her chair to face you.

You huffed. You begged to come to the office with Natasha, expecting her to fuck you on her desk until you couldn't take it anymore, but no, she stripped you naked and forced you to kneel next to her, telling to be quiet and still until she finished.

"I'm bored," You whined, reaching out for Natasha's leg but she slapped you away.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. If Natasha were a cartoon character, steam would be coming from her ears. She grabbed her office phone, punching in some numbers on the keypad, and held it to her ear. The line rang for a few seconds before being answered.

"My office. Now."

You frowned and started to rise, but Natasha forced you back down. That was weird. Natasha never lets anyone see you naked. She always said that your body is for her eyes only.

The door clicked open, and you nearly jumped up in excitement. Wanda Maximoff, Natasha's business partner, walked in, shooting you a cheeky grin before stopping in front of Natasha's desk.

"You could use your manners next time." Wanda remarked.

"Don't start." Natasha scoffed. "They've been pissing me off the entire day. Just deal with them."

Wanda hummed, sitting down on the couch and beckoning you over. You crawled over, pulling yourself onto her lap, and basically vibrating with excitement. It's been weeks since you last saw Wanda. You missed her.

She traced your lips with her thumb. "Been bad, huh?"

You pouted, pushing your face into Wanda's neck and grinding into her lap. Like always, she was packing. Wanda unzipped her pants and pulled her strap out, slapping it against your cunt. You sank down on it with ease, groaning at the stretch.

Wanda slipped two fingers inside your mouth. "Gotta stay quiet,"

Her fingers rest heavy on your tongue. You licked at the pads of her fingers and sucked lightly. She kept a bruising grip on your hip and slammed you down repeatedly. You swore she was about to split you in half.

Just as you were about to tip over the pleasurable edge, Natasha had to ruin it. "Stop,"

Wanda stilled your hips, keeping you snug against her. You cried out, softly slamming your fists against her shoulder. Wanda's face dropped, and she grabbed your wrists in an iron grip.

"You do not hit me," she hissed. "Do you understand me? You do not fucking hit me."

Your heart dropped. Angering Wanda was only a mistake an idiot would make. You mumbled an apology around her fingers.

"You're managing to piss off everyone today, aren't you?" Natasha threaded her fingers through your hair and yanked it.

You swallowed back a bratty response.

"I don't even think they deserve an orgasm," Wanda said.

Your cries of protest fell on deaf ears. You were forced to kneel at Wanda's feet and watch. Natasha took your place, sinking down on Wanda's strap, covered in your slick. Wanda pulled her into a messy kiss, muffling her moans and fueling your frustration.

"Please!" you begged.

They ignored you. Natasha was close, and you wished so badly that you could see her face as she came. It wasn't fair.

"You gonna cum for mommy?" Wanda asked with a shit-eating grin.

Natasha's laugh was cut off by a moan. Her head lulled forward and her body shook as her orgasm washed over her. Wanda continued to pump into her until Natasha pulled herself to sit next to Wanda.

She spread her legs and you eagerly sat between them, your eyes trained to her glistering cunt. She pulled your face into her, and your frustration was washed away. You licked and suckled on her clit until her back arched and a silent moan left her throat. Your eyes didn't leave her face for a second.

"Not that hard to be good, huh?" Natasha shuddered as you cleaned her.

You shrugged, "I got what I wanted in the end."

"Brat."

#wandanat x reader #wandanat x you #wandanat x y/n #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x y/n #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n

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eyeheartboobiez · 10 months ago

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shower sex w/ jason

ask: I’ve been craving backshots with Jaybird(possibly in the shower)and reader being blackout cockdrunk, I don’t know if you’re comfortable with degradation, praise/degradation or slightly mean!Jason so I’ll leave that optional(if you’re not comfortable with that forget I ever said that). And ofc filthy dirty talk is always welcome 😉

a/n: @nyxx01 IM SO SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG I HOPE U LIKE IT

wc: 800-ish

tw: subspace themes

"Shut up and take it."

The steam radiating throughout the bathroom was nothing compared to what was actually happening in the shower. What was supposed to be a simple wash after a night out, abruptly turned into something much more pornographic.

For hours now, Jason had been plowing into your entrance, not thinking too let up in the slightest. You were surprised the water hadn’t gone cold considering the two of you had been at it for hours now.

Despite the hot water cascading down your skin, your nipples grazing the tile of the wall, or even the slight clutch of Jason’s hand around your throat, you felt completely stripped of all your senses.

Absolutely weak in the knees by now, your body had gone completely limp from being handled so brutally. The sobs of pleasure slipping from your lips were the only signs of life from you.

As the rhythm of Jason’s thrusts shook your entire body, you were sure you’d have fallen over by now had it not been for his iron grip around your torso. "Jace,” you huffed, “Jus’ gimme a sec-"

A piercing smack shrilled through the air, loud enough to be heard between the pouring water and your shameless moans. You didn’t even realize how much your rear stung until you noticed callused hands teasingly rub at the stricken area, “Nuh uh, you don't get to talk. Not right now."

The vigilante moved to grip you by your elbows, his hips still thrusting at an unforgiving pace. Tears stained your cheeks as you began to cry, the saltiness of your cries somehow finding a way to stand out against the tap water around you.

"Aww, you crying sweetheart? I thought you wanted to be treated like a whore t’night, hm? Thought this was what you wanted, baby.” His teases did nothing but add to your arousal, only hurting you on a surface level.

“I should just spread you open and pound you till tomorrow, huh?" He cooed. “I’d finally fuck the brat outta you. Maybe then you’ll start being good ‘fa me.”

You practically shuddered at the thought, desperate to be filled with more of Jason’s cum. His feigned sympathy made your eyes water even more.

However, that dream was quickly shut down. His sudden talkativeness was a telltale sign that he was close to reaching his peak.

Not even a minute later, you felt his hips shudder vigorously against your backside, the grip on you tightening as he was pushed over the edge. Ropes of cum pulsed from the girth between his legs, penetrating deep within your sensitive hole

“Mmmf, there we go.” Groans sputtered from his mouth, languid praises rumbling from chest, “That’s it hon, give it to me.”

Following him in sequence, you reached your final orgasm of the night. Your knees buckled and convulsions took over your body as you felt the climax rush through you.

Before you could hit the floor though, the Gothamite was quick to catch you in his arms. Gently, he sat you down on the floor of the tub, making sure to angle you away from the pouring water.

Feeling the ground beneath you, your senses were slowly coming back to you. While you weren’t necessarily dickmatized anymore, your thoughts were still a bit hazy.

The water rinsing you down, a fresh towel drying you off, butter massaging its way into your skin; everything happened in a blur. But, even while your mind was still trying to catch up with the world around you, you knew that you were in good hands.

“C'mon doll, help me out a little here.” Blinking into reality, you looked to see you were sat on the edge of your bed, dressed in one of your boyfriend’s tee shirts. Jason was standing between your legs, attempting to wrap your hair for the night, but your drowsy figure was no help whatsoever.

Straightening up, you moved to make the job easier for him. “There ya’ go,” he muttered, the low timbre of his voice only lulling you further to sleep, “Look at you bein’ so good for me now.”

Once your mane was taken care of, you hastily made your way under the sheets, the soft fabric covering you in a blanket of warmth. After making sure you were comfortable, the batboy made his way over to his side of the bed, settling himself in right beside you.

Although, just as you were about to clock out for the night, Jason squished your cheeks together, forcing your eyes to meet his, "Maybe next time think twice before flirting with the bartender, hm?"

You knew he was still irritated with you, but the goodnight kiss he left on your forehead told you he’d get over it. Sooner or later.

a/n: this reads like a wattpad fic (derogatory)

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cuppajoel · 4 months ago

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first fruit since winter

pairing: modern!acacius x reader

synopsis: You come out of the shower and apply lotion. Marcus wants to help.

w/c: 2.8k

warnings: 18+ (MDNI), unprotected pnv sex, established couple, slight (legal) age gap, v fingering, pet names, slight religious imagery, p pronouns, breeding kink?, size kink, rubbing?

a/n: my wip list is so fkn long but I cannot get this man out of my head. This is a continuation of the same universe as this fic.

If you’d like to hear more about these (almost) love birds/ more modern!acacius pls let me know and I can tag you next time. This is unbeta’d and barely proof read.

Read on AO3

Steam chases you from your en-suite bathroom. Smells of coconut and jasmine trailing closely behind. Your hair is bundled into a towel which is precariously balanced on your head, not helped by the jiggling as you brush your teeth.

There’s nothing that you enjoy more than coming home after the gym to use your own shower. The rainfall setting on the shower head acts as a masseuse and works out the knots on your back.

As always after a workout, your body is tired but your brain is playing pinball with all of the endless tasks that await you tomorrow. You thought a shower would wipe those out but to no avail.

A black, terry-cloth robe is tied loosely around your waist, creating a v between your breasts as you saunter into your closet. You pinch the silken material of your pyjamas between your fingers, holding your toothbrush steady in your mouth as you walk again through to your bedroom.

Without realising it, you're murmuring to yourself. It almost sounds melodic. The white foam around your mouth threatens to spill out from the sides as you set your pyjamas onto your bed before returning to the bathroom to wash it all away.

Marcus sits upright in your bed. Cheaters perched on the bridge of his beautiful nose as he glances at you over his paperback. It’s something historic, war-related. He allows the book to fall softly to his chest, his attention piqued as your return from the bathroom. Your robe has become more undone, exposing the full curves of your body and your hair is still damp, creating a slight chill on your neck.

He takes a deep, audible breath and then releases it. He enjoys watching you exist within your own space as if he wasn’t there. For so long, he had partners who relied on him for so many things that by the end of it, their personality faded to what they thought he wanted from them- but not you.

Your routine was impacted minimally from this new situation that you found yourself in. For the first time in your adult life, you had swapped keys with someone, allowing the other access to your homes.

Despite having shared every inch of each other's bodies, this was somehow the most intimate thing you think you’ve done with this man. Eyes catching in the mirror as you brush your teeth; ironing his shirt because you were ‘doing yours anyway’; a call from the other end of the apartment that there was a ‘band-aid emergency’. Domesticity had shown you the soul of this man and you were falling hard.

Over by your vanity, you retrieve a bottle of your coconut body oil. You undo the tie of your robe, which was already hanging by a thread, and allow it to slip off your shoulders to the floor below. You pump the oil into your hand, set the bottle back on the side, then rub your hands together, warming the liquid. Lifting your leg to the small stool in front of the vanity, you start at your ankles, rubbing deep, thorough circles up your calf, shin and then knee.

“If I could have a picture painted on the back of my eyelids forever, it would be this.”

You glance up at Marcus. The paperback is closed, to one side of his bedside table. His head is cocked as if trying to get a better view of what you’re doing. His smile is lazy, eyes hooded from a long day at work but there’s a spark in them that tells you that something’s about to explode.

The circling doesn’t falter as you pump more oil into your hands, beginning to knead your plush thighs. “Mmmmm, I’m sure there are a million other things you’d rather look at than me putting lotion on…” your idle hands continue.

Slowly, he pulls off his round-rimmed glasses, folds the arms inwards and places them alongside his book. He peels back the covers from the lower-half of his body, revealing the fact he’s wearing nothing but a pair of briefs, swings his legs out of bed and floats over to where you stand.

He picks up the bottle of body oil and waves it under his nose. Eyes fluttering, he knows this is one of the undertones of you. The coconut mixes so well with your warm muskiness which elicits a Pavlovian response in him. Marcus feels his cock twitch from the tight fabric he’s confined in. He hums, vocalising his appreciation for the smell before placing it back down, exactly where he found it.

“Can I help?” He looks down at your hands with pouty lips, then flits back up to your heavy-lidded gaze. Under the soft glow of the bedroom light, the oil makes your skin glimmer and shine. It almost makes it look wet.

Marcus prides himself on being a man of strong wills. Able to wait and savour the moments of anticipation that make the moments of pleasure even more heightened. But looking at you here, warm and slick, anticipating the feeling of you under his touch, is making his strength falter.

He tries to keep his mind on the here and now, but viewing you in all of your naked glory, Marcus’ mind begins to conjure up the most carnal of images as his cock becomes harder than stone.

Narrowing your eyes at the man towering above you, you remove your foot from the soft cushioning of the stool then gesture for him to sit on the vacant seat, which he does so obediently. His dark eyes somehow grow larger as you now stand above him, like he’s just been presented with a giant present to unwrap.

The size difference between your hand and Marcus’ is laughable, as you take his in yours, turning it so his palm faces the ceiling. Reaching behind him you pick the bottle up once more and pump the liquid into his palm. He cups his hand slightly, moving it so the oil doesn’t escape.

Neither of you move for a moment. You can feel the heaviness of his gaze as it roams across your full, heavy chest, down to the curve of your stomach and waist. Under his gaze you are a goddess; something to be revered and worshiped.

You grab both of his wrists and force his palms together. His eyes don’t drop from yours as he warms the oil in his praying hands. He is ready to sink to his knees at your alter. “There is no better sight than you.” His lips curl upwards, he hasn't moved from the position you manoeuvred him into.

Spinning, you present him with your back. Rolling your shoulders deeply, you try to keep your heart steady and your brain relaxed as his strong, wide fingers find the indents of your hips. “I feel like you may be a little biased, given I’m all naked and lubed up…” you chuckle, looking down at him from over your shoulder.

“I cannot do your beauty justice with words.” He starts, spreading his fingers wide and rounding them back and forth, kneading your cheeks. The movements he makes are not soft but also not punishing; calculated and steady. You can’t bare to look away from him, though his eyes follow his hands as they push and pull at your body.

“Every part of you surrounds me and fills up each of my senses so that I lose control…” he slowly moves his thumbs in circles until they reach the small of your back. He increases the pressure, knowing that you have trouble with that area.

“I see you, and I’m in awe.” His grip is unrelenting, he rises from the stool so that your back is to his chest. “When I touch you, my whole body burns.” He holds you as he pushes his hips forward, you can feel the warmth of his cock. A hum passes your lips and you can’t help but to push your slicked ass back into him.

A throaty moan turns into a chuckle as Marcus realises that you are just as ready for this as he is. His lips hover at your ear and you can feel him smile against you. “To smell you…” he inhales, the soft breath tickles the fine hairs on your neck and shoots goosebumps all down your arms which he smooths over with his oil-slicked palms before they settle on your rib cage.

“To hear you…” his hands travel further up, cupping your heavy breasts and squeezing them roughly, eliciting a sweet whine from your lips. The oil from his hands has all but depleted but with what’s left he spreads all over your tits, pushing and pulling with his calloused hands.

“Mmmfuuuuck” you allow your head to roll back onto his shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed as he twists and yanks at your hardened nipples, his breathing deepening.

“But d’you know what makes me lose it the most?” He rolls your nipples in between his thumb and fore fingers as the rest of his hands move the heft of your tits with his palms.

Your brain is still two moves behind him, nerve endings still firing off from the sensation of the body oil swirling under his relentless fingers.

A faint rumble at your back paired with stilled hands on your chest brings you back in the room. Marcus nips at your earlobe before soothing it with his hot mouth. Gently, he lets your punished bosom fall from his grasp as he turns you by the shoulders to face him.

Heavy-lidded, panting, and jaw-slacked is how Marcus finds you. He bites the inside of his cheeks, trying to hide how giddy your pliancy makes him. Lifting your chin with his knuckle, he ensures your gaze meets his and stays as he guides you backwards to the bed.

“What makes me lose it the most, the thing that taunts me every day when I’m sitting at my desk, daydreaming about coming home to you…” he lowers you to the pillowy softness of your comforter, hovering above you so that the tip of your noses are touching. “The thing that makes me run faster every morning?” Maintaining eye contact, you can feel him slowly walk his fingers from your kneecap up to the crease between your thigh and pussy.

Sucking in your cheeks, you bite down hard, trying to keep your breathing even. Marcus’ thick first digit swipes slowly up and down your drenched core spreading your wetness. “Fuuck, Marcus-“

“Ohhhhh, there she is.” He sucks in a deep breath as he adds his second finger rubbing slow, deep circles around your clit. “Tasting your sweet cunt is the first fruit since winter.” He pushes both fingers inside of you, his own eyes flickering closed as your tightness wraps around them. Marcus fucks his fingers in and out of you with careful precision, his honey-glazed eyes half open and staring deeply into yours.

Steadily, he slides his fingers from you. Leading a trail of wetness up your naked body, across your tummy, circling your poor nipples, before bringing them inches from your faces. His lips envelop his digits, a throaty rumble passing through him as you feel him rut his covered cock against your inner thigh.

Extending your neck, you lick at Marcus’ fingers and tongue, needing to know the taste of you in his mouth. He appeases you for a moment, licking a swirling his own tongue against both his fingers and grazing it past your own before it all becomes too much. “I need to be inside you.” He mumbles after removing his fingers from both your mouths.

Marcus shucks off his light grey briefs now stained a darker tone from his leaking cock. Holding himself up on a forearm, he takes length in his hand, pumping himself back and forth allowing his flushed tip to caress your clit, before notching himself at your entrance, pushing in half an inch.

Rapidly, he sucks in air through his teeth, trying so desperately to keep his eyes open and on you. “Your cunt is so greedy for me, sweetheart.” He dips his head to look at the point where your bodies are meeting.

He pushes in a little further, licking his lips as he does so. “Mmmmmfuck, look at us.” He brings himself out of you just to push forward again, only his tip inside. The wet sound of your soaked core bouncing off the walls, only highlighting how feral this man makes you.

Following his instruction, you brace yourself up onto your elbow, you look down to see Marcus’ thick, weeping cock tease in and out of you.

Surveying the toned roundness of his stomach, your man puts on a show for you. He allows the swollen crown of his dick to catch your opening, stretching you with the giant girth of his tip, only to pull out again.

It is obscenity at its finest. The heady sounds and smells of you both perfume the air, all with the sweetness of coconut oil.

At the same time, you look up, holding each other there in the moment. The older man pushes himself in, inch by aching inch as you wrap your legs around his waist and push down on his lower back, trying to feel him even deeper. Finally, he is seated within you, the burn of his stretch only adding to the carnal desire.

“You Goddess; you take me so fucking well.” Marcus’ head falls in the space beside yours, his breath hot and ragged as he stills his hips. You can feel yourself flutter and squeeze against his giant cock, willing him to move. He does, but only circles his hips, savouring the feeling of your tight cunt squeezing him like a fist.

Just when you think you can’t take anymore, the broad backed man takes pitty on you, pushing your left leg back and up over his shoulder as he starts his legato movements.

In all your years you have never been fucked in a way like this. College boys with the stamina of Olympians have nothing on the animalistic urge that you awaken in one another.

“Do you like it when I stretch you out?” Marcus’ deep timbre brings you back into the room as he licks at his lips. His eyes snake slowly from your own to the point where his giant cock is testing your limits and then back up again.

“Hmmm?” He goads, a smirk slowly developing as he feels you tighten around him over and over. “Feel us together, sweetheart. Feel how my cock stretches your tight little pussy.” He takes hold of your wrist and brings it down to the fusing point.

With a sly smirk of your own, you grab the base of his dick and slowly pump the part of him that can’t quite fit. A deep throaty moan rumbles from his chest as his deep eyes turn a darker espresso colour. “Fuck, you stretch me so much…keep going, please.” You can feel the faint twitch of his dick as you know you’re both not going to last long.

“You play with that swollen clit but don’t you dare come yet. I need to feel you squeeze around me as I’m filling you with my cum.” You should feel embarrassed as the type of moan that passes your lips, breathy and deep, but you don’t have the brain function to care. This man is fucking you dumb.

As any good soldier would, you follow your clear instructions from the man in charge as you roll your clit in quick, tight circles. “That’s it, my sweetness, you like the idea of me filling you right up don’t you?” His thrusts become faster and deeper. The leg that was up on his shoulder, now fallen slightly but hooked over his back as his relentlessness never falters.

Marcus smiles down at you, his bright pearly whites unable to be hidden as he peers directly into your soul. Slowly, he brings his lips down to yours, your body almost folded in on itself as he fucks up into you.

The warm heat of his tongue glides and smooths against your own as you hear him moan into you which is the thing you both need to push you off the edge.

Your tongues become sloppy but never still as you feel his cock jerk inside of you, filling you in the way that you need him to.

The sound of your heartbeat rings in your ears as you both continue microscopic movements of your hips, only prolonging your highs as the hormones rush through your bodies.

Marcus throws his broadness and takes you with him as he rolls onto his back and manoeuvres so that you straddle him.

Too exhausted to sit up, you press yourself to him, chest to chest. The deep thudding of his heart brings you both back down to earth.

After a while of soft touches and lingering kisses, Marcus can hear your breathing even out, a whisper of a snore coming from you. He presses a kiss to your, nearly dry, hair. “I’m falling in love with you…” he whispers to the otherwise silent room. The confession that will be heard on another day.

Np tags:

@guiltyasdave , @baronessvonglitter , @mandaloriankait , @ohhoneypascal , @gothcsz , @iknowisoundcrazy, @stellamarielu

#Pedro pascal fanfiction #Pedro pascal fanfic #Pedro pascal fic #ppcu fanfiction #ppcu fandom #marcus acacius fanfic #marcus acacius x reader #general marcus acacius #marcus acacius #modern!acacius #fic!ffsw #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #gladiator movie #gladiator au #pedro pascal gladiator

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zaynessbeloved · 2 months ago

Text

Suppressing desires

Synopsis: You never expected your quiet friendship with Zayne—the cold, brilliant cardiac surgeon—to spiral into something that burned beneath your skin. Between long shifts, cold coffee, and fleeting moments, you tried to ignore the pull between you two. But life was hard, and desire was harder to suppress. Filming yourself became your secret escape. You never thought he’d find your videos. You never thought he’d watch. And when the truth breaks free, so does everything between you.

Content warnings: Friends to lovers, slow burn, camgirl x viewer dynamic, explicit sexual content, masturbation (camgirl content), mild voyeurism (consensual context), sexual tension, emotional angst, miscommunication, guilt, soft dominance, possessiveness, power dynamic, soft dom Zayne, oral sex, begging, overstimulation, rough sex, aftercare, cute shower scene, mutual pining, unspoken feelings, confessions during intimacy, possessive!Zayne, light choking (consensual), hand on belly kink, manhandling, praise kink, deep emotional release, cuddling, vulnerability, comfort after conflict.

Pairings: Zayne x reader

Word count: 10.3k

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - more soon

The steam clung to your skin long after you stepped out of the shower. You toweled off in silence, your movements sharp, but your face calm. You’d scrubbed at your skin like you could wash off everything that had happened—the months of confusion, the suffocating silence, the goddamn rain. It hadn’t worked. It never does. But at least your hands weren’t shaking anymore.

You caught your own reflection in the mirror, skin flushed from the heat, eyes a little red—not from tears. From restraint. From exhaustion. From the effort it took to hold it all in when you wanted to scream. You dressed quietly, tugging on a hoodie and old sweatpants, dragging your fingers through your wet hair just enough to stop the dripping. Your bones felt heavier than before. Weary in a way that sleep wouldn’t fix.

When you opened the door, the apartment was dim. Zayne sat hunched on your couch, elbows on his knees, hair still damp, eyes cast toward the floor like they held something fragile. The shirt you gave him stretched too tightly across his shoulders. It looked almost ridiculous on him—and yet he sat so still, like he didn’t want to breathe too loudly and tip something over between you.

You said nothing. Just walked past him, quiet as a ghost, into the kitchen. The kettle was already half full. You flicked it on without thinking. Jasmine. His favorite. The realization hit you halfway through scooping the leaves, and you rolled your eyes at yourself so hard it nearly made you dizzy.

Of course you made his favorite. Even now. Even after all this. Your first instinct was to reach for something that might comfort him.

You bit your tongue so hard you tasted iron. The water boiled. You steeped the tea. Two cups. Silence stretching longer and longer behind you. You placed one gently in front of him on the coffee table. Not out of care. Out of muscle memory.

You paused there, for a moment. Not looking at him. Not breathing too deeply. Just deciding.

Leave him alone. Or stay.

You hated that you didn’t want to walk away. With a soft, bitter huff, you walked around the couch and curled up at the far end, pulling your knees into your chest. Not close to him. Not near. Just… present. A quiet, stubborn anchor that refused to vanish the way he had.

The silence was unbearable. You sipped your tea. Warm. Calming. Still it tasted like ash in your mouth.

Zayne didn’t look at you. Not once. Not even after everything you said. Not after the way your voice cracked. Not after seeing your hurt so plainly. And that silence—that constant, exhausting silence—burned hotter than anything else.

By the time you finished your tea, your blood was boiling all over again. Your jaw clenched. You reached for both cups, snatched them off the table a little too hard, and stormed back into the kitchen with a clipped breath. You didn’t slam them in the sink, but the sound was sharp enough to echo. Sharp enough to hurt.

And that’s when he finally moved.

You heard the couch creak, then footsteps. Then a hand—warm, wet, callused—wrapped around your wrist.

Your breath hitched, and you turned sharply, startled. Ready to shout. Ready to tell him to let go. But the look in his eyes stopped you. He looked wrecked. Not from the rain. From you. His lips parted, but no sound came out at first. Just a breath. Then another.

And finally, words—low and raw and broken like they’d been carved from stone in his throat. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You blinked, stunned silent. But your fury flared hot again in your chest. “That’s it?” you whispered. “That’s what you have to say after everything?”

He looked away, jaw tightening, hand still around your wrist like it was the only solid thing in the world.

“I didn’t know it would matter that much. That you’d notice. That I—” he stopped himself and took a breath. “I didn’t know what to say. So I didn’t say anything. And that was wrong, I know that.”

You pulled your hand free. “I didn’t need a poem, Zayne,” you bit out. “I needed something. Anything. But you couldn’t even do that.”

His face crumpled slightly—not broken, but strained. Like every word you threw at him was another cut he thought he deserved.

“I didn’t think I could look at you,” he murmured, barely audible. “Not after what I did. What I saw.”

You went still. Your breath caught. Your pulse slowed.

“What…?” you started, but your voice faltered.

He looked up at you finally. Really looked at you. And for once, nothing in him was cold or unreadable. He was raw. Ashamed. Unraveling.

“I saw you,” he whispered. “Online.”

A beat. And then it hit. The silence. The withdrawal. The distance. You staggered back a step, like the words physically struck you. He followed—not pressing closer, not reaching—but still there, rooted in the guilt spilling from him like open wounds.

“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t search for it. But I saw. And I—” his voice cracked, and his eyes dropped again. “I wanted you. In ways I shouldn’t. And I hated myself for it. So I ran.”

Your heart pounded so loud you could barely hear the rain still tapping against the windows.

He looked at you again, completely shattered. “And I’ve regretted it every fucking day since.”

Zayne stopped speaking. The words had barely left his mouth, but it was like they echoed, louder in the silence that followed than when he first said them. They hung there between you both—raw and unsheltered, suspended in the thick tension of the kitchen air.

His throat bobbed. He didn’t move. His lips were parted like he might try again, might backpedal or soften it, but nothing came out. Because it hit him harder than he’d expected—the truth of it.

The way it sounded now, said out loud in your kitchen under too-warm lights, his clothes clinging awkwardly to his skin, the storm still fogging the windows—it was pathetic. Embarrassing. A confession no one asked for. The kind of thing that should’ve stayed buried beneath shame and silence.

But now it was there. Between you. And your silence was louder than any scream. You just stared at him. Not in horror. Not in judgment. Just… stunned.

And then your brow creased. Lips parted slightly, as if your brain was taking longer than usual to register what the hell had just happened. You blinked once, twice. Then crossed your arms slowly over your chest, still damp hair brushing your collarbone.

“That’s what this is about?” you finally said, voice quiet. Careful. Not angry. Just baffled. “That’s why you disappeared?”

Zayne looked like he might crumble on the spot. You stared at him longer. Really stared. Took him in—the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were curled tight into fists at his sides, the open vulnerability that now lived in every line of his usually unreadable face.

It finally clicked. He saw your videos. He saw you—naked, moaning, undone on camera—and got off to it. And then, instead of being a grown adult about it, he panicked. Ghosted you. Dissolved into silence.

You were stunned for another beat. Then your lips twitched—not in cruelty. Not in mockery. In disbelief. You let out a short, stunned breath of a laugh. “Zayne… what?”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, uncertain, guarded.

“You saw my video,” you said, a little slower this time. “You, of all people.”

He flinched slightly, his jaw working like he was chewing on glass, but still didn’t speak.

“And… what?” you pressed. “You jerked off, felt guilty, and decided the best solution was to pretend I didn’t exist anymore?”

He looked like he wanted to die. You almost laughed again, but this time it came out a little breathless. You were still so confused—not about the what, but about the why.

“I mean…” you ran a hand through your damp hair. “Zayne. I put them online. With my face. With my full fucking chest. People watching them is the entire point.”

He opened his mouth, but you cut in, soft but firm.

“I take accountability for that. If someone I know sees them, I own it. That’s on me.”

You moved a little closer, not by intention, but by instinct—the way your body always gravitated toward heat, toward answers. “What I don’t understand is why it messed you up like this.”

You let that hang in the air, your gaze searching his, trying to piece together the rest. And then it hit you—not like a slap, but like a light being turned on in a dim room.

“Oh my god…” your voice dropped. A breath caught in your throat. “You watched… you got off on it… and then you felt guilty, too guilty to what? Face me ever again?”

His silence was confirmation enough. You stared at him, lips parted, that stunned amusement slipping into something heavier. “Zayne.”

He didn’t look at you now because he physically couldn’t. His hands curled tighter.

“You idiot,” you whispered—not cruel, not sharp. Just… dazed. Because this wasn’t about porn. It wasn’t about shame. This wasn’t the reaction of a man embarrassed by sex. This was something else. And it wasn’t just guilt anymore, was it? It was you. The way he looked at you now, like he couldn’t bear it—not because of what you’d done, but because of what he felt.

“Tell me the truth.”

Your voice didn’t waver. It didn’t rise, didn’t beg. It cut through the thick air between you like a blade—not cruel, but necessary. The kind of voice people used when they’d been patient for too long. When they’d been hurt for too long.

Zayne didn’t move. You took a slow step forward—barely—but enough to make it clear you weren’t backing down. Not this time.

“Whatever it is. However much it hurts,” you said, eyes locked to his. “Say it.”

His throat worked around the silence, like he was swallowing back glass. And you saw it—all of it—in his eyes. A war. Worse than guilt. Worse than fear. This was a man standing at the edge of his own restraint, torn between the truth he owed you and the belief that he didn’t deserve to speak it. That maybe if he stayed quiet long enough, the storm would pass and he could live with the ruin.

But not this time. You tilted your chin higher, voice soft but unforgiving. “You owe me this, Zayne.”

His breath hitched.

“I know what you saw,” you said, quieter now. “I’m not angry about that. I’m not ashamed. But I’m confused as hell. Because I’ve been breaking apart for two months, and you’ve been walking around with your mouth sewn shut like I’m the one who did something wrong.”

You watched him closely. “And I swear to god, if you try to leave this apartment without saying it, I won’t chase you down again.”

Zayne’s jaw tensed so hard it could’ve shattered. He looked like he wanted to backpedal—like he could still claw this all back, find the version of himself that kept his mouth shut, played it safe, and lived in the cold shell where feelings didn’t exist. But he couldn’t. Not when you were looking at him like that—eyes sharp, tired, heart laid bare and still demanding truth.

So finally… finally… He exhaled, and broke. “It wasn’t just pleasure.”

The words came breathless. Low. Like they fought their way through him inch by inch.

“I only watched it once,” he continued, voice hoarse. “And I felt guilty. Because I didn’t know if you ever intended for anyone close to you to see them. I didn’t know if you would’ve wanted that. I didn’t know if it would… ruin us.”

He paused and swallowed. “And I couldn’t live with the thought of you looking at me differently. Like I was one of them. Like I’d taken something from you I wasn’t allowed to want.”

You stared at him. The words echoed in your chest—not loud, but heavy. You stepped closer, voice tighter now.

“So what?” you demanded, barely above a whisper. “You punished me for your guilt? You ghosted me to protect what—your own shame?”

Zayne dropped his gaze, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he tried—failed—to breathe evenly.

“You think watching me ruined our friendship?” you asked, stepping even closer. “Fine. Then tell me.”

Your voice cracked now, just slightly—not with weakness, but with weight. “Do you regret it?”

His eyes snapped to yours, sharp with something close to panic. You didn’t let him look away.

“Any of it,” you asked. “Do you regret any of what happened?”

Silence. A pause so long it stretched like a blade across your ribs. And then, finally, in a voice barely audible. “…I regret all of it.”

The words knocked the air right out of your lungs. Your lip trembled for half a second before your teeth caught it. You should’ve stepped back. Should’ve yelled. Should’ve told him to get the fuck out if that was really all there was.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because his face didn’t match the words. Because you knew him too well. Knew every shift in his voice, every twitch in his eyes. You’d learned him like a language—one he never let anyone else read.

So you stepped even closer, close enough to feel the heat of his skin beneath the borrowed clothes, close enough to see the fine tremble in his fingers at his sides.

“You’re lying,” you whispered.

Zayne didn’t move. Your voice stayed soft, measured. “You’re holding something back.”

His throat worked again, his chest rising faster. And that little thread of hope—still clinging, still stubborn��tugged tight against your ribs.

“Tell me what you’re really afraid of, Zayne,” you said, eyes locked to his. “Say what you actually regret.”

And this time, he couldn’t run.

The silence was unbearable. It stretched and stretched—pulled tight like a piano wire, humming with everything he couldn’t say and everything you refused to stop demanding. Your breath sat frozen in your lungs, watching him. Watching how he blinked, slow and uneven, like his thoughts were strangling him one by one.

Zayne was quiet in that sharp, haunted way—the way people get when they know they’re standing at the edge of something they can’t walk back from.

You searched his eyes—that deep green threaded with gold, stormy and tired and full of weight. You knew him, damn it. You knew the way his silence held more meaning than most people’s declarations. But this time, silence wasn’t enough. This wasn’t something he got to bury with deflection and half-truths.

And maybe he knew that. Because something shifted. His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then your eyes. Then lower, like he was memorizing you—burning you into him before everything broke.

You almost opened your mouth again—almost told him to spit it out, to stop acting like a coward—when suddenly his breath hitched, sharp and stuttered, like he was suffocating. And then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. Zayne kissed you like a man who’d been starving—like every step he took back had only made him thirst harder. His lips crashed into yours with so much force it made you stumble, your back hitting the kitchen counter with a soft gasp. And you responded immediately—no hesitation, no restraint—kissing him back with all the frustration and grief and need you’d buried beneath your ribs for far too long.

His hands gripped your waist, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you. Like this was a moment pulled out of his wildest, most forbidden dreams. And god—it was so obvious now. This wasn’t just guilt. This wasn’t about a damn video. This was about his feelings for you.

Because Zayne didn’t kiss like a man confused. He kissed like a man who had felt too much for too long, and had finally snapped under the weight of it. He pulled away for a breath—one shallow, desperate gulp of air—and pressed his forehead to yours.

“I didn’t stop thinking about you,” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “Not for a second.”

Your fingers fisted in his shirt.

“I thought I could walk away,” he rasped, voice breaking apart. “Thought I could forget it. You. Everything. But I can’t. I can’t.”

His lips found yours again, fiercer this time—more fevered, like the truth now lived in his mouth and he could only speak it through touch. Between kisses, broken and panting, he confessed everything in pieces.

“I was ashamed. I—fuck, I hated how much I wanted you. I hated how wrong it felt.”

You pulled him closer, your body arching into his, not out of lust but out of relief—like you could finally breathe again.

“I thought it would ruin you, the truth. That you’d never look at me the same after I told you,” he whispered between your lips. “That I’d lose the only thing that ever made me feel—”

But then he stopped. Stopped kissing. Stopped moving. Reality slammed back into his chest like a freight train. Zayne staggered back, like the heat between you had burned him. His hands dropped from your waist, his breath shaking as if the floor had opened beneath his feet.

His voice came low. Scared. “I shouldn’t have—”

But you didn’t let him finish. Your hand shot out, grabbing his shirt, dragging him forward again with a force that surprised even you. Your heart thundered in your chest, your eyes sharp and livid. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He blinked, stunned.

“Don’t you dare run again, Zayne,” you said through clenched teeth. “You don’t get to hide behind guilt or fear or whatever excuse you’ve been feeding yourself. You don’t get to disappear again.”

He looked at you, eyes wide, raw and open and scared. And still, he stayed close. Your fingers tightened in the fabric at his chest. You didn’t soften.

“I’ve had enough,” you said, breathless. “Of silence. Of guessing. Of wondering if I was the only one who gave a damn. I wasn’t. Don’t lie to me now.”

He was trembling. And still, he didn’t move away. Because somewhere under all that shame, all that restraint, all that tortured denial—Zayne had already given himself away. And you were done pretending not to see it.

You couldn’t take the look on his face anymore. The guilt, the restraint, the storm of everything he wouldn’t say—it carved into you deeper than any silence he’d ever given. And before he could pull away again, before he could retreat into that self-loathing he wore like armor, you surged forward and kissed him. Hard.

Your hands tangled in his damp hair, yanking him closer until there was no air between you—just lips colliding in raw desperation, breath caught, heart pounding against his chest. You kissed him like you wanted him. Like you had always wanted him. And finally, finally, Zayne started to believe it.

He groaned against your mouth—low and wrecked—as his hands flew to your waist, gripping you like he didn’t trust himself to let go. You pulled back only barely, panting against his lips, your voice a breathless rasp.

“I could care less about the videos,” you said, your eyes locked on his. “But you shouldn’t have run.”

He kissed you again—no hesitation this time, no fear. Just need. His hands slid up, framing your face with reverence, but the kiss was anything but gentle. He kissed you like he was breaking apart, like every ounce of denial he’d ever clung to was splintering beneath the weight of your mouth. You gasped as his teeth grazed your lower lip, and his breath hitched like it ruined him.

You stumbled together blindly, hips brushing, breaths tangling—moving without direction, without plan, just more. Until your back hit the doorframe and you grabbed the front of his shirt, dragging him toward the living room, toward the only thing that made sense right now. The couch.

Zayne moved with you like a man possessed, dazed, until your knees hit the cushions and you pulled him down with you. In a heartbeat, you were in his lap—thighs straddling his hips, his large hands spreading across your back like he needed to hold every inch of you just to believe this was real.

The kiss deepened—messier, hotter, your fingers tugging at the fabric of his borrowed shirt. You moaned softly against him when his lips moved to your jaw, then your neck, then back to your mouth, desperate and searching.

And somewhere between the kisses, the hands, the friction—the truth broke free.

“I should’ve just told you,” you whispered against his lips, fingers threading through the hair at his nape. “I wanted you. I’ve wanted you for so long, Zayne.”

He stilled for half a second but not pulling away. Just shaking his head, voice barely a whisper against your skin. “You deserve better.”

That made you freeze. You pulled back, eyes burning. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

His gaze dropped, jaw clenched, his hands still holding you like you were slipping through him.

“I’m not what you need,” he murmured. “You deserve someone lighter. Someone whole. I—fuck, I saw the way you looked at me even when I said nothing. You made me feel—” his voice cracked. “I’m not enough. Not for you.”

You stared at him, eyes wide, chest heaving. And then you laughed. Bitter. Disbelieving. Heartbroken.

“You absolute idiot,” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re too good for me. I’m a mess, Zayne. My life’s a fucking disaster. And you—you were the only good, steady thing I had. And when you disappeared, I—”

Your breath caught.

“I thought I lost something I never even got to hold.”

He groaned and kissed you again, hands tangling in your hair, pulling you closer until your body melted fully into his. You kissed him back with all the anger and want and aching you’d kept buried for so long. Fingers clawing at each other, mouths moving like every second mattered.

There was no control left. No fear. Only the electric thrum of your bodies tangled, damp hair, crumpled clothes, and two people who had broken each other with silence now trying desperately to fix it with touch.

“I don’t care,” you said, breathless, panting against his lips. “I don’t care about better. I want you.”

And Zayne, breath ragged, kissed you like he finally, finally believed you.

The air between you had shifted—molten now, thick and heavy with want. The kisses grew messier, deeper, hungrier. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer until his breath caught in his throat. His hands slipped under your hoodie, palms hot against your skin, fingertips reverent but trembling. And every time your hips rolled against his, a low, ragged sound tore from his throat—involuntary, helpless.

You could feel him underneath you, hard and aching, pressed tight against the seat of your thighs like he was already lost. It wasn’t just the confession anymore. It was his body, his mouth, his goddamn soul, burning with the weight of needing you.

Zayne moaned into your mouth, voice low and wrecked, and his hands gripped tighter at your waist like he was afraid you might disappear again. You weren’t going anywhere. Not now. Not when you’d fought for this. Not when you had him laid bare and open, trembling beneath you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing.

His lips broke from yours, trailing lower—jaw, throat, collarbone—leaving heat in his wake as he pressed slow, shaking kisses down your skin. Every inch he touched felt branded. Worshipped. Claimed. But still, somehow, he held back.

You could feel it in the way he paused—the tension in his shoulders, the flicker of guilt that still clung like a bruise to his every movement. Like this was something he hadn’t earned. Like even now, even here, he didn’t deserve to have you like this.

And god, that made something hot spark deep in your core. Because you wanted him. Had wanted him for so long. And he needed to know that. Your breath hitched as your hands slid down to the hem of your hoodie—and in one swift motion, you pulled it over your head and tossed it aside, leaving your bare breasts gleaming in the low light, flushed and rising with every panting breath.

His gaze snapped to you. Wide. Stunned. Starving. And still somehow full of restraint that made your chest ache. You leaned in, eyes burning into his.

“This,” you whispered, voice thick with need, “cannot come between us again.”

His hands trembled against your ribs.

“Zayne,” you breathed, dragging him forward by the front of his shirt until your lips brushed against his ear, “you get to want me now. You get to touch me. To keep me.”

He let out a low, choked sound—something between a moan and a sob—and you ground against him again, your voice nothing but breath now. “And I’m so fucking turned on by that.”

Something in him shattered. He surged up, mouth crashing into yours again, all guilt scorched into ashes by your words. His hands gripped at your hips, pulled you down harder against him, grinding so sweet and slow it made you whimper. You could feel every inch of him now, solid and heavy and trembling under your touch.

He kissed you like he was making up for lost time—with tongue, with teeth, with desperate gasps between each breath like he’d die if he didn’t taste you again. Your hands slid beneath his shirt, up his back, fingertips skimming the scars you’d never seen, only imagined, and his whole body shuddered.

And still, between every desperate press of his lips, you whispered it again. You get to have me now. Because this wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just release. This was years of silence breaking apart.

He was breathless beneath you—not just from the way your body moved over his, but from the weight of feeling. Zayne’s lips were swollen, pink, parted just slightly as he drew in shallow breaths between each kiss you gave him. His eyes—those green-gold storm clouds—tracked your every movement, dazed and reverent, like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like his hands weren’t already on your skin, trembling with the ache of finally being allowed to touch you.

"I wanted you," he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel underfoot. "Longer than I should’ve. Longer than I admitted to myself."

Your brows arched. You couldn’t help the quiet sound that escaped you—something between a laugh and a groan of disbelief.

"God, you're such a dummy," you whispered, cupping the side of his face, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone. “You could’ve had me sooner. All this time…”

His hands gripped your hips, grounding you there like you might vanish if he didn’t.

“I felt guilty,” he confessed. “Even thinking it… wanting you. It didn’t feel fair. Like I was taking something I wasn’t allowed to have.”

You rolled your eyes, but your breath hitched as his lips found your chest again—open-mouthed and reverent, kissing lower, slower, like every inch of you mattered.

“Guilty,” you echoed, voice teasing. “You? Cold, stoic, always-has-it-together Dr. Zayne, feeling guilty over a dirty thought?”

He groaned, embarrassed, his forehead dropping briefly against your sternum.

And you grinned, smug, running your fingers through his hair and tugging until he looked up again.

“Well, since you’ve already spilled the secret…” you said, tilting your head, voice low and sweet and dangerous, “which video was it?”

His eyes widened, but you didn’t back down.

“I mean, come on, you’ve seen me,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his. “So which one broke you?”

Zayne swallowed hard. His hands gripped tighter at your waist. “I don’t—”

“Don’t lie.”

His breath stuttered. You kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and coaxing. “Which one, Zayne?”

He groaned again, like the memory physically pained him. “The one with the mirror.”

You blinked, then flushed—heat creeping up your neck. “Seriously?”

“You looked…” his voice caught in his throat. “You weren’t even doing anything at first. You were just looking at yourself. The way you touched your own skin slowly. Like you knew exactly how it would feel. Like you loved watching yourself fall apart.”

You didn’t expect the answer to fluster you, but your breath caught as his lips skimmed across your collarbone.

“And then you started moaning,” he said softly, reverently, like he was confessing to something holy. “But the sounds you’re making now…” he trailed off, dragging his mouth over the swell of your breast, pausing when you whimpered just above him. “…They’re far better.”

You gasped as your body trembled again—from heat, from ache, from the overwhelming truth in his voice. He wasn’t rushing. Wasn’t grabbing. This wasn’t about finishing anything. It was about having this—having you. Finally.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, glancing up.

“And you still think I deserve better?” you panted, fingers tangled in his hair.

He closed his eyes like the weight of you was too much to bear. And maybe it was. But he still held you like he wouldn’t survive letting go.

“No,” he breathed. “I just didn’t think I deserved you.”

And you kissed him again—because anything you could’ve said would’ve cracked. Because this was how you spoke now. With hands, with heat, with hearts pulled wide open. And finally… finally, Zayne let the shame go.

You didn’t rush. For once, neither of you had to. You stayed tangled together on the couch, caught in a haze of mouths and hands, confessions whispered between gasps. His palms slid over your skin like he was trying to memorize it—every curve, every tremble, every soft intake of breath that stuttered when his lips brushed a sensitive spot.

You worked each other up in quiet moans and murmured curses, your hips grinding slow and steady against him, clothes damp and sticking in all the wrong places. His shirt—the one far too tight across his chest to begin with—was the first casualty. One moment your hands were beneath it, your lips dragging down the strong line of his throat, and the next it was flung somewhere behind the couch, forgotten in a blur of heat.

“God, Zayne,” you whispered into his neck, teeth grazing skin, “you’re unreal…”

He groaned, head tipping back as your fingers slid over the muscles of his back, nails scraping just enough to make his breath catch. His body was hot under your touch—all corded strength and restraint stretched too far.

And still, even now, he tried to hold back. Until you shifted your hips against him again, slowly, deliberately, and he let out a sound—half moan, half curse, low and desperate.

“This isn’t…” he panted, voice shaking. “Not like this. Not here.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze—blown pupils, flushed cheeks, hair a mess of damp waves from the rain and your fingers. He looked completely undone. And yet somehow still composed enough to make your breath falter.

You smiled. “Then take me somewhere else.”

His hands flexed at your waist, and the next second, you were both stumbling up off the couch—half walking, half crashing into each other as you made it down the narrow hallway, bumping into walls, laughing through gasps and kisses that never really broke. He pushed open the door to your bedroom, and you both nearly fell into the bed, the chill of the sheets a sharp contrast to your heated skin.

But it wouldn’t stay cold for long. Zayne landed above you, bracing himself on his forearms, looking down at you like he was seeing the center of his universe beneath him—real, warm, his. His breath caught as he took you in—flushed, lips swollen from his kisses, pupils wide and waiting.

And then his eyes flicked to the corner of your room. Your setup. The soft lighting, the camera tucked beside your shelf, the faint outline of the tripod against the wall.

You watched his gaze change. And you couldn’t help it. You grinned, panting softly. “Don’t worry,” you whispered, dragging your nails slowly down his spine, “I won’t film this one.”

He looked back at you, eyes narrowing—heat spiking, sharp and sudden. You leaned up, brushing your lips against his jaw. “Unless… you want a special video next time.”

That was it. Whatever restraint Zayne had left—it snapped. Something in his chest growled, not with sound but with motion. He kissed you hard—messier now, mouth hungry, possessive—like your words had flipped a switch that he couldn’t switch back off.

You didn’t know what that tease unlocked in him—only that his mouth was everywhere now, his hands surer, rougher. That his kisses stole the breath from your lungs, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress like he needed you closer than was physically possible.

He didn’t speak—not at first. But you could feel everything he wanted to say in every single movement. How long he’d wanted you. How long he’d ached for this. And how now that he finally had you, he wasn’t letting go.

You didn’t miss the way his breath changed just slightly when you said it. That offhand tease about the video. About making one just for him. About letting him watch. Zayne had gone feral at the thought. The man who had spent years behind cold silence, restrained expressions, meticulous control—he was coming undone beneath your hands now. All that discipline cracking open at the seams, all because of you.

And it made you wonder. Your hips shifted under him, legs tangled, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“You like that,” you whispered, a breathy accusation, one laced with a grin you knew he could feel in your voice. “Don’t you?”

Zayne stiffened above you, his exhale sharp and low. You bit your lip. Oh.

“Well,” you purred, just to test the waters, “maybe I’ll have to be a little more…”

You never got to finish that sentence. His knee dragged up hard between your thighs, suddenly, deliberately—and you yelped into his shoulder, the sound dissolving into a breathless, shaky laugh.

“Oh?” you gasped, halfway between delight and ruin. “That easy to provoke?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, his hands gripped tighter—rougher. His body, once braced so carefully above yours, now pressed down like a stormcloud breaking open. You could feel the hunger in him vibrating at the edge of his skin, at the way his jaw tensed when you laughed again.

“I knew you liked bratty girls,” you breathed, smug.

His knee moved again. This time, slower. Firmer. Right where you were already throbbing—soaked through cotton that had no chance of hiding how gone you were for him.

The sound you made then was anything but teasing. Zayne exhaled a curse, ragged and low. He was watching you now, barely holding himself back—flushed and wild-eyed, the weight of his stare molten on your skin.

“You’re soaked,” he said, almost like a revelation. His voice was wrecked—too soft and too hard at once. “You’ve been this wet the whole time, and yet you still find it in yourself to tease.”

“Maybe,” you rasped, breath catching as you shifted your hips against him again. “Maybe you should’ve figured that out sooner.”

His hand shot down to your waistband. Not rushed. But desperate. Determined. And when his fingers slid beneath the fabric, you swore you felt the breath leave his lungs. He froze for half a second—just long enough to feel—then his mouth was on yours again, kissing you like it hurt not to, his grip on your body hard and trembling.

The fabric peeled away like it had no right to stay, soft cotton shoved down in a haze, underwear dragged with it—Zayne moving like a man starved for too long. And maybe he was. Because every part of him burned against you now—his breath, his hands, his mouth. All of it saying what his words hadn’t yet: mine.

You weren’t laughing anymore. You were moaning—soft, breathless, desperate—as your head fell back against the pillows and your body shuddered in his hands. Because you hadn’t seen this side of him before. But now that you had…you didn’t ever want it to stop.

He changed. Right there beneath your hands, Zayne shifted from the hesitant, guilty man who once pulled away from your light, into something else entirely. It was subtle at first. A different weight to his touch. A new intention in the way his eyes pinned you down. But the moment his lips found your throat and his voice dropped low and dark in your ear, something snapped so hard and so fast.

There was no guilt anymore. No second-guessing. No shame dragging behind his ribs like chains. Only want. Unfiltered. Unapologetic.

“You said I get to have you now,” he murmured against your skin, his voice smooth and low, but trembling with restraint. “So don’t take it back.”

You didn’t even get the chance to reply. His hands slid down, fingers dragging between your thighs with deliberate slowness, coaxing gasps from your lips that made him smirk—soft, dangerous, devastating.

“This is mine now,” he said, quieter, just before his teeth caught the sensitive skin where your neck met your shoulder.

You gasped, arching beneath him, caught off guard by how fast he’d turned the tide. Zayne was always composed. Always quiet. Even now, his tone was velvet—but the edge beneath it was sharp, commanding. The kind of dominance that didn’t need to be barked out loud. It simmered in his control, in how precisely he touched you, in how well he already seemed to understand your reactions.

Every move was calculated—just enough pressure to make you writhe, just enough delay to make you need.

“You like teasing?” he asked softly, his breath hot against your ear. “Let’s see how much you can take when I start teasing you.”

Your body stuttered under him. You hadn’t expected this. Him—all self-denial and quiet panic, to this?

But now you were under him—thighs trembling, lips parted in a moan, and Zayne’s mouth was on your collarbone, kissing slow, dragging teeth when he knew it would make you squirm. His fingers traced circles lower, not yet giving you what you wanted, but letting you know he could. That he would.

“When I watched that video…” he rasped, lips grazing your ear, “I hated myself for how much I wanted you. I couldn’t stop. I played it twice. Just to hear the sounds you made.”

Your breath caught hard, back arching into him.

“I imagined this,” he said. “How you’d sound if I was the one touching you instead.”

He kissed you then—rough and hot and desperate—and when he pulled back, his hand moved between your folds just enough to make you cry out.

“Better than the video,” he whispered, lips curving. “So much better.”

You barely recognized the moan that escaped you. And Zayne—your Zayne, the one you thought so careful, so cold, so unreachable—now looked at you like he’d devour you whole. And you wanted him to, so fucking bad.

Zayne didn’t relent. Not when you trembled. Not when your breath caught in your throat. Not even when your legs began to shake around his hips. In fact, he seemed to feed on it—the way your body arched into him, the way you gasped his name like it meant something more than just syllables in the air.

His fingers were still between your thighs, slow, methodical, circling your clit with devastating precision. The kind of rhythm that was meant to unravel you. Not fast. Not urgent. But deliberate—like he had all the time in the world to feel you fall apart.

Your voice broke on a gasp when he dragged those same fingers lower, teasing—barely dipping inside before pulling back again. Then again. Back and forth, torturously slow, until the slick sounds that filled the room were obscene.

Your hips jolted. Your voice shook around his name. “Z-Zayne—”

His mouth was on your throat again, whispering against your skin, “So wet… and you’re still trying to tease me?”

You shook your head, or maybe you nodded—you weren’t sure anymore. Everything in your body was wound tight, aching. Your thoughts barely strung together.

He smirked against your pulse, biting just hard enough to make you whimper.

“I don’t think so,” he murmured.

You could feel him smirk again when your body jerked the next time his fingers slid back down and in—just the tip—then retreated again, leaving you gasping, clawing at his arms.

“Zayne, I swear to god—”

“I love when you beg,” he said, maddeningly calm. “It suits you.”

Another slow slide of his fingers, pushing deeper this time—just enough for your breath to catch again. Your hips arched, your nails dug into his biceps, and your moan—sharp and aching—punched the air between you.

You were melting. A trembling, sweat-slick mess beneath him. And he looked possessed by it. Entranced.

“I could do this for hours,” he whispered. “Just like this. Just to watch you twitch every time I stop.”

And you were twitching. Shaking. Writhing with every half-movement, every inch of space he refused to close, every second he kept you just beneath the edge.

But then all of a sudden he shifted. Something changed. The teasing slipped from his fingertips and was replaced by something intentional. He looked into your eyes then—deep, unreadable, burning. And moved. Fingers thrusting in deep and sure, the rhythm changing so suddenly it made you cry out—loud and raw. The sound ripped from your throat, helpless, wrecked.

“There it is,” Zayne growled, low and triumphant.

Your hands fisted in the sheets. Your thighs clenched around him. Your back arched in a full, shaking curve as you lost yourself in the overwhelming pleasure of him finally, finally giving in.

And above you, Zayne looked transfixed—lips parted, flushed and beautiful, watching every reaction you gave him like it was sacred. You were completely, utterly undone.

Zayne didn’t stop. Not when your voice caught in your throat. Not when your hips arched into his hand in a silent plea. Not even when your legs began to tremble so hard they nearly squeezed his wrist. In fact, it only spurred him on. He was entranced. Devoured by the sight of you. The flush that bloomed across your chest, the slick sheen on your skin, the way your lips parted and your brows knit together with every slow, perfectly timed drag of his fingers.

You were stunning. Undone. And he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

“Better than the video,” he whispered, voice rasping at the edges, his free hand sweeping down your thigh. “So much better than anything I could have imagined.”

His pace changed—a little faster, a little deeper, just long enough to make you gasp and shudder and push against his hand like you couldn’t take it anymore.

And then he slowed. Again. You whined—broken, high, frustrated.

And Zayne only smiled, dark and soft and maddening. “I want to see how much you can take.”

He curled his fingers—sharp and sudden—and your entire body arched. A strangled noise escaped your throat, hands fisting in the sheets, heels digging into the mattress as you tried to chase the high he kept holding just out of reach. But he knew. God, he knew exactly what he was doing. His mouth found your neck again, hot and unrelenting, biting at the skin with the same maddening rhythm of his fingers—just enough to keep you in pieces.

“I can feel it,” he growled against your throat. “You’re right there, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t even respond. Just nodded, gasping, body shuddering under him as he teased you with that unbearable, inconsistent rhythm—fast, then slow, then fast again—enough to make your spine curl off the mattress, your nails scrape down his back.

And then without warning, your body snapped. You didn’t expect it. Neither did he. You cried out, voice cracking, vision blurred as your body clamped down around his fingers, wave after wave ripping through you until you were shaking, sobbing out breaths you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Zayne’s lips were on yours before you could fall apart completely—kissing you desperately, like he needed to feel your moans break into his mouth. His other hand cradled your head as you clung to him, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, your whole body twitching with the aftershocks.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just held you. Kissed you. Whispered your name like it was something precious and fragile, even as you both struggled to catch your breath. And through your haze, you laughed—breathless and wild and stunned.

“You’re different,” you gasped, resting your forehead against his. “So different like this…”

Zayne chuckled low, gravelly, unhinged in a way that sent a thrill down your spine.

“No more pretending,” he whispered, brushing his nose against yours. “I want you. All of you.”

You smiled, still dizzy, still aching and pulled him closer. Because now that you had him like this—raw, undone, yours—you weren’t letting go either.

You weren’t done with him. Not even close. The moment your breathing steadied, a smile curled against your lips—slow, dangerous, mischievous. That spark in your eyes returned, the one that always made Zayne’s composure falter. You let your fingers trail down his chest, slow and featherlight, and he barely had time to react before you gave him a sharp, deliberate push.

He fell back against the bed, caught entirely off-guard, eyes wide, lips parted. “What—”

But your mouth was already on him. You made yourself comfortable between his legs, flushed and warm, eyes gleaming as tugged his pants and undwerwear down in one swift movement and wrapped your hand around him—firm and steady, drawing a strangled sound from his throat that made your core throb. His body was hot and tight with tension, barely holding it together, his hands fisting in the sheets as he tried to process the sudden shift in pace.

Zayne looked wrecked—and it was delicious.

“You looked so in control,” you whispered, voice saccharine, lips brushing the inside of his thigh. “I think it’s my turn.”

Then you took him into your mouth—slow, teasing, tongue tracing every curve like you’d waited forever to do it. His head fell back with a curse, eyes squeezing shut, his whole chest rising and falling too fast.

“God—” he breathed, voice cracking. “That mouth…”

You hummed around him, watching him flinch, watching every twitch of his muscles as your hand moved in rhythm with your mouth. He looked like sin above you—flushed, sweat-slick, biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep from unraveling completely.

But not even Zayne’s self-control could last forever.

“Ease up,” he murmured, voice lower now, firmer. Still gentle—always gentle—but there was command threading through the cracks in his restraint. “Don’t make me stop you.”

You smirked against him, fingers tightening, dragging another sound from his throat that made you ache in the most dangerous ways.

“Why would you stop something you’re enjoying so much?” you purred.

And his response was a growl. In the next second, his hands tangled in your arms, dragging you up before you could laugh—mouth crushed to yours in a kiss so hot, so frantic, it left your knees weak.

The flip happened fast. One moment, you were straddling him. The next, he had you pinned beneath him again, his body heavy and solid and burning. His fingers dug into your thighs, dragging them apart with a groan, as if he needed the space, needed you.

“Brat,” he murmured against your throat, voice shaking. “You’re going to regret teasing me like that.”

You moaned as he bit down on your neck—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to mark you, to let you know who had the upper hand now. And you loved it. Every second. Every flicker of dominance tempered by the soft reverence in his touch.

This was Zayne—brilliant, composed, methodical Zayne—and he was undone above you, made of nothing but desire and control and the kind of tenderness that broke you open.

Zayne had never looked at you like this before. Eyes half-lidded, jaw taut, body braced above yours like restraint was a thread fraying with every breath. Even in this undone state, there was control. Measured, calculated. His hand gripped himself as he shifted lower, slow and unhurried, dragging the tip of his cock through your slick folds, again… and again… watching you shiver with every pass. Teasing you deliberately—not just to edge you, but to show you. Exactly how fast he could put you in your place if he wanted to.

Your thighs parted further in invitation, your eyes glassy and wide, your lip caught between your teeth as you tried to keep still. But your hips shifted, almost instinctively—searching for friction, aching for relief.

“Zayne,” you whimpered, voice sweet, coaxing. “I’ll be good, I swear…”

That did something to him. You felt it in the sudden tension in his arm. Saw it in the way his head dipped lower, dark hair falling around his temples as his jaw clenched.

“Damnit,” he muttered. “You don’t even know what that does to me, you saying that...”

He gave you a single, sharper thrust—not in, just against—and your entire body jumped. But still, he held back. Torturing you with every press and pause, every careful brush against your entrance but never pushing in.

And then, his hand came up—slow, sure—and wrapped around your throat. Not rough. Not mindless. Precise. He applied pressure exactly where it counted, not enough to harm, just enough to command. His thumb traced your pulse like he was reading a heartbeat from beneath his skin.

“Ease up,” he murmured, voice low and measured. “Let me in, love.”

You moaned, your thighs trembling beneath him, and he kept his grip just firm enough to ground you as he finally pushed forward—slow and devastating, the stretch of him drawing a choked sound from your throat.

He bottomed out with a groan that sounded like it ripped itself from his chest, forehead pressing to yours.

“God—” he hissed, “you feel like a fucking dream…tight and warm, fuck…”

You couldn’t speak—not when his other hand came down to your stomach, pressing gently, keeping you there as he started to move. Slow, deliberate thrusts that dragged every inch of him across your nerves like fire, every pull and push making your moans break apart beneath his hand.

He was relentless. Controlled. Focused on every reaction like he was studying them—learning them—cataloging every stutter in your breath, every flutter of your lashes, every time you clenched around him like you didn’t know what to do with so much want.

And yet beneath it all, beneath the dominance, the control, the aching depth of him inside you, his voice still broke just a little when he said your name like it meant everything to him.

You felt full in the most overwhelming, grounding, perfect way. For once, your thoughts weren’t spiraling or skipping ahead to the next deadline, the next problem, the next weight on your shoulders. Everything had gone blissfully still. There was nothing now but the slow, deliberate drag of him inside you, and the firm pressure of his hand on your belly, holding you there, making you feel every inch of him.

Exactly where he wanted you. Exactly where you needed to be.

Zayne’s eyes were locked on your face—dark and dazed—drinking in every twitch of your mouth, every gasp and hitch of your breath. You could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his hand trembled just slightly as he kept the pace steady, controlled.

“Zayne,” you gasped, reaching for him, nails curling into his arm.

He leaned down instantly, meeting your mouth in another bruising kiss, hungry and uneven. You tasted each other’s breath between moans, hips rising to meet his as you pulled him closer, wanting more, wanting all of him. His hand pressed harder against your lower belly and you choked on a cry—the sensation too much, too deep, too perfect.

You never expected this from him. Not the dominance. Not the way he handled you so easily, so deliberately, like he’d thought about this a hundred times before. Not the sheer possession in his touch—all heat and focus and barely-restrained reverence.

“You feel so good,” he groaned against your lips, voice low and wrecked.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his hips, but your body burned for something deeper. Harder. Your fingers tangled in his hair as you kissed him again—a whimper caught in your throat.

“Harder,” you breathed against his mouth. “Please…”

And he moved. He pulled back just enough to flip you, smooth and quick, his grip steady and commanding. You let out a soft gasp as he manhandled you onto your stomach, guiding you onto your knees with one hand pressed firm against the small of your back.

“Just like that,” he murmured, low and dark. “Stay still for me.”

You could only nod, breath catching as you clung to the sheets—and then he was inside you again. The depth made you wail, burying your face into the mattress as he slid in all the way, filling you completely. Your fingers curled into the fabric as your knees shook from the stretch and the heat and the raw, burning rightness of him inside you.

He didn’t speak at first. Just moved. Deep, unrelenting thrusts, hitting a spot so perfect it made your toes curl. One of his hands gripped your hip, the other returning to your belly, pressing you down into the mattress like you were something fragile and precious and his.

“Zayne…” you half-moaned, half-laughed, dazed, “the neighbors have never heard me this loud—”

You felt the chuckle vibrate through his chest against your back before you even got a chance to finish, low and fraying.

“Let them hear,” he whispered, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Let them know you’re mine.”

That broke you. Not just the words but the voice he said them in. Like it wasn’t a command. Like it was a vow.

Your body shook, not just from the rhythm of him driving into you, but from the sheer, consuming weight of being wanted—entirely, unashamedly, without pause. Because in that moment, beneath his hands, beneath the press of his lips at your throat, you didn’t just feel claimed. You felt held. And you never wanted to let go.

He was unraveling too. Even as he held the reins—even as his grip on your hips was steady, deliberate, even as his voice remained low and coaxing in your ear—Zayne was breaking.

Underneath that soft dominance, the careful control, he was coming apart with every moan you gave him, every twitch of your body around him, every breathless whisper of his name. You didn’t need to see his face to feel it—the stutter in his rhythm, the harsh drag of air through his lungs, the way his fingers trembled every time they found new skin to claim.

Your body met his, over and over again, the pace he set slow but brutal, deep enough to make you cry out, to make your hands claw at the sheets for something to hold. Your head spun with the rhythm of it, with the wet, open sounds of your bodies colliding, with the way you couldn’t even think anymore.

He groaned low behind you, and then his hands were everywhere. Gripping your waist tight. Sliding up to your ribs. Squeezing your breast as his mouth trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your spine, his teeth grazing bone like he needed to mark you.

You gasped when he pulled you upright against his chest, his arm strong across your middle, the other sliding up to grip your jaw and tilt your head toward him. He kissed you then—fierce and starved—hips never slowing, never faltering.

Your mouth fell open as his other hand pressed down on your belly again, grounding you, making you feel every devastating drag of his cock inside you.

“Zayne—” you choked, body trembling so hard you could barely stay upright.

He just groaned, burying his face in your neck, voice hoarse. “You’re taking me so well…”

Your head tipped back against his shoulder, your whole body going tight as you came. Your cry broke in your throat, cut off by the sheer force of it. Your legs shook violently, body clenching down around him so hard you felt his rhythm stutter as he groaned, low and wrecked. He held you through it—arms locked around your waist, holding you together as you splintered into pieces against him.

And he was right behind you. You could feel it in the way his body began to tremble, the way his groans grew more desperate, the way his thrusts lost rhythm, got messier, needier. His hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight little circles that made your overstimulated body jerk and moan against him.

You sobbed out something between a curse and a plea, breathless and shaking, trying to push through the edge again—when the words tumbled out of you without thought.

“Inside—” you gasped. “Zayne, inside—”

That was it. The word hit him like a bolt of lightning. His whole body shuddered, and then he broke—groaning your name like a prayer, burying himself deep as his hips slammed into yours one final time. His arms tightened around you like he needed to keep you there, every muscle locked as he came apart inside you.

The only sounds were your moans, your broken breathing, the thundering rhythm of both your hearts as he slowly lowered you both back down to the mattress, still tangled together, bodies still trembling.

You lay there for a long time, neither of you moving, your breathing still shaky, skin flushed and dewy from the sweat you hadn’t noticed until now. Zayne’s hand was still cradling your hip, and yours was tangled somewhere in his damp hair, both of you too spent to speak—but your mouths found each other again anyway. Slow. Gentle. A kiss for no reason other than to say I need you close.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes fluttered open, and you saw something in them that made your chest ache—not lust, not just satisfaction. But softness. Gratitude. Maybe even a little disbelief.

“Come on,” he murmured after a few more kisses, brushing his nose against yours, “you’re shaking.”

“I wonder whose fault that is,” you teased, voice still hoarse.

He smirked, but slid from the bed and carefully helped you up, his hands warm and grounding, never letting go as he guided you toward the bathroom. The overhead light was soft and golden, the steam from the shower rising quickly as he adjusted the temperature with practiced fingers.

The moment the warm water hit your skin, a sigh fell from your lips. He moved behind you, arms wrapping gently around your waist, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. You leaned back into him, eyes closed, letting your body relax into his. There were no words for a while—just the rhythm of water, his hands smoothing gently over your skin, rinsing away the sweat, the ache, the remnants of all that heat.

His touch was different now. Still reverent. Still attentive. But unhurried. Comforting. By the time you’d dried off and crawled back into bed, fresh sheets tucked around your still-damp skin, the silence between you had changed. It was cozy now. Warm. You curled into his side, his fingers drawing lazy shapes on your bare back as you buried your face into the curve of his neck.

“Are you okay?” he murmured, his voice barely a breath.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Are you?”

He let out a slow exhale. “Better than I’ve been in months.”

You smiled, lips brushing his collarbone, and after a long moment of quiet, you tilted your head up to look at him—that smug little spark already returning to your eyes.

“You know…” you began, grinning, “I really wouldn’t have guessed you were that good in bed.”

His brow twitched. “Really.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, trailing a finger along his chest. “All that cold doctor exterior, always so unreadable—” you broke off with a yelp as he swatted your thigh, just enough to make you squeak and laugh and slap his chest in return.

“You’re the dummy,” you accused, smacking him again—gentler this time. “Running away like that. Convincing yourself I’d never want you? Zayne. Really?”

He looked sheepish for exactly two seconds before dragging you on top of him, burying his face in your neck, voice muffled and dry.

“I thought you deserved better,” he murmured against your skin.

You sighed, breath catching, hands cupping his face to make him look at you again. “You are better.”

The quiet that followed felt like a held breath until he leaned up to kiss you again. And again. Until your mouths were tangled in a slow, warm rhythm, lips brushing through laughter and breathless moans.

You giggled softly as he pulled back and gave you a mock-serious look.

“Keep teasing me,” he warned, voice low, “and I will show you exactly how commanding I am at work.”

“Oh?” you arched a brow, lips twitching. “Is that why the interns are afraid of you? You give them that same glare and then—what—push them against a desk until they confess all their mistakes?”

He narrowed his eyes, reaching for your waist with one hand, the other slipping lower with practiced ease.

“I only threaten the interns,” he said smoothly, “when they act like brats.”

You choked on a laugh, your body already shivering under his fingertips. And then his hand slid up your side, slow, deliberate—possessive and tender all at once. “I’d never have anyone else like this,” he whispered. “Only you.”

The weight of it made your breath stop. And when his hands moved again, brushing over your body like a vow, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t need to hear anything else.

Zayne was a man of few words, but those few words were exactly what you needed to feel at ease.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple, @beaconsxd, @floofycookie, @deepspacedarling, @sylusgirlie7, @dramaticalsachan

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deep space #loveanddeepspace #l&ds zayne #lads zayne #dr zayne #zayne love and deepspace #zayne x reader #lnds zayne #li shen #zayne x mc #zayne lads #zayne x you #doctor zayne #zayne li #zayne l&ds #zayne lnds

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ktownshizzle · 2 months ago

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Terms & Conditions | Chapter Eight

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Managing Min Yoongi as one of your encoders during his alternative military service should’ve been simple. He is quiet, punctual—and can apparently type as fast as he can rap! Not to mention the fact that he is easy on the eyes and keeps wanting to help you. You’ve signed an iron-clad NDA, detailing the full terms and conditions of his temporary employment, so you’re supposed to keep things professional, but what happens if neither of you wants to?

✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, smut, co-workers to lovers, office romance, idol!au ✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Purely speculative regarding Yoongi’s alternative military service and how this is really done in SK, some cursing, boss/employee relationship sorta but there's no power play involved, reader and Yoongi are within the same age range ✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter Warnings: Suggestive, Angst, Y/N is not our girlypop in this chapter, invasion of privacy, timeskip kinda

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 2k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: May 23, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: It’s short and it’s not sweet. Do not come for me. 🙁 But going into hiding just in case… Thank you my lovely @glossdebut for betareading.

Series Masterlist | K’s Masterlist

Yoongi appears in the doorway in nothing but checkered boxers and bed head, holding two mismatched mugs, white steam swirling above it. He doesn’t say anything, not verbally at least. Eyes warm, grin lazy–that’s his good morning.

You push yourself up against the pillows, taking your mug with a gentle smile. “Morning,” you say, voice still coated in sleep.

You take a small sip, place the cup on the nightstand beside his.

He slides in beside you, looping an arm around your waist, and you tuck yourself under his arm, cheek against the pillows of his chest.

“Sleep okay?” he asks, lips brushing your hairline.

“Yeah. You?”

His chest rumbles with a satisfied hum. “Best sleep I’ve had in years. Might be your fault.”

You breathe out a smile. The man who loves you is right here, looking like an angel, smelling like your cinnamon body wash. Nothing else matters. Right?

“Yoongi?”

He hums, drawing lazy circles on your back with the tips of his fingers. The question stays stuck in your throat. Instead, you hug him tighter. He doesn’t press you further.

Not long after, his breathing has become longer, more even, deeper. He’s so peaceful, so content, lying in your too-small bed, on your old-ass duvet. Again, he’s fallen asleep. Must have been really tired from all the socialization yesterday.

You stay with him for a few moments before you wiggle out of his embrace and drink your cold coffee.

The next few days felt strange. You were feeling a tug of war in your heart and your brain. The bitter pang from the party is still a splinter in your heart, not necessarily painful, but still there, just waiting to be infected.

You’re afraid that you’ve become a little selfish. Sometimes you wish he wasn’t an idol. Actually, that’s a lie. You often wish that these days. Especially when you open your closet and see that dress you wore to attend that fuckin’ event.

Dangerous thoughts come and go like wind through windows left ajar. You want to push it all away, flush it down the drain.

Because you should feel complete. But why do you feel so inadequate?

Still there are good days. Great days, even.

When you don’t have dread swirling in the pits of your stomach. When you’re not waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop.

Those are the days you want to remember forever. Yoongi hugging you from behind as you wash the dishes. Yoongi working on music with his headphones on and you’re across him reading a book and the peace of just coexisting in one place is just overwhelmingly comforting.

Since the whole audit thing, you try to be a bit more careful in your office. Hyun-woo has started his rounds more frequently, checking up on completion of tasks like a hawk. He said a certification is coming up so he just wants to make sure everything is running smoothly. Fair.

No more back office boinking then. But you still find ways to have fun.

Yoongi likes to give you eyes. That’s always been his thing. Sometimes he glances too long like he’s daring you not to feel aroused even as his tongue skirts his pretty teeth.

He does keep it PG more often than that. You sit across from each other pretending to work, but your foot nudges him under the table, and he hides a grin behind his monitor, raises his brow to get you to quit it.

At one point during a painfully dull Zoom call, you crumple a sticky note and lob it across the room. It hits his shoulder. He barely reacts.

“You missed,” he mouths.

You roll your eyes.

He picks it up, balls it tighter, and holds it up. “If I sink this,” he says, gesturing to the trash bin in the corner, “you owe me a prize.”

You shrug, cos ain’t no way…

He winks. Shoots.

Swish.

You look away, shaking your head. Just keep typing like nothing happened. But he sees the way your mouth twitches.

That night, when you slip into his car after hours, you ask him, “So what’s your prize?”

He smirks. “Lips on my tip, baby.”

You roll your eyes, but you give him exactly what he won—and then some. He doesn’t stop smiling the entire drive.

Chae has not been around the house lately. She’s been overseeing the operations of another restaurant closer to Goyang and her company gave her lodging closer to the site. You’re so proud of her, gaining accolades after accolades. It was just like in college when she was that effortlessly cool chic that barely studied, did everything against the rulebook, but still graduated cum laude and scored her dream job even before she wore her toga.

Meanwhile, your by-the-book ways have earned you a spot in a dusty government building with no real prospects for further growth. Cool.

During your lunch break, you trade selfies. You with your clubhouse sandwich and her with her bowl of bibimbap. Hers look yummier by miles.

Chae: sandwich looks sad but ur glowing You: lol idk about that. Been stressed. Chae: where’s loverboy?

You roll your eyes. She’s been teasing you about that like you were both still in high school. You fire off a picture of Yoongi across from you, a piece of lettuce hanging from the side of his mouth as he continues to chew like a goat.

Chae: tell yoongi I said hi Chae: actually don’t i’m shy You: tell jk i said hi Chae: k Chae: fuck You: knew it You: you better tell me everything

It hits you when you’re at your most defenseless.

You’ve just washed your face. Hair up, oversized shirt, no bra, no makeup. You’re in your kitchen with a tub of yogurt and a spoon in your mouth, scrolling TikTok mindlessly, when a Kakao notification comes through.

Unknown number. One attachment.

It’s a single still capture from a CCTV. Slightly blurry, but you recognize the scene instantly.

You and Yoongi, going inside the storage room at work last week.

What happened was you’d gone in to grab extra supplies. He’d followed you just to sneak a kiss. The kiss isn’t in the shot, but your posture gives everything away when you emerge, his hand at your waist, your body curved toward him, before you both walk off to your separate chairs.

Fuck.

Shit.

FUCK.

You freeze. The yogurt slides off the counter and you don’t even notice.

You scroll up and down to see any other clues, but the screen is unmoving and there’s really nothing else there.

Until a message comes in:

How much is this worth to you?

No.

FUCK!

You try to calm down. Why would anyone send this? Who would send this? What does this fucking mean?

Your feet take you to your kitchen. Shaky fingers wrap around the neck of a wine bottle. You uncork it and pour it… straight down your esophagus.

Trembling, you put your phone down like it’s radioactive. You pace your kitchen, suddenly aware of how exposed your windows are. You check the locks. Double-check. Triple-check.

Your hands are shaking as you sit down, open the message again, and stare at it until your vision blurs.

You almost call him. Almost forward it with a panicked “what do we do?”

But then you imagine the look on his face. The worry. The disappointment. The quiet guilt you’d see in his eyes for dragging you into this. For making you a liability.

So instead, you delete it. You don’t know why, but you do.

You crawl into bed deep deep into your duvet like it didn’t happen. Maybe this is just a bad dream.

The sun rises and you have not caught a wink of sleep. You wake up to dried yogurt on the kitchen floor and a cockroach.

Since then, there are glances you can’t unsee.

You think Danbi lingers a beat too long by the copier when you think no one’s watching. You catch her whispering near the HR desk and the way her eyes flick to you makes your stomach twist. You hear laughter from down the hallway and can’t help but wonder if your name is being passed between mouths like a secret no one will say to your face.

You keep telling yourself it’s nothing.

A week passes, you’re at Yoongi’s apartment, helping him fold laundry because it turns out domesticity looks weirdly good on you both. You’re pairing his socks while he’s at the sink rinsing plates before they go into the dishwasher. He hums a little tune.

Your phone buzzes again.

Same unknown number.

Your hands go cold.

This time, it’s a shot of you leaving his car from one night, hoodie pulled over your head, but still clearly you. Taken from a distance, a little grainy, but unmistakable. The message underneath is short:

There’s a price for my silence.

You want to scream. You want to throw your phone into the sink and confess everything. But the words catch in your throat.

“Everything okay?” Yoongi asks, glancing over his shoulder, hands wet from the sink.

You smile too quickly. “Yeah. Just Chae. Meme dump.”

His eyes linger. You think about telling him. You even open your mouth to try, but then the doorbell rings.

Mina and Hoseok step into Yoongi’s apartment like it’s a feature spread in Vogue: long coats, perfect skin, inside jokes already mid-sentence. Mina’s makeup is flawless. Hoseok’s in LV like it’s his grocery run outfit. (It probably is.) They light up the room just by existing.

Yoongi grumbles at the noise but lets them in anyway, dishing out cups and pulling out extra snacks. He side-eyes Mina when she tries to “reorganize” his liquor shelf. He calls Hobi a piece of shit with zero heat when he pulls his vinyls a little carelessly. It’s all very “this is just how we are,” but you can feel the subtle shift.

You’re suddenly hyperaware of your socks not matching. The unfolded laundry still on the couch. The fact that you’re not part of this world—just someone orbiting around it.

Yoongi calls out your name casually, “You gonna join us?”

You shake your head, faking a yawn. “Think I’m coming down with something. I’ll just rest, if that’s okay.”

He eyes you, concerned, then eyes his guests, “Both of you—out.”

“No! Hoseok, Mina, please stay,” you insist.

Skeptical eyes are studying you. But then he nods. “Want me to check on you later?”

You shake your head again. “I’ll be fine.”

You slip into his room and close the door.The second it clicks shut, your lungs deflate.

You sit on the edge of his bed, still clutching your phone. The new message is still open. Your reflection stares back from the screen—dim, distorted, scared.

Your entire life is falling apart.

You lie back, eyes on the ceiling, and try to blink away the tears.

Yoongi used to call you trouble. And now you really are. You don’t want to burden him anymore. He doesn’t deserve this.

You call him the following night.

It takes him a few rings to answer.

“Babe?” he says, soft and a little breathless. He probably left his phone in another room and ran to answer your call.

Your throat tightens.

“Yoongi,” you say. “We need to talk.”

The line goes quiet for half a second too long. “Okay,” he says slowly. “What’s up?”

You steel yourself.

“I think we should stop seeing each other.”

Silence. Then: “What?”

“It’s just,” you falter. “I don’t think it’s smart. With the NDA. It’s risky. It’s messy. And,your time’s almost up anyways. This was never going to last outside of, like everything, you know that.”

“Bullshit,” he says, instantly. His voice is low, clipped. “That’s not… Y/N, what the fuck?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I was wrong. I don’t want this.”

“Fuck,” he shouts. “What are you even saying right now?”

“Yoongi, please…”

There’s a pause. You hear something thrown in the background.

“Are you really breaking up with me over the phone?” he finally asks, almost laughing. “Is that really what this is?”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, softer this time. “It’s better this way.”

“No,” he says. “It’s not. You know it’s not.”

You don’t answer.

You hang up.

But still, you sit in the dark for a long time, holding your phone like it might ring again.

It doesn’t.

Chapter Nine >

A/N: Okay shit. I guess I am ready for y’all to shout at me in the comments. 🙇🏼‍♀️ Thanks for reading you lovely beautiful human. xo

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eternallyhauntingthehouseoflove · 1 year ago

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Hey there👋👋 could you please do whatever love language of the bamboos are ??

LOVE LANGUAGE OF THE BATBOYS

A/N: terribly sorry I let this request collect dust. My interest in comics fell as life got hectic and whatever the hell. I won't go all Wattpad author on you.

Dick Grayson’s love language is words of affirmation. At the peak of his characterization, he is a man ravenous for praise and attention. A moment of peace, of relief, of sweetness.

Stunted, yet too grown for his own good—simultaneously. He will seek attention, showering you with gifts and compliments in hopes that you reciprocate. Holidays would read like a HallMark movie that would move suburban mothers to tears.

Dick is also the man to send romantic quotes stolen from Pinterest, and the occasional confusing poem of his own hand. His nerves would grind as he read the ‘’seen’’ stamp beneath his text, worried out of his mind that it didn't properly convey his emotions, his love.

“What, no reply yet? If you're that moved, you could always come kiss me.” He'd send the message, playing it off as a joke. But his stomach groaned with the familiar ache, that cold and empty feeling of uncertainty.

What if she doesn't like it? Will she still like me? Would I seem lame if I double texted? Am I bugging her?

The flames of self doubt would spread and eat at his mind until his phone pinged with a,” it's beautiful, babe. A hard read, but the intention was there.” And a flirtatious emoji paired with it.

Thus, the flames of doubt were stomped out, like they never existed. They liked the poem, and he would spend hours rereading it. Marveling and gushing because you liked it. Something he made.

Jason Todd's love language is acts of service. It's a loyalty thing for him.

Gift sharing could be manipulation; soft words could be lies, and he's too self-loathing to believe them anyway. Red Hood swallows his spare time, and his desire for touch swung on a pendulum—one side thirsting for it, the other side uncomfortable.

The thought of returning home to a nice and warm meal would make him melt into a puddle. Or finding his hero suit washed, and his gear cleaned and stored away.

It reignites a flame in his cold eyes, the domesticity calling forth an unclassified emotion that sent goosebumps blazing over his skin like wildfire, calling his arm hairs to attention.

Jason would return the favor. You would awake to find breakfast made, the aroma of bacon and eggs thick in the air, the sweetness of syrup carrying around the house. Scalding tea trickling into a pot, milk and sugar already on the table. Plates washed and set.

Jason would also do laundry and iron clothes. He gets those random bursts of energy (or adrenaline) and cleans the entire house spotless.

Baths would be drawn for you, and if he's feeling lavish, he'll add roses to the bubbles. The finest soaps would lather your skin, scented with the the best smelling perfumes—business was good, and it was a present. His calloused fingers would be overjoyed to massage your scalp (he hoped you'd do his next).

Tim Drake’s love language is quality time. Also, I would like to preface this section by admitting I haven't read much of Tim.

He would help you study. Textbooks adorning the wooden table after hours of quizzing. Coffee steaming in a mug, pens and highlighters scratching at paper. Kisses shared with each right answer.

He'd tease,” Oh, that was a hard one. A trick question.” A smirk, sweet as frosting would tug on his lips, then a warm kiss would swallow yours.” If I were as filthy minded as Jason, maybe I'd crack a joke.”

Tim’s gaze would find you, in the middle of whatever—washing dishes, doing laundry, exercising. They'd burst with amorous passion, like exploding stars, shimmering and twinkling in his irises.

When the sun kisses Gotham goodnight, and the moon assumes it duty, he'd find himself wishing he could be beside you. Not Batman, not Dick, certainly not Damian. That's not proof that he hates his colleagues or that his work is last on the list of priorities. It's just. . . you're higher.

“Hey, love,” he'd speak into the phone, after the voicemail prompted him.” I know you're likely sleep tonight. But I wanted to at least call and tell you to sleep safe and warm. And to save space for me.” A chuckle would roll of his tongue, the wailing of police sirens in the background.

Damian Wayne's love language is also quality time.

Time is precious to him. His mother’s presence was unreliable. He, his father, his siblings tango with dead every silvery night. Each misfortune in his family reminded him of that.

Robin is not what Dick thinks. It's not just bursting into hideouts and knocking the crap out of villains. The peril is real, as well as the potential for failure—and failure in their line of work means death.

Oracle was paralyzed in a second, one wrong move and her nerves were shot. Jason’s life was quite literally put on a clock, killed by time itself. When Damian was an assassin, it merely took seconds to end a life, one of emotion and desires and opinions—gone at the stroke of a blade.

Time matters.

Damian would try to spend all of it with you, doing anything. Attending museums, painting you, listening to your playlists. Finding the child he was depraved of for so long. Being an angsty teenager and loving it.

“This is considered fun?” A dark eyebrow of his would raise teasingly. There you sat, at a sport's game, the roaring crowd trembling the stadium and stabbing his ears. The golden beam of the sun roasting both you, and the overpriced popcorn tossing and gurgling in his stomach.

But, deep down, the liveliness of the crowd intrigued him. Even he'd find himself screaming along with the masses on their feet, yelling out praise or curse words.

Damian's jade irises would slide over to you, the sheer glee decorating your features. A painting. He'd see a masterpiece in you; how that expression would translate onto a canvas.

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scealaiscoitetareisdorcha · 1 month ago

Text

⋆˚࿔ build a fic 2.0 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

➴ choose a body part, a scent and a line of dialogue (a number, letter, + creature), and write/request to your heart’s content!

𓂃 ࣪˖ a body part

꒰ 1 ꒱ a trembling bottom lip

꒰ 2 ꒱ the nape of a neck

꒰ 3 ꒱ a rough palm

꒰ 4 ꒱ a pebbled nipple

꒰ 5 ꒱ the tender patch of skin behind an ear

꒰ 6 ꒱ a curled index and middle finger

꒰ 7 ꒱ a soft thigh

꒰ 8 ꒱ a rope-marked wrist

꒰ 9 ꒱ the notches of a spine

꒰ 10 ꒱ a swollen bottom lip

꒰ 11 ꒱ a crooked knee

꒰ 12 ꒱ a raised ass

꒰ 13 ꒱ a clawed hand

꒰ 14 ꒱ a happy trail, slick with arousal

꒰ 15 ꒱ a throbbing clit

꒰ 16 ꒱ a heaving chest

꒰ 17 ꒱ a pair of teary eyes

꒰ 18 ꒱ a tip messy with precum

꒰ 19 ꒱ a lovebitten hipbone

꒰ 20 ꒱ a rim glossy with lube

𓂃 ࣪˖ a scent

꒰ A ꒱ headily floral perfume

꒰ B ꒱ gasoline

꒰ C ꒱ cigarette smoke

꒰ D ꒱ ambery incense

꒰ E ꒱ iron-tinged blood

꒰ F ꒱ medicinal tiger balm

꒰ G ꒱ saltwater

꒰ H ꒱ men’s body wash

꒰ I ꒱ stale sweat

꒰ J ꒱ chlorine

꒰ K ꒱ noxious cologne

꒰ L ꒱ almond hotel soap

꒰ M ꒱ sterile latex

꒰ N ꒱ sour red wine

꒰ O ꒱ warm cinnamon

꒰ P ꒱ fresh-cut grass

꒰ Q ꒱ mint gum

꒰ R ꒱ sharp whiskey

꒰ S ꒱ familiar body wash

꒰ T ꒱ bleach

𓂃 ࣪˖ a line of dialogue

꒰ 𓆉 ꒱ “i don’t need to hear you beg, pretty. your body’s doing all the talking.”

꒰ 𓅨 ꒱ “don’t even think about cumming.”

꒰ 𓆣 ꒱ “pl-please… i can take it, i promise!”

꒰ 𓃰 ꒱ “i’ll call you that, so long as it never leaves this room.”

꒰ 𓃗 ꒱ “someone’s - oh, fuck - someone’s going to see.”

꒰ 𓃱 ꒱ “look up into the lens and give me something good to watch back, yeah?”

꒰ 𓃟 ꒱ “what happened to all that big talk, hm? gone all quiet, just because i’m inside you?”

꒰ 𓆟 ꒱ “i’m not gonna last if you keep doing that thing with your tongue.”

꒰ 𓆈 ꒱ “we’re not making it to the bed, are we?”

꒰ 𓅫 ꒱ “the only thing that got me through today was the idea of ending it with my head between your thighs.”

꒰ 𓅟 ꒱ “no, leave a mark. when tomorrow comes and you’re back to acting like i don’t exist, i want something to tell me this wasn’t just some fucked-up dream. give me that, at least.”

꒰ 𓃵 ꒱ “wait, wait- i wanna get on top.”

꒰ 𓃓 ꒱ “yeah, we shouldn’t be doing this. but, i think that’s why it feels so good.”

꒰ 𓆌 ꒱ “you want me so bad we’re fucking in an alleyway- but tell me again how little this means to you, yeah?”

꒰ 𓆏 ꒱ “i need you so bad it hurts.”

꒰ 𓅭 ꒱ “you were saying my name last night, in your sleep. well, not saying- moaning would be more accurate, don’t y’think?”

꒰ 𓆗 ꒱ “you know the drill, pretty. face down, and ass up.”

꒰ 𓃢 ꒱ “yeah, because a rocking car with steamed-up windows is a notoriously accepted thing in public.”

꒰ 𓆧 ꒱ “show me how you like to be touched.”

꒰ 𓃔 ꒱ “there isn’t a single part of you that isn’t deserving of adoration to me.”

#the things i will do to get out of actually writing #smut prompts #lemon prompts #notsfw prompts #notsfw writing prompts #not sfw prompts #smutty prompts #smut writing prompts #smut meme #smut rp meme

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whitendry · 1 year ago

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romancherry · 2 months ago

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caged in silk (5) — one month anniversary

pairings ➝ dark!joel miller x dark!javier peña x dark!marcus acacius x female!reader

summary ➝ the three men finally use you at the same time.

warnings ➝ dark!fic, explicit smut, stockholm syndrome, gangbang (3 on 1), triple penetration (mouth, pussy, ass), rough sex, unprotected vaginal and anal sex, blowjob, creampie, mean!marcus, submissive!reader, deepthroat, breeding kink, breast and nipple play, praise, degradation, pet names, daddy kink, sir kink, explicit language, dirty talk, 18+, MINORS: DO NOT INTERACT.

word count ➝ 5.207

author's note ➝ hello! finally i wrote an update. i'm sorry for the delay and the awful long time it took me to write this i've just been super busy and also i didn't have much inspiration for this really but i did it. hope you like it! 🥰

do NOT repost, reupload, translate or plagiarize my work.

the bacon sizzles in the cast iron pan, the sound crackling like firewood. a rich, greasy warmth fills the kitchen and mingles with the scent of coffee and something subtly floral; your shampoo, a cheap, powerful mix of chemicals that's so useful you need to wash your hair every two days and makes your hair feel caked up with dirt.

you hum under your breath as you flip a pancake with care, like this is a normal sunday morning in a house that isn't your gilded prison.

javier's already seated at the island, shirtless, hair messy, lean biceps and forearms on full display. he watches you with a lazy suspicion and a cigarette between his fingers. the other hand's spinning a butter knife.

joel walks in, still tying the string of his sweatpants. "the fuck is this?"

"good morning to you too," you reply with a faux-sweet smile.

joel stares at you like you've grown another head. "you... cooked?"

you turn, settling a steaming plate in front of him. "scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. and pancakes for marcus — he likes it sweet in the morning. remembered."

"since when do you care what marcus likes?" joel steps closer. "what's your angle, babygirl?" he touches your waist.

"i'm being good," you answer too quickly. "i mean — i am good. i've been trying. i deserve a reward."

marcus enters, buttoning up a black shirt, hair still damp from the shower. he looks around the kitchen slowly until his gaze lands on you like a blade. that's when joel parts from you and has a seat at the table.

marcus says nothing at first, just picks up his fork and cuts into the pancake. chews. swallows. watches.

you clear you throat, and suddenly you're that girl again — the one who used to scream and claw at locked doors. but not this morning. no. this morning, you're soft, sweet and compliant.

"i want to go out."

marcus tilts his head. "out."

"just for a little while," you say, trying not to rush. "to the store. maybe the bookstore? or the farmer's market. i want to pick my own shampoo. and candy. and maybe a dress. i've been good, haven't i?"

"define good," marcus murmurs.

you step closer, barefoot on the cold tile, looking marcus in the eye. "i haven't run. i haven't even tried. i let joel have his way with me. i listen when you give an order. i don't cry anymore when javier fingerfucks me in the living room."

joel shifts in his seat, jaw flexing. his fingers curl around his mug, knuckles white.

"i cook now," you say softly. "i sleep in joel's bed without being forced. i do the chores around the house. i even say thank you."

"you're not a prisoner anymore?" marcus asks.

you smile just a little. "i don't feel like one. isn't that what you wanted?"

javier leans back, arms crossed behind his head. "so let me get this straight — you wanna play housewife now?"

"i am playing housewife. you're just not giving me all the perks. i've earned a walk around the block. supervised. leashed, if you want," you meet javier's gaze. "i'd look good on your arm, wouldn't i?"

he chuckles darkly. "you're a menace."

"but a pretty one," you twirl, letting joel's shirt ride up your thighs. you pause just long enough to flash the band of lace panties underneath. "you could cuff my ankle if it makes you feel better."

joel scrapes his chair back and stands, moving toward you. you still at the way he stalks close — muscle, heat and heavy presence that makes your belly coil.

he brushes his hand along your jaw, his thumb over your lip. "if you run..."

"i won't."

"if you try..."

"i know what happens. i haven't forgotten," you say softly as flashbacks of marcus' rough hands landing on your ass appear in your head, making you stir slightly uncomfortable where you stand. your butt was sore for days. no numbing cream could wash away the shame and comfort the hurt.

joel looks at marcus. "your call."

marcus watches you, long and cold and assessing.

"javier goes. full escort. gun stays visible."

javier stretches and grabs his leather jacket. "fine by me."

you try not to let your relief show, but joel catches the flicker in your eyes. "you really think this is freedom, sugar?"

you grin. "it's a start."

joel leans down, whispering in your ear. "don't mistake a longer leash for wings."

you shiver. "maybe i just like the leash now."

javier throws you a pair of shorts to put on and grabs the keys. "let's go, muñeca. we'll see how long this good girl act holds up when you smell the street."

you get dressed and grab your coat, stumbling and bouncing lightly on your shoes. "i'm eeexciteed!"

marcus' voice cuts through the room, sharp and final. "if she so much as breathes funny, bring her back. naked. collared. in the trunk."

"understood," javier says coolly.

and just like that, the door opens, and the chance to a normal day playing pretend with the freedom you used to have in your life before them feels unreal; but it's happening. finally happening.

hope and excitement await for you up front.

but behind, three wolves are watching.

and they wonder if you're finally tame.

---

the mall hits like a drug.

bright lights. crowds. the air-conditioned chill of freedom. the scent of burgers and perfume. you blink under the sheer vastness of it — so many people; toddlers and distressed parents, teens, couples, elderly women with huge hats — none of them knowing who you are. who you're with. what's waiting for you if you step out of line.

what took for you to get here.

you throw these thoughts of self pity in the back of your head. you cried for too long feeling wronged and pissed off at the universe for dumping you in these psychos' arms and leaving you to deal with it. screams, curses and fights never got you in a good place. never ended well for you. not when they have so much patience. not when they have already decided that you're theirs and only death will separate you from them.

acceptance is the only way forward. live like a caged animal for the rest of your miserable life or gain control and take advantage of their twisted obsession with you and turn this nightmare into a dream.

so today, instead of trying to lose javier in the crowd and escape only to struggle to figure out how to get off the streets later...

you'll behave. like a princess.

"javi," you breathe, turning in place, eyes wide. "can we go everywhere?"

he grunts, sunglasses low on his nose, watching your hips sway as you dart toward the perfume shop. "don't make me regret this."

"you won't!" you call over your shoulder, already vanishing into the boutique.

you go wild.

you spray perfumes on your wrists, layering sweet vanilla over heady florals, moaning softly as you test each one. "smell this. smell this. tell me it's not fucking delicious."

javier sniffs your wrists, jaw tight at your foul language, thinking about scolding you, but he doesn't. "you're gonna kill me, muñeca."

next stop: books. you grab romance novels, thrillers, some weird indie poetry thing in a pink cover. you shove them in a bag javier's already carrying. one of many.

"reading makes me smart. you like your pets educated, don't you?"

"only if they know how to sit and beg."

you twirl around and drag him into a home decor shop. throw pillows, candles, fairy lights. you run your fingers along soft rugs and say you want the kitchen to smell like cinnamon again. like the night marcus almost kissed you before making you cry.

javier watches, amused and silent. he's not used to seeing you so alive. drenched in stimulation and freedom.

next, you dive into the body care store. new hair care, finally. and lotions, body butters, oils. shimmering, softening, hydrating. you rub a sample over your collarbone and make sure he watches the way it gleams on your skin.

"bet joel would like this one," you say.

"he'll like whatever i tell him to like," he replies.

you blow him a kiss and disappear into the makeup store.

by the time you reach the clothing store, javier's arms are full of bags, and you're bouncing in glee, grabbing sundresses in every shade. baby pink. lemon yellow. white with little embroidered daisies.

"try them on. all of them," he commands, dropping into the changing room bench so exhausted like he ran a marathon.

you do. and every time you step out in a new one, he stares harder. until you slip out in a white cotton sundress, thin and fluttery, hugging your curves just enough, delicate straps threatening to slide off your shoulders.

"fuck me," he mutters under his breath.

"want to?" you tease, twirling. "right here?"

"don't tempt me," he growls. "not unless you want me to bend you over in that cabin and make you scream loud enough for security to show up."

you bite your lip and disappear again, leaving him to groan and press a hand to his thigh, trying not to get hard in public.

you buy everything you like. dresses, tops, shorts, even stupid novelty socks with strawberries on them.

then —

you see it.

across the hall. lit up like a siren.

the lingerie store.

you gasp and break into a light jog, bags swinging from your arms. "JAVIER!!"

he sighs like a man walking into the gallows, trudging behind you with every bag you've bought.

"wait, coño, wait — let me at least — damn it — "

you're already inside, eyes glazed over with lust.

"slow down, princesa. i'm not your damn pack mule."

"you're my sugar daddy today. shut up and be pretty."

lace in soft peach and lavender. silks in emerald and ruby. black mesh, red satin. straps, leather, chains. there's a whole section of barely there things meant for private eyes only.

he watches you glide past thongs, bras, bodysuits, harnesses.

"this one," you say, holding up a red lace set. "and this one — fuck — look at this leather one."

"you want it?" he asks, voice rough now.

you nod eagerly.

"take whatever you want. it's your reward, after all. don't know when you're gon' get another chance like this."

you pause in front of a soft white floral set. so innocent and fragile, the king of thing a girl might wear to her first date for someone real special. not at all for her captors who wouldn't blink twice about shooting you in the damn leg if it meant keeping you where they wanted.

javier sees you zone out. he steps forward and brushes the lace between his fingers. takes the set into his hand with the ones you previously gave him and seemed much more confident about.

he goes to the cashier and pays for them all. in cash. just like everything before. undetectable, untraceable.

he glances behind at you to see you playing with your own fingers, waiting for him to finish. obedient, like a little puppy who's finally learned her lesson.

you behaved well out in society today for your first time. a part of him expected this from you, really. to go wild on their money and live the dream. feel like a spoiled princess while occasionally behaving like a little brat with nasty remarks here and there. with him being younger than his brothers and a little closer to your age, he understands your fire a bit better. maybe because he shares the same fire. wants to see it fuel and explode and melt with his own before he takes it out.

which is why he let you go wild on these innocent sundresses and bold, seductive lingerie.

plenty of options for the boys to choose from.

let's see if you'll keep the same fire, confidence and excitement when they make you try what you picked. in front of them. piece by piece. inch by inch.

god, he feels like he'll burst out any moment. been dreaming of this. for the first time he'll stuff you full with more than just his fingers.

joel had his turn with you. hell, marcus had barely touched you since he spanked your ass raw. and you've been in their care for a month.

exactly a month.

javier's good at keeping track of things. actually, all of them are. especially when it comes to you.

to take you on a shopping spree wasn't exactly what him and the boys had on their bucket list for your one month anniversary.

but hell, if you decided to play obedient little housewife on this exact holy day? who was he to judge? actually, it makes him think it was no coincidence. somehow, it's all become symbolic.

you're not just getting used to them. you're becoming one of them. slowly but surely, they'll corrupt every inch of you and consume the last bit of disgust and resentment you feel for them until all you will feel is their love.

---

the house feels too quiet. too dim. too heavy with expectation.

as soon as you cross the threshold, you feel it. the shift. the giddy blur o shopping fades. the freedom of public space disappears behind the front door.

you're back. back under their roof. their eyes. their rules.

you hesitate. but javier, still behind you and sweating under a mountain of bags, nudges your hip with his. "go on. they're in the living room."

you nod once, tight-lipped. the confidence you wore at the mall starts to slip off your skin like static. it was easy out there. easy to play the spoiled girl, the center of attention, the one calling the shots.

but here?

they're the ones who hold the leash.

you walk into the living room. marcus is the first to lift his head. he's sitting deep in the couch, arms spread across the back. imposing, intimidating, masculine. his dark eyes land on you first, then flick to javier, laden down like a damn beast of burden.

joel is beside him, legs wide with one arms slung over his knee and a beer in his hand. his gaze crawls all over you, slow and patient, like he's counting your heartbeats.

two incredibly gorgerous and infuriating handsome beasts of men who look like they want nothing more than to devour you whole and eat every part of you alive.

"what's all this?" marcus asks.

"she went a little wild," javier says, dumping the bags at your feet with a grunt. "i told her to take whatever she wanted."

joel smirks. "is that right, babygirl?"

you nod, voice soft. "i... i got some things for the house. and sum clothes."

marcus tips his chin. "tell us how today went."

you swallow. "it was... it was nice," you say quietly. "i forgot how loud it is. how crowded. i missed it... really much. but i was good, i didn't talk to anyone. i stayed close to javier. i — i behaved."

"she did," javier says with pride. "she was as sweet as she can be. polite. grateful. obedient."

you expected him to say that you were a bit bratty and mischievous too. but he keeps it a secret, locked with a small wink so his two older brothers can't see.

joel leans forward, elbows on his knees. "what'd you buy, sweetheart?"

you shift on your feet. "clothes, perfume, books. some decorations. candles for the kitchen."

"show us."

your hands shake slightly as you kneel beside the bags, pulling out a few items. a sundress. a tank top. a sheer robe in soft pink. you hold them up one by one.

marcus whistles low. "that dress is gonna be real pretty tangled 'round your waist."

joel nods at the robe. "that one's almost too innocent. didn't know our babygirl had such taste."

javier lets out a laugh as he lights up his cigarette, taking his seat next to joel on the couch. "just you wait."

you blink, a little breathless. not sure whether you should continue or stop.

javier cuts the silence. "tell them what else you got."

you hesitate. you glance at him and he raises a brow. a silent command.

you reach into the glossy bag with the black logo and their attention switches to full focus now. like they're a predator who's just seen their first meal wandering through the woods.

you pull out one set. black lace full of straps. vulgar, trouble, maybe even dominant and bold. used correctly, it could bring these three men to kneel and make them beg for a touch.

another. red mesh, sheer as fog. seductive, provocative, naughty. the kind who yells submission won through conquest.

then, the last one. the one you hesitated to pick. white, soft lace with tiny pink flowers embroidered into the cups. satin ribbons. sweet, almost bridal. an innocent virgin sacrifice to the gods.

you don't dare look up and see their gazes.

"show us," javier says. your fingers twitch on the delicate fabric.

"i — what if you don't like it?" you ask, voice small and unsure.

marcus leans forward. "put. it. on."

you nod. close your eyes for a bit, hoping to regain some of that damn nerve and confidence from earlier you so evidently lack now. where's security, where's control? self-respect, independence, conviction? was it... was it ever there in the first place?

when did the leash become a rope strangling your neck once again?

you don't go upstairs. because they didn't tell you to.

they don't want to see the result. they want to see the full process. the humiliation, obedience, submission. fear.

you reach for the hem of your shirt — joel's shirt — with your breath trembling, and you begin to undress right there, in the middle of the living room. before their very eyes.

eyes who do not look at you like a statue worth worshipping. eyes who do not yearn or know the concept of respecting a woman for her mind, her soul, her being. no. eyes overwhelmed with lust, greed and need. need to control, to overtake, to conquer and to break. to feel a pulse hammer, a hope shatter, a mind break.

your shirt lifts. you hear the faint shift of fabric as one of them adjusts in his seat. your gaze wanders anywhere but over them. anything but them.

your shorts are next. then your bra and panties.

you stand naked before them. nipples perked up from the chill, skinn prickling with nerves, clit throbbing, thighs rubbing.

your hands instinctively go to cover your private parts but you remember what you're here for. the show must continue until they're satisfied.

you start putting the set on. slowly. you hook the white lace bra, the cups soft against your skin and unexpectedly comfortable. the panties are high-cut, thin satin strings sticking to your hips. the garter belt clinches around your waist like a collar for your body. the ribbons dangle, useless without stockings, but you think that's the point.

you finally gather the courage to look up at them. and you see them all frozen — watching, starving.

joel's jaw is tight. marcus is staring like he's already imagining you on your knees. javier's tongue runs over his teeth wondering how that set looks from behind.

you clear your throat. your voice barely holds. "d-does it look okay?"

marcus speaks first. "looks like you need it ripped off of you."

"fuckin' damn right she does," javier says.

joel leans back, spreading his legs wider. "come closer, darlin'. let us see you proper."

you step forward slowly, arms folded over your chest.

"arms down. you don't hide," marcus warns and you immediately obey.

joel lets out a breath when you finally make your way and stop between his thighs, looking down at him. "bought this for us, babygirl? needed us to see how pretty you are? what a beautiful body you got?"

you nod, lips parted. "yes, sir."

he tsks. "no, baby. that's what you call marcus over there. what do you call me?"

"...daddy?"

"yeah, good girl. veery good girl," he drags his fingers up and down your thigh, stroking it gently.

"now, you listen to me carefully, babygirl," joel sits up, his huge frame making you stumble one step back. you don't take your eyes off him, don't break the eye contact, no matter how much it hurts keeping it. "we take you to the bedroom, okay? you be good 'n obedient 'n you let us have our way with you the way we want, alright? whether we take turns fucking your brains out or do it all together, you behave nicely and we'll make you the happiest girl. ever. okay?"

you nod. eyes wide. lips pouty.

may they have mercy on you.

---

the walk to the bedroom is slow. your bare feet move across the hardwood like you're walking towards your death sentence. white lace clings to you with every step.

you feel their presence behind you. three men pacing you like wolves. too patient and too silent.

by the time you reach the doorway, you're trembling.

joel steps in further and smoothes the bed. marcus shuts the door. javier stays right behind you, hands warm on your hips, lips brushing your ear.

"you wanna be ours, hermosa?"

you nod.

"words."

"yes, javi. wanna be y-yours."

he hums, satisfied. "good girl."

joel takes your hand and guides you to the bed. "on your knees, sweetheart. right in the center."

you crawl onto the bed slowly, heart pounding, the garter belt pulling snug against your waist as you move. the lace pantiest cling to your soaked core, and when you settle onto your knees, you know your ass is on full display behind you.

you don't dare look back as you hear the rustle of belts, the heavy sound of booth thudding to the floor. shirts pulled off, pants unzipped. the mere thought of having them rock hard just for you without even touching them feels so unreal it makes you arch your back more.

hands. hands everywhere.

marcus' fingers tilt your chin up and you meet his eyes. "so fuckin' pretty. all soft and obedient. you didn't used to be."

"i know," you whisper.

joel steps behind you. "but look at you now."

you feel him behind you, thick fingers stroking up your thighs, toying with the edge of your panties. he doesn't pull them down yet. just lets his knuckle press against your wet slit, making you jolt.

marcus brushes a kiss against your lips. the gentlest touch you ever got from him. it went by so sudden you didn't even get the chance to slip your tongue past his lips and into his mouth, making you pout slightly. "think you can take all three of us tonight?"

you whimper. "yes, sir."

"good girl."

he parts your lips with his thumb, and just as you open your mouth wider, he slips it in slowly, forcing you to suck and watching the way your tongue curls around it.

"you're gonna open all those holes for us. let us in," marcus murmurs. "just like this, just as sweet."

javier kneels beside you, pushing your hair back from your face. "wanna be used by us, hermosa? wanna be our little plaything?"

you nod desperately. "yes. i want — i wanna be yours. please."

marcus chuckles, low and dark. "hear that, boys? bitch finally knows where she belongs. wants to be ours."

that's the marcus you know.

joel finally pulls your panties down your thighs, slow enough to make you squirm. "then lets give our girl what she's been waitin' for, huh?"

he wastes no time.

his tongue takes a big, long and cruel drag from your clit all the way up to your ass, lapping at the excess of your juices which were on the edge of dripping down the bed. you moan loudly as you close your eyes and feel the men shift their positions around you, choosing their hole like it's a lottery.

you feel hot spit land on top of your pussy and cover your folds and before you know it you feel the blunt head of someone's cock pressing to your vaginal entrance, sliding through the slick with no obstacle. you're already soaked through and throbbing painfully, and when he pushes in slow, long and so enormously thick, your arms buckle and you drop to your elbows with a moan.

this isn't joel. you open your eyes to see it isn't javier either, as he now stands in front of you with a longer, slimmer and slightly curved dick, with a head so red it borders on painful. hard, dripping, and when he presses it to your lips, you open without question, keeping eye contact all the way.

"that's my girl," he growls. "eyes on me. shit — don't look away. show me how grateful you are."

your mouth wraps around him, taking him in deep. his hands tangle in your hair as you suck, your eyes never leaving his.

joel moves. taking his cock in his hand, stroking it slowly at the sight of you being used like a doll by his two brothers, one in the front and the other from the back. "you ready for all of us, babygirl?"

you choke around javier's cock while nodding. "mmhm — yes."

behind you, marcus has already set a delicious rhythm. deep, brutal strokes that drag your body forward into javier's cock with every thrust. the bed creaks. your moans fill the room as he fucks you harder and faster, his fingers digging into your hips like a man who never wants to let go as your body trembles between the two brothers.

marcus groans. "she's already fucked dumb on me, joel. might need help holdin' her up."

"i got her."

joel climbs onto the bed, kneeling next to you on the bed as marcus slowly pulls out of your pussy. joel takes his place under you as marcus helps him mold you to their will, your tits dangling in his face like gems.

joel's thick cock nudges against your wet entrance that's already been stretched out by marcus. he slides home very gentle, way gentler than his older brother. the familiar feel makes him moan in relief as he feels your pussy walls flutter around his shaft, recognizing and accepting him into her.

marcus spits on your asshole, smirking darkly at how your puckered hole tightens up. "gonna stretch that pretty ass next, darlin'. can you take it? yeah, i don't give a fuck if you can't. not a single. fuckin'. fuck. oh, shit," he pushes in, not even giving you enough time to prepare with his fingers or even more spit. you moan loudly around javier's cock as you struggle to take marcus' fat cock that's stretching your ass inch by inch while joel pounds into your cunt and sucks your nipples, easing you into orgasm, helping you relax and accomodate to marcus' dick seeing he doesn't care enough about making you comfortable.

you cry out, muffled, nearly sobbing from the fullness.

"shh," joel soothes, gripping your waist. "you're doing perfect."

javier fucks your mouth gently now, holding a steady rhythm as he holds your jaw open and moans at the way you swirl your tongue around the head as more spit dribbles down your chin.

the rhythm builds.

joel grunts with every thrust up into your cunt, nudging your sensitive cervix each time he slides in too deep. he's made you cum more times than you can count. made you roll your eyes in the back of your head as he pistoned in and out of you while sucking and mouthing greedily at your tits.

javier holds your face with reverence as you choke and gag around his cock. whispers spanish praises and chuckles in awe each time you gag a bit louder when the tip of his dick hits the back of your throat at the same time you cum on joel's cock.

and marcus? marcus is having the time of his life. having both your holes in the same night after waiting for you to come to your senses for a whole month. your pussy is a warm haven but your ass is completely something else. so much tighter and sensitive from the lack of preparation. he doesn't even care. didn't even bother. just uses you for what you were made for. doesn't miss the fact that you've been moaning and screaming a little louder since he started violating your ass. the image of you probably crying because he's so, so rough and mean makes him pound you impossibly harder with no remorse for your feelings.

you're gone. floating. fucked open and split wide and so full you can't think.

you moan, broken and wet. "yours, yours, fuck, i'm yours — fuck, so good, p-please don't stop, please n-never stop..."

"fucking dirty bitch. went dumb on cock she rejected in the first place. feel what you were missing on, hon'? huh? thinkin' bout leaving now? you fuckin' answer me when i talk to you," marcus snaps from behind you, taking a rough grab of your hair as he pulls you off javier's cock.

"no! i'm s-sorry — i'll, i'll never leave again! i promise, i promise, sir. only yours, only yours."

one by one, they finish.

javier fills your mouth. orders you to stick your tongue out as he fists himself and paints your tongue, lips, nose and cheeks with his cum, whispering praises all the way. "that's it, cariño. doing so well for me, bebe. doing incredible. what a good little girl you've become."

joel comes deep in your cunt, shuddering with a growl that rattles your bones. "ohhh, fuck, babygirl, that's it. thaaat's it. let daddy fill you up, put some kids in that womb of yours. want that, baby? wanna be our cute lil mama?"

marcus spills deep in your ass and grips your hips hard enough to bruise, using your hole to its best efforts as he watches his cum drip out of you. "finally did what you were told. see? you can be an obedient little whore when you want to. jus' needed sum training, that's all. sluts like you need a strong, capable hand leading them. show' 'em the right way of things."

they leave you there, trembling, dripping, shaking and gasping for air with a dizzy head, a trembling body and three holes filled to the brim and utterly spent.

joel and javier assist each other in helping you come down from your high and bring you down to earth. stroke your back, brush your hair, wipe you clean before taking you in the bathroom for a nice, well deserved shower.

you never stood a chance against them. it was always gonna end up this way. and now that it finally happened, now that you've finally been consumed by all three of them, you'll never leave.

you're theirs. and they are yours; and that, you'll realise soon.

happy one month anniversary, darling. cheers for the future and the more many months to come.

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if you enjoyed this chapter please leave your thoughts in the comments down below or even be kind enough to reblog. i have a praise kink and it would make me very much happy 🥰

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