#but i think i blocked him a long time ago

[poisonf0rest]

Overc*mming Writer's Block 3

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐕

♱⋅── zayne x reader

♱⋅── about: Between being in the midst of your medical residency and being an up-and-coming author, it’s safe to say your personal life has been placed on stand-still. That is, until your editor decided that your next novel needed explicit smut scenes. That is, until your mentor and boss ends up striking a deal for you to help with “inspiration” for said novel. That is, until you fuck Zayne four times and your life changes forever. Partially inspired by manga of the same name by Nae Awaji

♱⋅── word count: 10.8k holy

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, bondage, oral, pussydrunk zayne, PRAISE kink, breeding kink, actual sex this time, no more blue balling, nightly rendezvous card

art credit to @/chimmyming on X

“So, you and Dr. Zayne?”

You damn near choke on your salad. Coughing, you place your fork down before turning to glare at Anvi. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She smiles, as if that was confirmation enough. “I’ve heard a thing or two from hospital gossips—“

“Vi, you are the hospital gossip.”

“—that the cold, yet steaming hot doctor was finally seen accepting the company of someone else. Not to mention at the gala last weekend he was by your side all night long. Or so I was told.” 

Anvi leans in, smiling wide enough to burst her pretty face as you scowl down at your lunch, unable to meet her eyes. Fighting to keep your voice even, you nudge her off, stabbing a carrot. “You’re ridiculous. I’m not involved with Dr. Zayne, he’s too—“ Attentive? Intelligent? God don’t think of him eating you out right now. “He’s not my type.”

You feel your ears burn, but by the grace of some god Anvi doesn’t seem to notice. Pouting she sighs and sinks back into the cafeteria booth. “Aww man, I was really rooting for you, too.”

“Rooting for a nonexistent relationship?” 

Anvi’s about to say something, big doe eyes almost frantically darting between yours before she huffs and shakes her head, something akin to pity tightening her smile.

You raise a brow but she only shrugs, going back to picking at her lunch. “Just as well, a relationship between a resident and her boss would be quite the juicy scandal. Something straight out of a romcom, no?” 

Laughter rips from your chest, the sheer irony of both her words and your reality too much to bear. Anvi’s windshield wiper giggles join your own, and soon the two of you are wheezing under your breath as you get side-eyed by the other surgeons trying to enjoy their lunch. 

Really, whoever your author was had a fucked up sense of humor. 

But the moment is ruined by the buzz of your pager, and you barely say bye to Anvi before you’re rushed to the operating bay. 

As of today, you have two days to finish your manuscript. 

Today's shift was exhausting, but you’ve learned early into your career that writing is a discipline, and as fickle of a muse as inspiration is, a writer cannot simply wait for her to grace you with her presence. Whether you feel like it or not, this book has to get done. 

Besides, what better mindset was there to churn out unhinged shenanigans than when you’re delirious and half-asleep, tucked away in the on-call room? 

Okay, so perhaps not the best place to be, but logically if your shift finished only minutes ago and you had to page in at five AM yet again, you’re better off just staying here rather than driving back to your apartment and all the way back to the hospital again.

Opening your personal laptop, you tab onto your novel's draft, the flashing cursor taunting you as your editor’s comments blur into an overwhelming mess of red. While you’ve worked your way through just about half of her six-thousand comments, that still leaves far too many, especially on your novel’s villain slash love interest as the trope always goes. 

You’re halfway through cutting cringey dialogue on a specific scene, but your thoughts keep drifting. Your conversation with Anvi keeps playing in your mind— romcom, dating, scandal, boss. You suppress the heat rising in your chest, trying to ignore the reality you really don't want to face. 

Zayne is… too much. Too intelligent, too caring, too perfect at catching you off guard.

Shaking your head, you try re-focusing, but between sleep deprivation and the realization that you haven’t actually done anything physical with Zayne for nearly a week, you get far too distracted. 

It’s not that you haven’t seen him since the gala. Far from it, really. Nearly every night if your shifts happen to end around the same time, he offers to drive you home. And when your shifts don’t align, you always make the effort to cook something together, breakfast or dinner, at ungodly hours of the morning or evening. And if neither of those happened, you would watch a movie, at least for a few minutes till one or both of you fell asleep on your ratty couch. 

God, you’re a fool. You can’t help but want him by your side even now, loving the way he reacts to your inappropriate comments, loving the way he scoffs at your jokes, loving the way he notices even the most minute things about you. And yet there’s a distance you can’t explain, a growing space you’re both too afraid to fill.

You close your laptop with a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes as you lay back on the small cot, trying to block out the nagging ache in your chest.

Your phone buzzes from under the cot, and you glance at it absently. You nearly jump at Zayne’s icon flashing on your screen.

grumpy snowman: Under recent developments I’d like to inform you of two things. One, you are banned from the hospital all of tomorrow under strict orders by me. Two, I currently have Mr. Whiskers held hostage, and should you fail to return home by 02:59 I will be forced to perform pulmonary bypass puncture and stop his heart. 

Dumbfounded, you stare at Zayne’s text, blinking in confusion. Did your sleep deprivation just hallucinate a text? Violently shaking your head, you look back at your phone with slightly spinning vision just to confirm that no, this was very much real and Zayne has very much lost it. 

ms. author: Is this a threat?

Another text follows immediately after.

grumpy snowman: Consider it your last chance. Come back and save him, or else... this may as well be his final night. 

An image sends then, your favorite calico cat plushy all tied up with what appears to be Zayne’s tie, dangling the poor thing as though being held hostage. Your gaze lingers for longer than it should on how Zayne’s hands look in the dim lighting of the photo, so busy trailing up the veins on his lithe fingers that you nearly miss his next text. 

grumpy snowman: I’ve already called an Uber. It’s waiting outside. 

You snort into the empty room, rolling to sit up straight.He’s the last person you’d expect to pull this sort of thing. It’s nothing short of ridiculous, but truly you don’t know the last time you’ve smiled this wide, and it’s precisely the distraction you need right now, especially if he’s already gone through the trouble of organizing it all himself. But like you’d go down without a fight. 

ms. author: You’re being ridiculous, you’d never hurt Mr. Whiskers you devil. You don’t have the guts.

His reply is swift, almost immediate.

grumpy snowman: Do I now? Care to test that theory?

You can practically hear the smugness in his text, the playful challenge laced with a quiet but unmistakable sincerity. Your heart gives an unexpected flutter, the weight in your chest easing, if only slightly. Quite a villain, indeed.

You know what Zayne’s doing. He’s not just playing around; he’s pulling you out of your head, out of the self-imposed spiral you’ve yet again been retreating into. You’ve spent the better half of the week in it. 

You bite your lip, considering your options. On one hand, you could brush him off—continue working, ignore the text, but something inside of you craves this attention. Craves his uncharacteristic ridiculousness. Craves the break from your mind that he’s offering.

ms. author: If you harm a single fur on my son’s head I’ll put an end to your tyranny myself.

Zayne doesn’t waste a second, sending only a single warning: Hurry. 

You stand, grabbing your jacket and keys, and only then do you second guess this. The easy, safe choice would be to stay buried in your work, it would be to politely decline and place must-needed distance and formality back. 

But for the first time in a while there’s something you want more than work, and as you slip out of the on-call room, the image of Mr. Whiskers hanging helplessly from Zayne’s tie is enough to pull you out of the hospital.

You push your front door open, the silence of your apartment making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The lights are off— odd, considering you could have sworn you left a lamp on. You always do, a force of habit since you live in a slightly less safe area of Linkon. Oh, the things you do for cheaper rent. 

Pausing, your eyes scan the deceptively empty hallway and kitchen. Everything feels still, almost eerie, and your pulse quickens as you take your shoes off, right beside Zayne’s much larger dress shoes, to venture further into your apartment. 

The faintest creak of floorboards makes you freeze. Your heart stutters slightly, the scare making you grip your chest as you whirl around, cursing out your cowardice. You’ve seen worse things wheeled into the ER. Please, get a grip. 

You shake off the nerves just as your phone buzzes in your pocket, breaking the silence once more.

grumpy snowman: You’re cutting it close. Five minutes before Mr. Whiskers meets an untimely demise.

You can't help the amused snort that escapes you, the tension in your body breaking.

ms. author: You really went this far? What now, villain?

The response is almost immediate.

grumpy snowman: It’s a matter of life or death. I hope you're prepared.

Another photo attachment follows—your favorite Christmas blanket thrown over the couch cushions in disarray, the faintest corner of Mr. Whiskers peeking out beneath it. The living room. You shake your head, muttering under your breath about the audacity of smug geniuses with far too much time on their hands.

You make your way to the living room in the dark, you flick on a lamp as you approach the couch. Lifting the blanket to find… nothing but a sticky note.

It reads, in painfully pretty cursive: Nice try, but you’ll have to be quicker.

Another buzz.

grumpy snowman: You fell for that as well? I expected better. Already 02:56, time’s running out.

You scoff, unable to stop yourself from laughing despite the absurdity.

ms. author: Do you even have anything better to do?

grumpy snowman: Not lately. Someone’s been too busy to properly entertain me.

You read it once, twice, and still something in your chest squeezes painfully at that.

Folding up the note, you stare at the text a moment longer before you hear the echoing click of a door. It’s coming from upstairs. 

Another buzz.

grumpy snowman: While you’re lost in thought again, care to explain why you’ve been running yourself into the ground? 

You pause, stalling as you make your way to your stairs.

ms. author: I am writing.

grumpy snowman: Poorly, if you’re overworking. Can’t imagine the tension’s working out if it’s still stuck in your head.

ms. author: Gasp. Excuse you—

Another buzz interrupts, just as you make it to your bedroom door, old wood announcing your arrival with a groan. The culprit has to be just behind it. 

grumpy snowman: 3 minutes remaining. Mr. Whiskers won’t be around much longer.

You can practically feel Zayne’s grin through the phone, and for a brief moment, you’re glad he’s here, even if it’s all in jest. He’s right although you might never admit it; this whole absurd situation—your plushie, the stupid texts, the teasing—has done what no amount of coffee or sleepless daydreaming could.

ms. author: If you harm a single fur on my son’s head, I swear I’ll come for you.

Your hand latches onto your bedroom handle, biting your lip as you pause to type one last jab. 

ms. author: I don’t know why I’m indulging you.

grumpy snowman: Because you love it when I win.

A laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. Shaking your head, you push the door open.

Your bedroom is dim, the curtains drawn, but moonlight spills through the dusky purple veils, illuminating the bed.

Perched atop lies Mr. Whiskers, your darling calico plushie sitting in the center, fully unharmed even though his crystalline eyes speak of unimaginable horrors at the hands of his captor. 

Before you can grab him, movement from the corner of the room nearly startles you into jumping halfway across the room. Zayne, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watches you with a slight upturned grin that makes your stomach twist.

“You’re a horrible villain.” You huff, all but lunging on your bed to hug Mr. Whiskers to your chest like a shield.

His lips twitch into a smile, the bastard, and you can't help but notice how handsome he looks with his hair a little mussed and his glasses slipping down his nose. He doesn’t have his coat or suit jacket on, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, a sight you haven’t grown tired of.

God, you really have a thing for forearms. Or maybe it’s just a thing for Zayne.

“Since we’re critiquing each other, you’re not much of a hero. Hiding behind a plushie doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.” 

“Confidence isn’t my priority right now.” You clutch Mr. Whiskers tighter, narrowing your eyes. He’s not here to talk about morals and heroism, though. “I’ve been fine. Nothing more than proofreading left… that and a few problem-children scenes.”

“Then consider this me fulfilling my half of the contract,” Zayne says, effortlessly seeing past your usual bullshit. “For someone who claims they’re adequately inspired, you’ve been more distant than usual.”

“I don’t need a lecture.”

“No lecture.” He steps closer, “I just missed you.”

Again, Zayne's words catch you off guard, so blunt they make your chest ache. No empty flattery, no pretty words, simply stated as though they were facts. 

He takes another step forward, and you have to lean back on your elbows— nearly lying back on the bed— to maintain eye contact as he looms above you. 

And then, Zayne drops to his knees before you.

It’s a far more graceful movement than it has any right to be, all six foot something of him kneeling against the foot of your bed as you instinctively make room for him there. Slowly, his hands come up to your thighs, the two of you slotting together with ease.

“Admit it,” Zayne whispers, the sweet, minty heat of his breath caressing your lips as you shiver, leaning closer despite yourself. “This helped.” A wry smile, “and that I make a convincing villain.”

“What’s this, is the doctor Zayne fishing for compliments?”

“I don’t need compliments. I just want you to stop pretending in front of me– no more performances.” 

Heat rises to your face, and your stomach twists. He's too close, he's always too close, but god, why has this domesticity become so natural around him? 

Despite yourself, you look down at his hands again, taking in how easily his scarred palms cup your thighs, the pale contrast of his skin against yours. Lithe, long fingers, and the memory of how well they’ve treated you. You swear he must feel your heart pound where his thumbs brush circles against your inner thighs, your body nothing but responsive for him. 

But if he does, he spares you the embarrassment. Zayne only continues to look up into your face, and just as you begin thinking of equally inappropriate jokes or fun facts to break the silence, Zayne moves closer, his knee pressing between your thighs as the mattress dips to accommodate his weight. 

“Perhaps there is a performance you could help me with, since you’re clearly the expert here.”

You blink, one step behind Zayne’s master plan yet again. “What- help you?”

“Yes. See, I’ve been thinking about my next move as a villain, and…” Before you can even follow Zayne’s words, Mr. Whiskers is yanked from your grasp once more. One hand raises him into the air and the other lunges for your outstretched arms, pinning them to the bed as it creaks and groans under the sudden assault. “I think I’ll take Mr. Whiskers as my captive once again.”

A soft gasp leaves your lips as Zayne shifts above you, his knee grinding up just enough to have you aching between your legs. Everything spins, torn between the desire to rescue Mr. Whiskers and the overwhelming urge to give in, to pull Zayne closer, to finally, finally fuck him yourself.

But before you can decide, the hand pinning your wrists tightens, his thumb rubbing circles as he effortlessly restrains you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you curse, though the tremor in your voice betrays your excitement.

“Ridiculous?” Zayne repeats, arching a brow. “Perhaps you should start taking this seriously, my dear protagonist.” He drops his voice into something rich, dark, and deliciously villainous. The hand that pins you down holds firm, the other dangles your plushie overhead with mocking menace. 

You scoff, though it comes out shakier than intended. “I could write circles around your attempts at being evil.”

“Could you?” Unbuttoning his shirt, Zayne gets only halfway before abandoning it entirely, letting the buttons skew across his chest. He watches with a growing smile as your eyes flutter downward against your better judgment. “Then why don’t you show me.”

Zayne nods to your phone, eyes narrowed from behind his glasses. “Open the doc, show me the scene. Any attempts to rescue the captive will be met with appropriate punishment.” 

The way Zayne looks down at you, waiting—daring— to see if you would make him stop, sends a sinful flutter through your core, ricocheting up your spine. No longer trusting your voice, you nod and feel the pressure loosen ever so slightly on your wrists. 

You only have time to pull your phone out from your scrub’s back pocket before Zayne captures your wrists again, the tie once used on Mr. Whiskers now knotted efficiently right above your wrists. It should be frightening, how easy it is for him to manhandle you, but you feel nothing but painful arousal at that fact.

You’re still growling out faux protests when Zayne plucks the phone from your hands, his knee keeping your hips firmly pinned against the mattress.

“Ah,” Zayne murmurs, scrolling casually through your doc. “A scene involving betrayal, a chase, and…” He raises a brow. “Passionate accusations of treachery.”

You thrash beneath him, trying to buck off his weight as your face burns in embarrassment. “Enough! You’re supposed to help, not—”

“Not what?” He glances at you briefly, lips pursed in a halfhearted attempt to mask his amusement. “Not put your villain to the test? I’ll admit I might have ulterior motives, but you’ll have to try harder than that.”

Zayne then waves the plushie just out of reach before dangling him on the windowsill for dramatic emphasis.

“I swear to god, if you harm Mr. Whiskers!”

He cuts you off with a chuckle. “Hush. You’ll want to hear this.” 

Zayne clears his throat, the smirk on his lips unmistakable as he picks up where you left off in editing your manuscript. His voice drops into a faux-sinister drawl as he begins to narrate. “‘You can hate me all you want,’ the villain growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. ‘But that fire in your eyes only makes me want to break you more.’”

It's horrible, the way he reads the words, the tone and cadence he gives the prose, and worst of all, the way his unblinking gaze remains completely, utterly, fixed on you as he speaks.

“Zayne, please, don’t- this is embarrassing,” you beg to appeal to reason, still writhing against his tie, when you realize his grip against your hips has loosened.

Zayne’s attention is momentarily diverted as he scrolls through the doc, looking for another section to read, and you kick your knee up with a shout, jabbing it into his side as the two of you tumble across the bed. 

Lunging, you manage to grab Mr. Whiskers for all of two seconds before Zayne hauls you up by your bound wrists, forcing you arms above your head as you are pulled back against him. He’s rough, forcing your spine to arch against his chest as you hiss on impact, head thrown back against Zayne’s shoulder. “Ah-ah. What did I say about attempts to rescue the captive?” 

His tone is all mockery, grip iron against your waist even though you can tell he’s still holding himself back. Feeling each hot, ragged breath against the back of your neck, the smell of ambroxan and sandalwood surrounding you. You breathe in deeper, shaking despite yourself.

“Let go of me!”

‘’Close. I believe the actual line was ‘unhand me.’”

Zayne hauls you further up the mattress, hooking your bound wrists onto the post of your bedframe as this new position forces you to face the wall, all while his free hand adjusts his glasses, scanning the next few lines. “‘I’d rather die than let you win!’ she spat, her chest heaving with defiance—” He glances at you with deadpan incredulity. “Why is everyone always heaving in these scenes? Do they all have asthma?”

“You’re the worst,” you hiss, breathless from the struggle. See? Heaving, no asthma involved, just foreplay. 

“And yet…” Zayne’s voice comes closer, and you feel his bare chest once again at your back, “you’re the one who wrote it. I’m simply giving you an immersive experience.”

“Can’t be fully immersive if I have yet to believe you, villain.” Scoffing, you turn around, craning your neck just to glare him in the eyes. “You don’t have what it takes.”

Zayne chuckles, then silence. Forcing your head towards the wall again, you feel him lean down, still out of sight despite the heat radiating off his body, his nose brushing down your bare throat as he spits out the next line.

“Brat.”

You hate how immediately your body responds to that. How you shiver and lean back despite the restraints, how a part of you wants to fight, to keep the act going, because god, the idea of letting Zayne do anything he wants to you is enough to make your head spin.

Zayne’s teeth press against your neck, just below your ear, and you whine, the sound so small and deprived that you instantly bite your tongue and curse yourself for reacting like this.

So then he does it again.

A pitched gasp.

A broken moan.

Each noise he elicits from you is another cruel victory, and when you grind your ass back against Zayne’s increasingly obvious erection, he all but tears your scrubs down your thighs, the cotton of your panties not standing a chance against his desperation. 

In truth, Zayne had never been harder in his life. Did he intentionally pick the most on-the-nose dialogue just to watch you squirm? Perhaps. But he’d be lying if he said seeing you battle against primal desire beneath him, feeling your half-hearted attempts to fight him, accidentally grinding your ass against him with every squirm didn’t make him want to push you even further. 

Every breath came out heavy, chest heaving as he continued his performative reading, large palms alternating between slapping and gently squeezing your ass. 

“You’re greedy,” a kiss against your shoulder, shucking your scrubs down your knees. “Impatient,” another kiss, this time down your spine, throwing your pants across the bedroom. “And utterly disobedient.” 

You’re already stripped bare from the chest down. 

He can't deny the sight of you in such a compromising position is a sight to behold, and the urge to keep reading just to see how far he can push you is intoxicating. Panting, he pauses only to readjust his glasses, foggy and slipping down his nose. 

You, however, are too impatient.

"Zayne, please, you got your point across. You win. Just— ah, just fuck me already."

It's the first time in nearly a week that Zayne gets to hear you ask for him, beg for him, and it's all the reminder he needs for his body to fail him, shuttering against you with a moan of his own. How did he survive so long without this? Without you? 

Your voice rings against his skull, and it’s all he ever wants to hear. Moan his name, beg for him, scream it, call it out, anything. He needs you, irreversibly.

And not just for this.

So instead, Zayne looks back at your doc one last time, reading, “To think this is the city’s great hero. How I’ll enjoy breaking you.”

With a click, your phone turns off, tossed carelessly to the floor with a heavy thud that would have sent you into a panic had Zayne not chosen that exact moment to bite into the soft flesh behind your neck, thumb instantly finding your clit. 

The sensation alone is enough to make you cry, arching further up against the bindings. His hand snakes back around your hip, grounding, just barely brushing against the heat of your cunt, and the way he breathes out a low, half-delirious chuckle at the sound of you panting his name has your core fluttering for more.

"Please, Zayne, please," you whine, and the second the pleas leave your mouth, his thumb presses delicious circles into your neglected bundle of nerves. You whine, loud and needy, the second his fingers sink inside, held up only by Zayne’s arm wrapped around your waist and the tie pinning you against the bed frame. 

“Already begging? I wonder how much more obedient you’ll be after I fuck it all out of you.” And god, Zayne wanted to mock such an obscenely written line just to watch you blush all over, because what sort of villain would actually say such a thing? 

But when he sees you whimper at his words, when you arch so willingly into his punishment, when he feels your heartbeat quicken under his fingertips, he suddenly can’t say he faults any of these romance writers, for he now knows he’d do far worse than any of their cardboard villains. 

Zayne doesn’t even need to read the next line in the doc to know exactly what he’d do next. 

All but falling to the mattress, Zayne pulls your hips up, up until you’re atop his face, sinking his tongue between your folds before dragging all the way up to your clit, sucking with enough tension to make you scream. 

Your hands burn from where they chafe and fight against the tie, bucking violently against Zayne’s face, the cold kiss of his glasses frames making you jolt as he pulls your hips toward him like it’s the last thing keeping him sane.

“No,” Zayne groans between breaths, unable to part with you as he messily kisses your inner thigh before coaxing two fingers inside you with a thrust. “Don’t run. Do not run from me.”

Every scissor of his fingers forces obscene sounds from your cunt, silenced only by Zayne’s mouth and his own muffled praises. Granted, it didn’t matter how loud he was being, not with all of your delirious moans, completely unsuppressed as Zayne’s calculated ministrations took you apart thrust by thrust. 

At least you can remember being thankful that your apartment walls were sound-proofed. Breath ragged, mind spinning, only mindlessly fighting back as you babble, “Wait, you’re so- ah- fuck. Zayne!”

Quite canonically to your villain, Zayne’s hips buck into empty air in time to every thrust of his fingers, imagining it was his cock fucking deep into you instead. It’s a line he’s fantasized about crossing time and time again. 

But that’s where it stops. Fantasy. Because just the thought of it has Zayne groaning into your cunt, the taste and feel of you alone driving him insane, a point of obsession where he cannot allow himself to go any further. He can’t. He can’t, he really shouldn’t. 

He’d never recover, he’d never stop wanting— needing you. He’s addicted enough as is.

Zayne’s shirt had almost fully unbuttoned but his trousers remained, bulging as his cock wept from its prison against his thigh, fabric dark and painfully restraining. The mere friction was too little and overstimulating all at once. Even so, he can’t help but chase the phantom feeling, grinding against nothing as you fall apart above him.

When your shaking thighs finally begin to lock around his jaw, he welcomes the cage, burrowing his face deeper as the strong arch of his nose presses against your throbbing clit. Zayne’s slick fingers are delegated to merely keeping your hips still, his tongue fucking you through your orgasm as his hips follow your same rhythm.

One touch, one touch is all he needs to cum with you, but Zayne refuses to do anything but work you through your high. He swallows the taste of you, open-mouthed and needy, a moan rumbling deep in his chest as you feel it hum through you. 

Gasping, you look down, and immediately you feel your core flutter— the sight enough to have you wishing he was back in between your thighs already.

Zayne’s entire body shakes beneath you, dark hair mused and hands digging into your hips in ways you know will leave half-moon marks. But what has you trembling is the sight of his hazel eyes eclipsed to near black, completely blown out and teary as they try and fail to focus on anything other than your pussy still fluttering above him. Something you can barely see at all, not with the amount of cum that squirted across his glasses, foggy and skewed across his nose as it too glistens with your release. 

It’s an obscene picture you only get for a moment before Zayne chucks his glasses off just to place a closer, deeper set of kisses on your cunt. Practically chasing every buck of your hips, he happily lets you ride his face until your room begins to blur yet again, weightless and utterly fucked. 

You’re panting, vision still coming back in waves as you register Zayne untying your hands, all the while kissing the light bruises that remain. 

And yet you can hardly think of anything other than the fact that he still hasn’t properly fucked you.

“Zayne,” you call, and god, something in your chest squeezes at just how fast he whips his head around, already ducking to meet your eyes as he scans down your face. There’s worry etched into his features, his eyes scanning yours like he’s already bracing for whatever you’ll say next.

“I’m sorry, I knew I should have taken better precautions. If your hands hurt I can get a salve from—”

“Fuck me.”

Silence. 

Zayne blinks, his mouth parting and eyes squinting as though he misheard– or somehow misread–  you.

“What?” he manages, his voice barely above a whisper. 

You sit up on your knees, pulling off your shirt one swift movement so you’re completely naked, then lean forward until your noses nearly touch, his eyes dropping to your breasts. The boldness only shakes him further. “I’m sorry, I can’t let you run away this time. I want—” Reaching your hand out, your fingers trail down Zayne’s bare chest, hardly even pushing for him to fall backward. And for you to follow on top. “I want to do this for you. I want you.”

Zayne’s breath is deceptively steady, and if you couldn't feel the ragged rhythm of his chest, rising and falling as it burns against your palm, you wouldn’t have believed he was affected at all. 

“You don’t-wait- have to—” he starts, but his voice breaks when your fingers trace the curve of his ribs, lips following suit as you place gentle kisses down his sternum, his slender abs, dangerously close to the v-line dipping into his pants that you can’t help but lick, smiling in delight as his words finally fail him. 

“Neither did you. You’re rather stubborn, doctor,” you insist, soft but unwavering. Resting your head against his thigh, you coax his jaw down to look at you, the palm still resting against his chest finding the erratic thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. “Let me take care of you for once. Don’t you know good patients listen?”

Zayne huffs a quiet laugh, the sound strained as he looks down at you, right side of his lips curving into a faint smirk despite the way his body seems to ignite at your touch. “Bringing in our professional titles seems a little underhanded, don’t you think?” 

 “Ah, but it got your attention, didn’t it?” You don’t let him stall anyone— already he’s managed to keep this from you for weeks, really it’s a shame you haven’t stripped him earlier— letting your tongue trace the dip of his hip once more, humming as his muscles tense under the sudden attention. 

Greedy, your lips continue to worship every sharp edge and curve of Zayne’s abdomen, hands busy with his buckle until you manage to find a particularly sensitive spot just above his right hip bone. 

All his composure, all his calculated confidence, you want to break it apart until there’s nothing left but Zayne. Just Zayne. 

Zayne inhales sharply, eyes screwing shut as his mouth falls open in a picture of perfect debauchery you want etched into your mind forever. One hand fists into the sheets beside him, the other flying to your hair as your kisses turn to a dizzying mix of licks and nips. Hard enough to mark, you bite into skin, tongue flicking between your teeth, echoing across the room alongside the wet sounds of your mouth at work. 

“Ah, fuck.”

Cursing already? Perhaps this would be easier than you thought, but where’s the fun in that?

You pull back, watching Zayne blink in confusion as his hips twitch up toward your mouth, and you have to force back a laugh as he stares, bewildered, like he can hardly believe the sight in front of him.

His voice comes out huskier than before, low and coated with desire. "Why did you stop?"

You pull back just enough to look up at him, cheek resting on his thigh as you play with his zipper, never looking away from Zayne’s eyes even as they flutter closed in frustration, desperate for more. Tension practically radiates off of him, but you only smile, taking your time as you trail your fingers away from his zipper and bulge, teasing the sensitive edges of his hip and the skin peaking just over the edge of his trousers. 

“Don’t worry, doctor,” you murmur, your voice low and teasing. “I’ll be sure to complete your procedure just as thoroughly as you did on me.” 

Oh, and Zayne must realize how utterly fucked he is, for you won’t be letting him go not until you’ve adequately paid him back for all the times he’s deliberately edged you to the point of tears, all the times he’s reprimanded your attitude, all the sweet punishments you’ve ensured that you’re going to give back to him tenfold. 

But before he can try and sweet-talk his way into mercy, your teeth catch on his zipper, dragging it down as your free hand unlaces his belt, tossing it across the room by the time his bulge presses out from between the metal teeth all on its own.

Achingly hard already, and you haven't even begun.

The fact that you know he’s this hard just from eating you out certainly doesn’t help. 

His boxers are soaking, the obvious bulge only emphasized by the way the damp cotton seems to stick to him, and god does the size of him make your core flutter. 

Maybe next time you’ll get him to come just by eating you out. 

Next time, though.

Without warning, your fingers wrap around his cock, freeing it from the confines of his boxers. A hiss grits out through Zayne’s teeth as his jaw clicks and a vein thrums against his neck from the pressure. 

You're so used to having Zayne above you, between your legs, teasing you senseless as his fingers or tongue bring you to the edge over and over again. And now, here he is. Spread out, and all yours to ravage.

The realization alone has you throbbing, prior orgasm all but forgotten as you feel the want burn between your thighs again.

If only he could see how wet you were already.

How could he not, with the way your hips were rocking against his still-clothed thigh, searching for the friction he wouldn’t give?

And yet, despite your impatience, your eyes never leave Zayne, watching the way his muscles flex as he resists the urge to move, ever obedient for you.

"Good boy," you purr, meaning only to tease him further, but instead of the faux glare or inscrutable comment you were expecting, Zayne tenses beneath you, his cock jumping against your palm. Your eyebrows raise, a breathless giggle betraying your intentions as you lean in closer.

"Oh? Do you like that, baby? Being told just how perfect you are for me?”

You're not sure what's more arousing, the fact that Zayne is practically coming undone at your words, or the fact that he hasn't denied a thing.

God, his body feels hot. The mere praise has a dusky blush racing down his gorgeously sculpted chest all the way to the tips of his ears, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he looks down between the two of you, to where you’re still teasing the weeping slit of his dick. He moans before he could even stop himself. Fuck. 

Shivering, Zayne reaches out to grasp your wrist, and for a moment you think he's going to put a stop to your little power trip. But his hand only comes up to guide yours, urging you to pump his cock a bit faster, stopping to put more pressure against the base, and you can't help but smirk knowing he must be truly desperate if he's already rushing you to jerk him off properly. 

"My, my, doctor. I suppose I’m not the only one who’s been holding back.” You click your tongue, a teasing edge to your voice. "Were you really so desperate to feel me around your cock, hmm?"

Hazel eyes narrow at the pure filth behind your words, but you see the furrow between his brows, the way Zayne’s throat bobs as he throws his head back with a choked groan. If he looks so damn pretty now, you wonder what kind of faces he’ll make when he cums. 

“You truly are horrible,” He groans, hesitating, hands clenching into the sheets before they fly up to your waist, gently bucking his hips into your awaiting palm. “Mhm- please.”

You hum, lazily sinking to your stomach so your bare chest presses against his still-clothed thighs. With each stroke you can feel his muscles twitch beneath you, see the way his jaw clenches and unclenches, the way his hand guides yours, tightening and loosening, urging you to go faster, harder.

Your mouth waters, and the urge to taste him is far too tempting to resist. 

Plus, you’ve had enough with denying yourself, and more than enough of Zayne denying himself as well. 

So right as Zayne’s head rolls back against the pillows you rock forward, licking a slow stripe up his dick, up between the gap of your fingers where they grip his base. 

Zayne chokes on his breath, hand immediately tangling in your hair, rough enough that it has you wrenched away with a breathless whine. He groans, words shaking out in breathless huffs, “You, hah- this isn’t, fuck—”

"Ah, ah, pretty boy, let me take care of you, yeah?" You fight to come back to him, smiling as Zayne’s grip immediately loosened, and you kiss his tip in thanks.

Rubbing teasing circles into his thighs, your thumbs then move up, tracing his v-line, addicted to the way his muscles tense under your nails and to the red lines that follow. It makes you want to mark him up more. So you do, with your nails again, then with your teeth and tongue. 

“Look at how- shit- how excited you are for me. So pretty.” You lean forward, pressing wet, messy kisses just below his navel and all around his already sticky thighs, heady and coated in pre-cum. 

Another bite, and you squeeze his balls with just enough pressure as you watch his eyes roll back in time. "I'm going to make this so, so good for you, baby.” 

Zayne all but sobs at that.

Every carefully restrained thought breaks completely at the praise, a raspy moan grinding through his teeth before his jaw falls open with every ragged huff of breath. 

“Mhm that’s it, you’re doing so well,” you say, smiling at the way his cock twitches, violently leaking, pre-cum pooling into your palm and dripping down your wrist. “So pretty, so perfect just for me.”

With one last kiss on Zayne’s tip, your hands steadies itself against his abdomen before you kitten-lick around the tip of his cock, and then greedily shove as much of his throbbing erection as you can down your throat.

Zayne tenses, gasping, and the sound sends a thrill down your spine. You press further, tongue flattening along the underside of his shaft, and fuck he’s so thick you nearly choke, forgetting to breathe in through your nose as the lack of oxygen gets to you embarrassingly fast. 

If only you had some more time to properly adjust, you'd force him to the hilt without a doubt. But patience has never been your virtue. 

You’re already edging yourself with every slow grind of your clit against Zayne’s thigh, and you can feel his desperation in every throb along the underside of his cock in your mouth, letting his tip hit the back of your throat, breaching as deep as you could allow.

Zayne begins to buck forward only to freeze halfway, a low hiss leaving him as his hand twitches against the sheets, knuckles turning white as he fights his own self-restraint as you urge him deeper into your hot mouth. Trying to pull you off him, Zayne’s hand laces through your hair as a warning, large enough to cup the back of your neck entirely, but the action only lets you take him further. 

Then he makes the fatal mistake of looking down at you, locking eyes with your teary gaze as you maintain eye contact before licking up his length, and then swallowing him back down, crying as mascara and drool runs down your chin. His hips stutter upwards, and then he catches the shallow bulge now pressing against the base of your throat. Up and down and back again.

The sight breaks him.

He throws his head back with a whine, and fuck, his sounds thrums against your skull, reverberating through your very being as he snaps, hips bucking wildly into your mouth, his powerful thighs trembling around your head. You’re being used as nothing more than a fucktoy now, hands scrambling for purchase against his abdomen for a semblance of control as you take it.

Fuck, maybe it’s the praise, because you make Zayne want to be greedy with the way you were gagging and choking around him.

The mere feeling of you drooling around his length, the way your moans come out muffled and wet with drool and his slick, like a messy kiss to his cock, has his hips stuttering deeper, arching up into your body until Zayne can practically feel the spark of his orgasm behind his eyes. 

But no, that won't do.

After all, you won’t be satisfied until he’s finally fucking himself inside you tonight. He can’t cum anywhere else. You won’t let him.

And right when you feel his cock go rigid, you tighten your hand around the base, and pull off. 

Heaving, you shakily prop yourself back onto your elbows, Zayne's length glistening with saliva between your bodies, twitching violently and leaking all across his abdomen and your chest from its angry red tip. 

“S’pretty, Zayne.”

Zayne moans, hips chasing after the heat of your mouth, hissing when all he feels is the cold air. He wants to protest, wants to ask for more, but you shush him with a kiss.

Your tongue laps across his skin, tracing the ridges of his abs, lapping the pre-cum and sweat that gathers there. You lick a trail, following the sharp cut of his hips.

"What, is that all you can take?" you ask, a teasing smirk on your face.

Zayne curses, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. “Depends.” His voice is fucked rough, raw, and you never want him to stop talking. ”Was that the full treatment?” 

You hum, biting the inside of his thigh. He gasps, and it turns into a deep groan when you press an open-mouthed kiss over the forming mark.

“No,” you admit, “You’re not escaping until I get to watch you come undone.”

You smile at the shudder both your words and actions draw, the way his fingers tighten in your hair. “Ah, but not here. In me. I want you to fill me up, baby, make a mess of me. I can take it, I promise. And when you're done, I'm going to ride you until you come again. Sound good, my pretty boy?"

Zayne throws his head back with a moan, eyes squeezed painfully shut as though he can’t decide if this really is real or if a succubus was haunting his dreams to every sinful memory he has of you.

Zayne leans into your touch, following your palm as he nuzzles into you with a huff of hot breath. A little like a kitten in a man's body— a sexy body no doubt— but you wonder, not for the first time, if the reason he always holds back is simply because he was afraid. As you were. Until Zayne came to you, until he showed you what pleasure felt like.

So you take his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you, and then kiss him.

He lunges up to meet you halfway, licking into your mouth, fisting into your hair, breathing in every moan and whimper of his name as he hums it right back. Needy, so damn needy for it. 

You smile through the kiss, grinding up and down his muscular thigh alongside the desperate smashing of mouths. Tongue-heavy, teeth scraping, sucking at the corner of your lips. So fucking hungry for you that he’s practically lifting you right off the mattress with just one arm. 

His mouth distractedly chases down your throat leaving opened-mouth kisses before slotting back against your lips, hot and demanding and urgent. 

“Zayne, ah—” you’re cut off with another kiss, “Mhm, please, need you,” another, Zayne looping two arms around your thighs, hiking your knees up to his shoulders, the stretch burning. “Need you in me, now.”

He moans into your open mouth at those words, eager enough that he chases you up, nearly pinning you beneath him until you break the kiss with a gasp, shoving him back down. Zayne whines at the break of your lips, brows furrowed as his back hits the mattress, trapped under you once again, panting.

"Need you, pretty boy." You whisper against his lips, and it sounds just like a promise. "Please, let me take care of you.”

Zayne takes a shaky breath, nodding, drunk on the praise and readjusts himself against the pillows. He watches, eyes half-lidded, as you straddle his waist. Rough hands find your hips and hold them steady as you settle climbing atop him, the head of his cock rubbing between the folds of your soaked cunt. 

It isn’t lost on you how Zayne can barely stop staring at the slick that trails down your thighs, all of it coating his shaft in slick as your pussy hovers over him, connecting the two of you in wet, sticky strands.

"Like what you see, doctor?"

You lick down the milky column of his neck and Zayne groans, leaning back to grant you access. "You and your smart-ass mouth."

“You love it.”

Ya, he does. He could probably cum just from watching you like this.

Leaning forward, you line his cock up with your entrance, smirking at the way his eyes narrow, heart racing beneath your palms as you balance yourself on his pecks, shamelessly groping them.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've thought about this? How many times I've imagined riding your cock, hearing the sweet noises you make as I make a mess of you?"

Zayne opens his mouth, as if to say something, but whatever it is doesn't matter, not as you guide the swollen red tip of his cock through your folds, thick tip pushing and sliding past your entrance, unable to fit even with your combined slick. Teasing, swollen pussy lips drooling right down onto his leaky head when just a simple nudge of Zayne’s squirming hips would end this torment and have you fucked flush against him— raw.

"Please," he groans, his voice raspy and hoarse, eyes fluttering closed, glassy with lust, "I can't- I can't take this. Please,” a low moan of your name has you delirious, and god, you’d give him anything he’d ask for. “I admit it, I need you. So please.”

Were you more than happy to oblige. 

Lifting yourself all the way up on your knees, you steadily apply more pressure to your entrance, working yourself further and further until you could feel your slick drip down your thighs and his cock, each movement now accompanied by an unholy squelch. You slide his cock over your cunt—back, then forward—stimulating your clit with the head each time he fucks it through your folds, desperate as your movements become rougher and more forced.

Zayne’s cock catches against your entrance once again, and a low, breathy moan escapes his lips. He could feel your cunt finally yield to the pressure of his large, overbearing cock, could feel the way your legs trembled, threatening to give way, and he can't help but wonder if this is how you would look, how you would sound and feel, when he fucked you.

As soon as he feels the flutter of your core against his tip, he knows he’s lost, the head of Zayne’s cock sliding into you with a lewd pop as you both moan. 

"Mhm, yes," you moan, voice a high-pitched keen. "Just- ah, like that."

Zayne bites his lip, fingers digging into your hips, and fuck, after being edged not once but twice today he already feels deliciously overstimulated and close, too close.

So it certainly doesn't help when you rock yourself up onto your knees, then drop yourself all the way back down his shaft, taking him all the way in until his balls slap against your ass.

You even don't wait for either of you to adjust before doing it again, and the velvety hot squeeze of your cunt has Zayne seeing stars.

“Ah, f-fuck, oh, shit. S’good Zayne,“ you coo, "Feels so good, fuck."

You’re dripping down your thighs, gushing around him like a vice as he watches his cock disappear into your cunt with a creamy white ring already at his base. 

It’s all turning Zayne delirious with the way you continue to feed him compliment after compliment. It’s all so much, too much, and a low moan is forced out of Zayne’s chest as he begins rocking his hips up to meet yours, hardly even letting you pull out before bullying his way back into you. 

Fuck, you can feel him everywhere, his cock hitting your cervix, your walls stretched tight around him, a mixture of his and your slick pooling onto his abdomen as you chase your way up and down his length.

But god, what you feel is nothing compared to how absolutely wrecked Zayne looks.

His eyes are screwed shut, chest rising and falling rapidly, the flush from his ears having spread to his gorgeously marked-up chest, his neck, the angry red tip of his cock. His brows are drawn together, jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck and shoulders strained as he holds himself back, every part of him curling up to meet yours and press you down, closer. 

But then he turns away, eyes screwed shut as you feel his tip jerk against your cervix once more. 

No. No, no, no that won’t do.

Zayne has watched you come undone countless times. He’s been a worshiper and witness to pleasures you didn’t think you could feel, and this time, you want him to be the subject of all your adoration. To finally give him back all the love he’s taught you to feel and more. 

So you lean down, cupping Zayne’s cheek with one hand as you continue to ride him. “Look at me, baby. Y-you're so, fuck, so big, Zayne, fuck—” You gasp a sharp breath as he twitches violently inside you at the praise, slurring your words. “Mhm, love your cock so much."

But you doubted he could hear you— fuck, you wouldn’t even be able to tell if Zayne was breathing at this point if it wasn’t for the throbbing of his cock against your walls in time to his erratic heartbeat— because his eyes rolled back into his skull, jaw slack as a silent moan rips from his chest, shuddering down his spine right before his hips snap up into yours, throwing you off balance, pinpointing your g-spot with cruel accuracy as you scream.

Your sounds and babble of praises have him dizzy, eyes half-lidded and hazy as he struggles to focus on your face. It almost looks like he’s about to cry, dark lashes wet with unshed tears. You’d tease him for it, had you the capacity to think at all. But no, each thrust continues to bully into that sweet, spongy spot inside you as you moan, and Zayne’s mouth falls open with a cry of his own.

You chase into it with a kiss, clashing your teeth as you feel his tongue lap against yours, sucking hard. You feel the wrecked, blissed-out smile on your face, breaking away from him just long enough for Zayne to see how ruined and turned on he’s making you.

"Y-you're close, aren't you, my sweet boy?" You ask, the words coming out strained as Zayne fucks up into you. Pumping upwards, it’s like he wasn’t even trying every time his weeping head rams your sensitive spots. Just stuffing you full of his cock he denied you for so long, furious enough to mold you to his very shape. "C'mon, cum for me, Zayne. In me, please–ah."

You pull away even as his lips chase yours, arching your back so that your full weight grinds back on his hips. Zayne all but whimpers at the change in angle, his hands gripping the bed sheets as he tries not to starve off his orgasm. 

"Please, please," he groans, his jaw clenching.

"Look at me, Zayne."

He does, and his pupils are so blown, his eyes nearly black.

"Cum for me, baby," you beg again, grinding down against him as his hand comes up to grope your chest the same moment your palm leaves to cup his balls, and that's all it takes.

Zayne comes, a cry ripped from his throat, his cock throbbing inside of you. You can feel the sheer warmth filling you, his seed spilling out and leaking onto the sheets, and god, there’s so much of it that cum squirts out from between the two of you, splattering up his abs and your thighs. 

He’s trembling, head falling back as his hips jolt and stutter, still fucking up into you as though it can’t bear to part. You’re probably not helping with the way you still rocking on his length, your cunt milking his orgasm, and he can't take it, it's too much, too fucking good, he can't stop, never wants to.

But, fuck, one look at his face, and you already want him to cum again.

Zayne looks like sin, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead, his body writhing and straining as he gasps for breath, his skin shining in the afterglow of his release. The muscles of his neck are taut, veins pulsing and straining, his lips bitten red. He is fucking gorgeous, and the thought that he has done this for you, to you, has another wave of arousal shooting up your spine. 

“You…” Zayne’s brows pinch together, but his voice is low, dangerous. Unyielding. “You didn’t cum.”

“I already did, besides I-I ah, Zayne—!”

You’re cut off by your own pussy, lewd squelching accompanying every brutal thrust Zayne overstimulates the both of you with, bullying his own cum out of you with each rhythmless thrust back in. He plants his feet into the mattress, thrusting his hips up as you claw at his shoulders, chest, the slap of skin on skin ringing in your ears.

“No, that isn’t-” Zayne’s words slur, feverish and mindless as his gaze zero’s in to where the two of you meet, the sound of every wet, messy thrust and the slight bulge he now sees in time to his thrusts. “Not enough. With me. Please, hah, cum with me, love.”

Transfixed, one hand drifts to the bulge at your navel, and before he can stop himself, he grinds the heel of his palm against it. Immediately, overbearing pressure shoots up your spine, a broken scream leaving you as you tremble above him, arching violently forward. 

You try and speak, protests leaving as nothing more than garbled whimpers as you claw at Zayne’s wrist, trying and failing to pry his punishing grip off you. 

He doesn’t relent.

How could he, when you’ve finally given him yourself? When this was everything he’s denied himself and more? 

Fuck control, fuck discipline, fuck holding himself back. Zayne wants you. 

Vision blurry, drool dribbling down the corner of your mouth, your combined cum gushes out of your overfilled pussy and spreads in a lewd little pool beneath you. It’s all you can do to take it, Zayne overstimulating the both of you to insanity, but his hips keep the same punishing rhythm. Two slow, deep thrusts before something snaps and he hammers into you twice. Thrice. Then begins all over. 

It’s effortless, the way he bounces your body up and down with one hand, the other remaining pressed against your abdomen, massaging the outline of his dick showing through with every grind forward, rolling your clit between his forefinger and thumb. 

Large hands splay your thighs wider, closer, impossibly stretching you out until all you can feel is Zayne, Zayne, Zayne. You don’t realize you’re chanting his name out loud too. And you never felt more gloriously out of control than when he abruptly jerks his thigh upwards– driving you right along with it– hitting your cervix all at once.

There’s no rhythm. Not anymore. You’re hardly lucid, dropping your full weight down just to meet Zayne’s cock as he pulls you down prone atop of him to catch your mouth in an open kiss as he hits your g-spot again. And again. And again and again and—

“Love,” he all but moans it into your lips, low and broken and oh so addicting. “My love, please.” God, he’s still so painfully hard but the feeling of you fluttering around him, getting tighter each time he calls you love, must be a sort of heaven. “Please– hah, fuck– cum. Cum all over my cock.”

You whine, surging forward to kiss him again, and he feels it, couldn’t do or think of anything but it as you cum around his cock for the first time. 

Zayne’s eyes open even as you continue to suck and lick into his mouth, brows furrowed and vision blurring, lost in every hot pulse of your walls as they coaxed him further and further in, your release squirting against him as you struggle to drag your hips off him again, pussy sucking his cock in deeper, unwilling to let him go. 

Shaking, his hands find their way back to your hips, settling over the light bruises as he guides you up and down again, startling you as you moan into his lips. 

“Zayne,” you whine his name between kisses, strings of spit snapping between you, Zayne chasing hazily after your mouth before you cup his face in your hands. 

God, the sound of his name on your lips is enough to have him keening, pressing his forehead to yours as his entire body trembles. 

You’re coming again before you even realize it, vision spinning in and out as Zayne continues to fuck you through it. Zayne makes a noise, something between a moan and a whimper, his hips slowing despite himself. 

You're gorgeous, the sight of you atop him, still slurring out compliments, and it's too much, fuck, too fucking much, too fucking perfect, his perfect woman. 

With a final snap of his hips, Zayne comes alongside you. 

His orgasm has him gasping and his entire body bows forward, arms wrapping around your middle as he buries his face in your shoulder, kissing into the tender flesh as he just keeps cumming. 

He can't find the need to hold back this time. Not when the pleasure is so intense that his vision is turning white, not when your cunt is hot and pulsing and clenching around him, not when the praise and encouragement keep pouring out of your lips, whispering into the crook of his neck, "good job, Zayne, such a good boy for me, you did so well, my sweet boy, my love, hah, I love you."

When you finally come down from your high your body is sore and aching, the feeling of his hot cum deep inside making you whine, the sensation so much better than his fingers or toys, so much more warm and full.

Zayne’s arms are wrapped protectively across you, hugging you down atop of him even as his cock remains motionless within you, not an inch of skin untouched as his hands rub careful circles down your spine and thighs. 

You nuzzle closer, whispering more nonsensical praises into Zayne’s hair, raising a shaking arm to comb through it as he still keeps his face tucks into your shoulder, hidden and shaking softly still. 

A shift, and you feel his hot breath on your neck, a sudden drop of wetness against your skin, and you realize with a start that Zayne is crying.

He’s crying. Soft, unrestrained sobs muffle into your shoulder as he tucks you close, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck between breaths. You let him. You curl up as close as you can get onto his lap and then closer still, one hand raking through his hair in gentle reverence as you let him cry.

It is silent, save for the sound of his sobs and his labored breaths.

"I love you, Zayne," you say, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. "You really are perfect, thank you, thank you."

You kiss his forehead, then down his cheek and jaw until he finally relaxes under you. Tracing lazy patterns up and down his chest, you coax him down until he finally raises his eyes to meet yours with a flutter of tear-stained kisses to your palm. 

The first thing you notice is the way his cheeks are flushed, his eyes wavering and hazy. The second is the way his lips are swollen, the marks on his neck and chest blooming darker with each passing minute. The third is how the sweat on his skin is beginning to dry, making his hair stick up in all sorts of directions.

The fourth is the look on his face.

The look on his face is soft, tender, and unsure. Nothing like the infallible surgeon the whole city reveres, or the smart-mouthed mentor you’ve grown to admire and respect. Just Zayne. 

You brush the damp locks away from his eyes, pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead, the tip of his nose, and finally his lips, and he melts, his body falling forward onto you as he curls you into his side, tucking you down onto the bed alongside him.

“Stay with me?” He asks, his voice low, as though afraid to ask. Afraid to know.

Always. 

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

[drowning-in-paragraphs]

I loved not again<333 would you think about making a part 2!?

IT TAKES A MESSAGE

a/n: I hope you like this part too!

jude bellingham x exgf!reader

warnings: okey this one has a (little bit of) angst.

summary: After months of holding strong, resisting the temptation of breaking the promise you two swore you’d keep, one hand gripping your phone, and other holding a glass of tequila, is just what you needed to silence the voice of reason. You told yourself not to press send, but the moment your thumb hovered over the screen, your resolve crumbled. And now, here he is, standing beside you so real that regret is nowhere to be found. You shouldn’t have sent that message, but maybe, just maybe, this is exactly where you were meant to end up.

PART 1: NOT AGAIN

The music in the bar was loud, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of your own thoughts. The dim lights cast everything in a haze, but that didn’t help either. You swirled the drink in your hand—a cheap tequila you didn’t even like—staring into the amber liquid as if it held some kind of answer.

Tonight wasn’t supposed to go this way.

You had a date. A proper one. A guy from your coworker’s circle—smart, funny, attractive enough. He’d suggested dinner at a cozy little place uptown, and you’d agreed, hoping for another fresh start.

But when the time came, you couldn’t do it. You’d stood outside the restaurant for fifteen minutes, staring at the entrance, your heart pounding. The idea of smiling politely, of pretending to care about someone who wasn’t him, had made you chest ache in the worst way.

So, you walked away and felt like shit.

The cab dropped you off at a bar you’d never been to, somewhere far from home, far from familiarity. You told yourself you’d just have one drink. Maybe two. But as the hours passed and the alcohol dulled the edges of your misery, you found yourself slipping.

Your phone was heavy in your hand.

You shouldn’t. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t. For months, you’d kept your promise—no texts, no calls, no accidentally running into each other.

It had been a long time. Months. You’d blocked him everywhere, and he’d done the same. You hadn’t seen him, hadn’t heard his voice. You should’ve been proud.

Instead, you felt hollow.

The tequila burned you throat as you took another sip, your finger hovering over his name in your contacts. You’d unblocked him just minutes ago, telling yourself it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

And then you did the unthinkable.

“I hate you.”

Your thumb hit send before you could stop yourself.

The moment the message left your phone, panic set in. Your stomach twisted, your heart raced, and you cursed yourself under your breath.

What the hell were you thinking?

You stared at the screen, breath catching in your throat. Maybe he wouldn’t reply. Maybe he’d hadn’t blocked you or he had changed his number, or maybe he’d—

Your phone buzzed.

“What did I do now?”

Your breath caught. The sight of his name on your screen sent a jolt through your chest. The words stung with their casualness, as if no time had passed. You stared at the message, your heart pounding, your hands trembling. You could leave it. Ignore him. Pretend it never happened. But that wasn’t who you were.

“Existing. Leaving. Coming back.”

The three dots appeared, disappeared, and then reappeared.

“You drunk?”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. Tipsy wasn’t drunk. You wanted to throw your phone across the bar. Instead, you typed back:

“No.”

Another reply, almost instant.

“Where are you?”

You hesitated, chewing on your lip. The smarter version of yourself—the one who’d spent months trying to move on—screamed not to answer. But the other part of you, the one that had sent the first text, the one drowning in whiskey and regret, won out.

“Blue lights. Why?”

He left you on read and thirty minutes later, he walked into the bar. You didn’t look up immediately. You felt him before you saw him, even in the dim light, he was unmistakable—tall, sharp jaw, the leather jacket fitting perfectly... You hated how your pulse quickened.

He spotted you immediately, his dark eyes locking onto yours as he crossed the room, approaching you slowly, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. His dark curls were now longer than you remembered, he had a beard now, and the faint scruff on his jaw made him look rougher, more tired. Your stomach twisted, and you hated the flicker of relief that coursed through you.

“You look like shit,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to you. It was a lie, of course—a flimsy one at that. The sight of you, even in the light light of this rundown bar, hit him like a sucker punch. Months without you, and now here you were, disheveled but infuriatingly magnetic. His pulse quickened, and he shifted uncomfortably as the denim of his jeans grew uncomfortably tight.

“Wow. Thanks,” you muttered, staring into your glass. You didn’t look up, but the faintest twitch at the corner of your lips betrayed a flicker of amusement—or maybe irritation. It was hard to tell with you, and Jude hated how much he loved that about you.

The bartender gave him a questioning glance, but Jude held up a hand. “Just water,” he said, before turning back to you. “How many have you had?”

“I’m fine, Jude,” you snapped, hating how small his concern made you feel.

“Sure, you are,” he said, his tone softer now. “So, what’s this about?”

You looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. The truth sat heavy in your chest, too raw to voice.

“Don’t do that,” he said, leaning in slightly. “Don’t shut me out after summoning me like a bloody genie.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “I didn’t summon you.”

“No? What would you call unblocking me to send that?” He gestured at your phone, his voice quieter, less biting.

“You had me unblocked too.” you tried to avoid his questioning, but he did not bite.

“What is going on, Y/N?”

The whiskey burned its way down your throat as you struggled to meet Jude’s gaze. His presence was suffocating and grounding all at once, the familiar pull of him as inescapable as gravity. He didn’t say a word as he reached over, his fingers brushing yours as he slid the glass from your hand. His movements were calm but firm, the unspoken message clear. You glared at him, but he didn’t flinch, setting the drink out of your reach with deliberate care.

Then, you took a deep breath, the words clawing at your throat, desperate to be spoken yet terrifying to release. You didn’t look at him as you said it.

“I had a date,” you admitted, the syllables falling like a fragile confession.

The air between you shifted instantly. Jude froze, his body going rigid as the words landed. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, his face schooled into a careful neutrality. But the tell was there—his jaw tightened just a fraction, and his fingers twitched, curling slightly against the counter as if trying to grasp something solid in the room.

“A date,” Jude blinked, his brows knitting together as the words sank in. The faintest flicker of something crossed his face—hurt, maybe anger—but he quickly masked it. “And you left him to come here?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “I didn’t even make it inside. I just… couldn’t do it. It felt wrong.”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter. The muscles in his shoulders tensed under his jacket, and you could tell he was biting back a hundred different responses.

Wrong. The word echoed in his mind, carving into him like glass. He didn’t want to care about what you’d done or who you’d almost been with, but the thought of you sitting across from some stranger, smiling in that way that made the world feel brighter, or laughing at someones stupid jokes, was unbearable.

“What do you want me to say to that?” he asked finally, his voice low and rough.

You shrugged, staring into your hands. “I don’t know. Nothing, maybe. I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I hate that. I hate you for still being in my head.”

Jude exhaled sharply, running a hand through his curls. He wanted to say something cutting, something to push you away before you dug any deeper into the fragile balance he’d spent months trying to maintain. But he couldn’t.

Because the truth was, you’d never left his head either.

“You’re drunk,” he said finally, his tone gentler than before.

“I’m not drunk,” you shot back, your voice sharper now. “I’m fine.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Right. That’s why you’re here, texting me that you hate me instead of… what’s his name? The guy you were supposed to be with tonight?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

His voice was firm, but not harsh. There was something else there, hidden beneath his words—a need to understand, to place blame somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t on himself.

You shook your head, refusing to meet his gaze. “I’m not doing this, Jude.”

A charged silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. His hand brushed yours on the bar, a fleeting touch that sent shivers down your spine. His voice, when it came, was quieter.

“You deserve better than this,” he said, his words softer but no less piercing.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. “Coming from you, that’s rich.”

His lips twitched, almost into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He studied you for another moment, as if debating whether to push further, before letting out a resigned sigh. “Come on,” he said, standing and holding out his hand. “Let’s get you home.”

You stared at his hand for a beat too long before taking it. His grip was warm, steadying, and you hated how it made you feel grounded.

The night air was crisp as you stepped out of the bar, the coolness biting against your flushed skin. Jude walked beside you, his hand hovering near your back but never quite touching. It was a strange kind of intimacy—protective, yet distant.

The cab he hailed arrived quickly. He opened the door for you, his hand brushing yours again as he guided you inside. He slid in next to you, his presence filling the small space.

You leaned back against the seat, your head buzzing not just from the alcohol but from the sheer weight of the evening. The silence between you was deafening, filled with words neither of you dared to say.

The driver glanced at you in the rearview mirror but didn’t comment. Jude gave your address, his voice low and steady, and the car lurched forward.

The streetlights cast fleeting shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. You caught yourself staring and quickly looked away, focusing on the city lights blurring past the window.

“You’re quiet,” he said, breaking the silence.

“I don’t have anything to say,” you replied, your tone sharper than intended.

“Since when?” His voice held a hint of amusement, but it was tempered by something softer, almost tender.

You didn’t answer, crossing your arms over your chest and sinking further into your seat.

When the cab pulled up in front of your building, Jude paid the driver without hesitation. You opened your mouth to protest, but the look he gave you stopped you cold—firm, unyielding.

“Let’s get you inside,” he said, stepping out and waiting for you to follow.

The short walk to your door felt longer than it should have. You fumbled with your keys, your hands unsteady, and he reached out, gently guiding them into the lock. The small action made your chest ache, a reminder of how easily he could slip into the role of protector, of something more.

The door clicked open, and you stepped inside, the familiar scent of your apartment wrapping around you. Jude hesitated in the doorway, his hand resting on the frame as if he wasn’t sure he should follow.

“Are you coming in?” you asked, your voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

He didn’t answer right away, his dark eyes scanning your face. Then, with a sigh, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

The tension in the air was palpable as you set your purse on the counter and turned to face him. He stood near the door, his hands shoved into his pockets, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

You turned to face him, suddenly unsure of what to say. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I know,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “But I’m not leaving you like this.”

The space between you felt smaller. The air felt warmer. And when you turned to face him, his eyes met yours with a mix of frustration and something softer, something that made your chest ache.

“Jude…”

His name slipped from your lips like a plea, and before you could stop yourself, you were closing the distance between you, your hands fisting in the leather of his jacket as you pressed your lips to his.

For a moment, he froze, his body stiff beneath your touch. Then his hands were on your waist, pulling you closer and the kiss deepened, your bodies pressing together, the heat between you building like a tidal wave. But, suddenly, his hands came up, caressing your arms till they gripped your shoulders firmly but gently as he pushed you back.

“No,” he said, his voice rough, breath uneven after the short kiss.

Your chest tightened, your lips missing the warmth of his. “You don’t want me anymore?”

His eyes darkened, his grip on your shoulders tightening slightly. “That’s not... Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“Why not?” you asked, hating how your voice cracked.

“Because you’re upset. You’re tipsy. And you’re not thinking straight,” he said, his tone softer now. “And if we do this, you are not going to like it.”

“I always like it with you.”

His eyes softened for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. A small, suppressed smile tugged at the corner of his lips and a “Me too”. Instead, he let out a breath, his hands still resting on your shoulders, steady and grounding. “Y/N, I’m not going to let you regret this in the morning,” he replied softly, shaking his head slightly.

His words settled over you like a cold weight, and you hated how right he was.

“You should…, you should get some sleep,” he said, stepping toward the door.

“Jude?” you called, your voice barely above a whisper. He froze, his hand gripping the doorknob so tightly his knuckles turned white. His shoulders stiffened, his heart thundering in his chest as he begged silently—prayed—that you wouldn’t say something to make this even harder.

“I hate you,” you said, and though the words spilled from your lips, they were hollow, stripped of the venom they once carried. Your smile followed, soft and heartbreakingly familiar, the kind that struck him like a blade, carving through the walls he so desperately tried to keep up. He felt his resolve shatter. You didn’t mean it. God, you didn’t mean it.

Slowly, he turned to face you, his gaze locking onto yours, raw and aching. He lingered, looking at every detail of your face, so he could sleep tonight. “I know,” he murmured, his voice trembling as his smile returned—a shadow of itself, fragile and fleeting. “I hate you too.”

And then, he left, closing the door behind him, carrying the weight of everything that was unsaid, but known.

[papaya-twinks]

nerves - l.n - p.1

Warnings: Swearing, slight sexism, slight angst

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader

College/Uni AU

A/N - Other parts, floor plan of the apartment and more is on the masterlist here

Lando groaned, finally shoving off the pillow he’d been using to muffle the sound of knuckles rapping on his door. Who the hell woke someone up so early in the morning? So early at… well, 10 a.m. It wasn’t that early, but still!

“Christ, give a man a moment!” Lando muttered, hurriedly running a hand through his hair before opening the door to reveal his landlord, Mario, standing there expectantly, not looking at all pleased at the fact that Lando had taken so long to answer.

“Do put a shirt on, Lando.” Mario rolled his eyes, gingerly taking one of the plain black T-shirts Lando had thrown aside a few days ago and holding it out to him. Lando grumbled under his breath - an impressive string of expletives - as he pulled the shirt on.

“So, can I help?” Lando asked, his tone already bored and laid-back as he leaned against the doorframe, his curls messy from sleep.

“It’s about your rent, Lando.” Mario’s hands were clasped as he looked over his tenant with piercing eyes.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Lando thought, sighing. “I paid my rent, Mario,” he said, his voice stiff as he moved to shut the door, only to be stopped by Mario’s perfectly shined leather shoe blocking it. Jeez, who even wore a suit so early in the morning?

“You were £100 short, Lando,” Mario said, his voice firm as Lando avoided eye contact, idly playing with his hands and picking at his nails - a habit he’d had since childhood.

“C’mon, Mario, I’m a student. I can’t-,” Lando started.

He sighed as Mario cut him off again. “I’m aware,” the Italian man said, clasping his hands together like some ridiculous businessman. “But this is the fourth month in a row, Lando.” Mario continued, his voice exasperated. Lando groaned in response.

“Look,” Mario said, “I don’t want to kick you out any more than you want me to, but it just isn’t fair to the other tenants who pay the full rent on time,” he emphasized the "on time" to remind Lando he was a week late last month.

“Look, dude,” Lando said, his cheeks flushing a light shade of red. “I’m trying, alright? I’m a student, though-,” he began his protest, but Mario tutted, clicking his tongue.

“Not this again.” Mario waved a hand dismissively. “Lando, you need to deliver the money, or split it.”

Split it? Oh, no, no, no. If there was one thing about Lando, it was that he valued his personal space - and what Mario was hinting at was not his definition of personal space. No, by ‘split it,’ Mario meant getting a roommate.

“I know what you’re going to say, Lando,” Mario said, hands clasped, “and yes, I doubt anyone would want to stay with you either.” He glanced at Lando’s messy bed hair and the room full of junk scattered around.

“Hey,” Lando said, holding his hands up defensively. “This is bed hair! I just woke up! It doesn’t usually look like this!”

Mario rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed at Lando’s lack of understanding of his priorities - getting the rent paid.

"Lando, I’ve given you plenty of time to sort this out. I’m tired of chasing you for the money you owe me! You can’t keep avoiding this - if you don’t find a way to pay, I’m renting the place out to someone else.”

Lando groaned, rolling his eyes at the stupidly formal tone in which his landlord spoke, the attitude grating on his nerves. “And if I don’t?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“You’re leaving, then,” Mario said, his eyes locking with Lando’s.

As much as Lando wanted to refuse and slam the door in Mario’s face, he couldn’t. It had taken him damn near a year to find a place to stay, let alone this one, for his university years, and all the other apartments around campus were full of other students.

Lando sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to think of ways to pay for his place. Maybe ask his parents or family? No, they’d already paid enough of his debt so far… he really didn’t have a choice, did he?

“I’ll get the fucking- damn roommate,” Lando muttered, correcting himself quickly as Mario nodded in satisfaction.

“Get this cleaned up,” Mario said. “She’ll be here in fifteen minutes.”

Lando’s eyes widened as he gaped at the shorter man. “Sorry?” he spluttered. “She-?! And what- fifteen minutes?!”

But by the time he’d settled down and stopped having a mini freak-out in his head, Mario had already turned on his heel and was heading down the hallway.

Lando muttered every curse word he knew as he stormed back into his room, trying to ignore the rush of panic now flooding his veins. Fifteen minutes?

His eyes scanned the disaster area of his room - the laundry that had been piling up for weeks, the empty pizza boxes, a rogue sneaker half-hidden under his bed. Great. Fantastic. He had fifteen minutes to somehow turn this dump into something that resembled a human habitat.

This was going to be a disaster.

Lando began shoving the clothes off the bed, his movements jerky and exaggerated as he muttered under his breath. "How the hell does Mario expect me to have this place spotless in-?” he glanced at the clock, his eyes widening as it ticked down to 13 minutes.

The scent of stale coffee and something vaguely like fast food clung to the air, and Lando gagged. He grabbed a sweatshirt off the floor, unceremoniously tossing it into a laundry basket, before tossing it to the side in favor of grabbing a handful of empty cans from the desk.

“Should’ve definitely thrown these out yesterday… or the day before... or the day before that.” He growled in frustration as the can crushed with a satisfying noise, but the task seemed endless, like some cruel game he hadn’t signed up for.

With a deep breath, Lando ran his hands over his face, steeling himself. It was bad. No, it was horrific.

But somehow, he was going to make it work. He’d just have to hope that the woman didn’t take one good look at the room and run for the hills.

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But finally, after what felt like the hardest fifteen minutes of his life, he managed to get the room…somewhat bearable looking. He’d thrown on a random green sweater, some baggy jeans and some sneakers, looking decent.

He threw a few socks into the wash basket, shutting the doors as he sighed, rubbing his face tiredly.

And just in time for Mario’s same, sharp knock against the door, as Lando gave his hair one last look, before opening it.

As soon as he opened the door, his eyes fell onto your figure, tracing over the small crop top and the shorts you were wearing. The first thing he noticed was you were pretty - but he was still pissed about having to stay with a girl.

You’d probably be some high maintenance chick who insisted on making a mess and stinking the house of nail polish or whatever - and he’d not let your looks get you anywhere in this place, if you wanted to stay, you’d do your share of chores.

“Hi,” you said, a smile on your face as Mario wheeled your suitcases past Lando, ignoring how he bristled, his jaw clenched.

“Hey,” he said, not giving a care for how tense and forced his voice sounded as he stepped aside.

You ignored the firm voice of his, stepping inside as he closed the door, your eyes falling to the…somewhat half-made bed.

“So…” you said, attempting to start a conversation as you walked in front of Lando to your new room, connecting to his with an en-suite bathroom, “how lol have you been here?”.

Lando cleared his throat, momentarily distracted by the way the afternoon sun caught the light in your eyes. Damn, should we’re pretty. But no. He wasn’t going to let his mind wander there. This was a roommate situation, not some- whatever else his brain was trying to suggest.

“A bit,” he said dryly, not caring to make any conversation with you. In his mind, he’d planned it out - you’d stay well out of you way and he’d ‘split’ the chores between the pair of you (though in reality he’d make you do all of them).

“That’s cool,” you said, a little weak at carrying the whole ass conversation.

Lando just nodded, not quite able to hide the irritation in his expression. “Yeah, well... make yourself comfortable. Don’t expect me to clean up after you, though,” he added, his tone biting.

“Yeah, I can clean up after myself, don’t worry about me,” you said, your voice still maintaining its sweet demeanour, rivalling his clearly annoyed tone. God, the way you were so…nice really pissed him off.

Lando clenched his fists at his sides, feeling his frustration build. Don’t worry about me. He didn’t want to worry about you. He didn’t want to worry about anyone. This was supposed to be his space. His sanctuary. Not some shared dorm room.

“Look,” he said, his voice sharper now, “I’m not exactly thrilled about this either, but Mario’s got it all figured out. We’ll split rent, we’ll keep it quiet, and-,” he hesitated, thinking about how much of a disaster this was already shaping up to be, “-I won’t cause trouble, if you don’t.”

“I didn’t come here to mess up whatever…sanctuary you have going on, Lando,” you said, still somehow maintaining a calm and sweet tone as you looked over the sofa, littered were some wrappers - he must’ve missed that.

Lando almost snarled at the way you said his name, like you weren’t in the least bit intimidated. It rubbed him the wrong way.

Flushing, he grabbed the wrapper, stuffing it into his pocket. “Fine,” he bit out, taking a step back. “Welcome to my peaceful existence,” he added sarcastically, voice dripping with distaste.

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Once you’d dropped your bag in the room Mario had shown you and started sorting through your things, Lando thought he might finally get a break. He plopped himself onto the couch, grabbed the controller, and immediately dove into a game.

Something about the mind-numbing, pixelated violence helped him forget that his whole world had just been turned upside down by you.

He wasn’t sure why he was still so angry. He wasn’t a guy who hated everyone, but there was something about you that set him on edge. Maybe it was how effortlessly you just walked in and acted like you belonged here - like you didn’t need to ask for permission.

Maybe it was how you didn’t seem phased by anything. Either way, Lando couldn’t shake the feeling that you were going to make his life a whole lot more complicated.

It wasn’t that you were some annoying, high-pitched bimbo or whatever. He just hated the way you were so relaxed and willing to…cooperate! He didn’t like it. It was…weird.

He lost the next round, swearing under his breath as his character was blown to bits. Of course, he was distracted by thoughts of the damn roommate.

What if you were one of those people who hogged the bathroom for hours, or played music all night, or left food out and made the whole place smell like... whatever it was you ate? Probably sushi or whatever high maintenance girls ate. He hated sushi.

As stupid as his frustrations were…he was almost describing himself. He spent ages in the bathroom fixing his hair, he played music all night and he always had wrappers about.

Great, Lando thought. He was already in a bad mood.

As if on cue, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. Lando didn’t even look up. He was too busy trying to beat the next level.

Then, the sound of your voice broke through the focus of the game, sharp and clear.

“Hey, Lando?” your stupidly perfect voice came from the hallway. He groaned inwardly, keeping his eyes glued to the screen. “What?” he grumbled, refusing to shift his gaze.

“Uh, quick question,” you continued, your voice soft but insistent, “Do you have any... bathroom schedule thing, or should I just... wing it?”. Lando froze. His character got shot in the head. He cursed under his breath and paused the game, finally looking at you.

“You want to know about bathroom schedules?” His voice was incredulous, as if you were asking about something ridiculous.

You didn’t seem to care about his tone, standing there with one hand on the doorframe, looking genuinely curious. “Yeah, like, is there a time you prefer to have the bathroom to yourself, or do we just, you know, work it out?”

Lando blinked. He didn’t think you were asking this seriously. “You mean... like, are we going to schedule bathroom time, like some sort of military operation?”

You shrugged. “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s a small place. I don’t want to be in there when you need to use it, and vice versa.”

‘Why does she say vice versa? That’s so weird,’ Lando thought to himself as he turned to staring at the floor once more, his gaze showing his annoyance.

Lando sat up straight, eyes narrowing - he had a bad feeling about this. She probably takes forever in there, he thought. He could already picture it—an hour-long shower, shampoo bottles everywhere, the door locked.

And he’d be left waiting, pacing around, trying to figure out if he could use the bathroom without interrupting your “process.”

“Look,” he said, rubbing his forehead like he already had a headache, “I’m not a bathroom scheduler. I just need to know if I’ve got a window, you know? So I can not get locked out when I need to take a piss.” he waved his hands dismissively, more annoyed by the conversation than he should have been.

You raised an eyebrow, unbothered by his attitude. “Right, but, like, we’re sharing the space. I don’t wanna be stuck in there while you’re waiting to use it. So maybe you could tell me if you usually go in the morning or, I don’t know, at night or something.”

Lando sighed, slumping back against the couch in frustration. “I don’t have a schedule. It’s just when I need it.”

But that wasn’t what annoyed him. What annoyed him was the assumption that you’d need the bathroom for ages, and the fact that now, in his mind, the whole situation felt like a contest over who could take longer in there.

He could already picture it: You’d probably stay in the shower for an hour, do whatever you did with your hair, and leave him standing there, waiting. Meanwhile, he’d just want to brush his teeth and get out.

“I just don’t wanna get stuck behind you if you decide to take a two-hour shower,” Lando muttered under his breath, even though he knew he was being dramatic.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not going to take two hours, Lando. Just don’t make a scene when I’m in there, okay?”

He let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. We’ll just... we’ll figure it out. You’ll be in there all day, and I’ll just wait my turn.”

“Exactly,” you said with a grin, turning to leave. “Glad we’ve got that settled.”

As you walked away, Lando just shook his head, muttering curses under his breath. The idea of having to share the bathroom with someone else was bad enough. But now, you—whoever you were—had turned it into some ridiculous negotiation. And for the first time in a while, Lando seriously regretted not looking for a studio apartment.

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It was already 5 p.m., and after what felt like hours of unpacking and trying to make your new room feel at least a little like home, you were staring blankly at your phone. You’d organised your books, set up your desk, and even made your bed - what to do now?

Now, all you had to do was, well, do something. Anything. It felt like the longest, most boring afternoon ever, and you hadn’t made a single friend yet.

The idea of sitting alone in the silence was unappealing, so you turned to the only other person in the flat - Lando.

You walked down the short hall and walked into the living room, watching as he clicked rapidly on the controller, his attention solely focused on the game in front of him.

“Lando?” you said, leaning against the frame. “You wanna watch a film or something? I’m kind of bored.”

The sound of video game bullets and a string of curses spilled out from inside the room before he finally grumbled, “You’re asking me if I wanna watch a film? What is this, a sleepover?” he scoffed, his voice nearly a snap.

You frowned slightly but pushed on. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I could use some company, and you look like you’re about to lose your mind in that game anyway.”

Lando didn’t even look up from the TV, his fingers moving furiously over the controller. “I’m good, thanks,” he muttered, his voice flat. “Not really in the mood.”

You blinked, your shoulders sinking a little at his rejection. You stood there for a beat, wondering if maybe you’d misread the situation. You’d only just moved in, and maybe he just needed some time to warm up to the idea of having a new roommate.

Still, it stung a little. You tried again, forcing a small smile. “Okay, but I’m not letting you sit here alone all night. You need to take a break from that game.”

Lando shot you a look over his shoulder - his face deadpan, eyes dark with frustration. “I’m fine, alright? Go find something else to do, paint your nails or whatever,” he said, raising a voice to a high pitched tone, mocking a bimbo-like voice.

He went back to the screen, clearly signalling that the conversation was over. “You’re so rude,” you said, crossing your arms and refusing to budge as he groaned.

“Yeah? Maybe I am,” he said, “will that make you leave me alone or d’you need more?”. You scoffed, standing up straight. “Whatever! But I’m not a bimbo,” you said, glaring at Lando.

He chuckled darkly - you looked more cute than feisty. “Sure you ain’t sweetheart,” he said, “you just happen to be a well-pampered, pretty little thing but ain’t no bimbo,”.

Your heart sank. You weren’t sure what it was, but Lando’s blatant disinterest was starting to make you feel... unwanted. You hated the way he made it seem like you were some kind of nuisance just for trying to talk to him.

As you walked down the hallway, your heart was pounding in your chest. That was the last time you’d try to make nice with him. Who the hell did he think he was, treating you like that?

You practically slammed your door behind you, breathing hard as you leaned against it, trying to calm down. You hated how his words had gotten under your skin. You didn’t even know him, but somehow, he’d managed to get to you.

You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve to be treated like some shallow girl who only cared about her nails or whatever other stupid thing he thought about you.

You glanced around your room, suddenly feeling even more alone than before. The reality of being stuck in a flat with someone like him hit you harder than expected. You weren’t looking for a friendship, but a little respect wouldn’t hurt.

Sighing, you sank into your desk, staring at your hands, eyes trailing to your nails. You weren’t really paying attention to what you were doing, rather thinking over your last reaction.

You’d been nothing but nice, and Lando was treating you like a burden. A burden. Maybe that was what you were. Maybe you were a bimbo and you didn’t realise you were one.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Clenching your fists, you dragged yourself from your bed, leaving your phone on your cabinet and making your way to the en-suite bathroom. It was a nice room, with pretty white furniture and a nice, golden-like light. Great for pictures, you thought.

But just as those words entered your mind - you froze. That was such a…bimbo thing to think, you told yourself. You were starting to question yourself… was Lando right?

Whatever.

You wriggled out your outfit, locking both doors connecting to the bathroom as you turned the water on. Sighing, you stepped into shower, your muscles immediately relaxing under the hot water.

You ran both your hands down your hair, slowly massaging your scalp as your teeth sank into your lower lip.

You’d be able to deal with Lando if it meant having hot showers like these every day. Just as your mind slowly fogged up, nothing but the soothing feeling of the water on your body enveloping your naked body-

“Oi bimbo!” Lando called from outside the door as you audibly groaned, turning the water off. “What!?” you exclaimed, clearly annoyed.

“Whatchu doin’ in there? I need my stuff!” Lando said, and god did he sound like a stupid little bratty kid. “Too bad, I’m having a shower,” you said, reaching for the knob to turn the water back on.

“Dude what the hell?!” he groaned, thumping his fist on the door, “It’s not your turn!”.

You blinked, too stunned to fully process what he was saying. "What? You’re seriously mad that I’m in the shower?" you said, almost in disbelief.

"Yeah, I am," he snapped, his voice muffled through the door as he spoke. “It’s not your turn!”

You froze. What the hell was he talking about?

“Turn?” You raised an eyebrow, confusion taking over. “What turn? We didn’t even make a schedule, Lando. It’s just a bathroom,” you said sarcastically through the door, mimicking him.

Lando’s jaw tightened. "Yeah, but I’m the one who needs to use it now. You suggested we get on a schedule, remember? So it’s my turn!" His tone was dripping with frustration, clearly more annoyed at the fact that you’d suggested this schedule idea in the first place.

You couldn’t believe this. Of all things, this was what he was going to complain about?

“I suggested a schedule,” you said, your voice growing more incredulous, “because we’re sharing the space! I didn’t know you’d turn it into some competition about whose turn it is in the shower, Lando!”

“Even if it was a competition, I’d beat you in anything!” Lando scoffed, still twisting and rattling the handle from his side of the room.

Big-headed jerk.

“You said we needed to avoid all this awkwardness,” he huffed, “but now you’re in there, taking your sweet time when you know I need to use it next. You’re being selfish.”

“Selfish?!” you couldn't help but laugh bitterly. “You’re the one who’s making this a problem! I’m just taking a shower!”

Lando was still glaring at the doorframe, his jaw tense as he listened to your argument.

He didn’t get it. None of this had ever been about scheduling bathroom time, or competing over who needed it most. It was about giving each other some space. But Lando, stubborn as ever, didn’t seem to get the bigger picture.

"Whatever, fine," you muttered, your own temper flaring. "I’ll just- I'll be out in a minute." You finished your shower as quickly as you could, the warm water doing little to calm the growing frustration that churned in your gut.

You pulled out your favourite comfy nightdress - a simple, soft fabric in pale pink, perfect for winding down after a long, frustrating day. You walked over to your bed, moving as quietly as you could, trying to ignore the residual tension in the air between you and Lando.

You slipped into the dress, feeling the fabric against your skin. It was soothing, and for a moment, it felt like maybe everything would be okay. Maybe the awkwardness with Lando would settle after a little time.

But you had no idea how long that would take.

You sat on the edge of your bed, staring out the window at the fading daylight. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to try to make things work with your new roommate—it was just that everything felt so much more difficult than it needed to be.

And for now, all you could do was wait for things to calm down.

[galactic-magick]

Rest of My Life: Viktor x Reader

Summary: Reader and Viktor have their wedding and first time together. Takes place right after my last fic Life Changes.

Words: 3.8k

Warnings: SMUT. fem!reader

Author’s Notes: Second half of this fic is smut, it starts and ends at the *** in case anyone only wants to read the first half. Reader is a virgin in this and is implied to be demisexual/somewhere on the ace spectrum, but I don’t think you have to be that necessarily to enjoy the story. I just wanted to write it from that perspective since I’m demisexual myself. I went back and forth a lot deciding if Viktor should be a virgin too, but I was convinced by the “this isn’t my bedroom” line and his freaky moves with Jayce in S2 that he probably has at least some experience. So he’s gonna talk reader through it lmao. Happy reading :)

-

Your roommates are unsurprisingly still awake when you return home, reading your face instantly.

“What happened?” Eli asks. “Are Viktor and that other guy okay?”

Your shocked expression fades into a smile and you crash on the couch with them, giggling uncontrollably.

“Everyone’s fine. They figured it out, and now Viktor is going to be a partner in the company.”

“Wow.” Chanthou says, eyebrows raised.

“Mhmm. And then he asked me to marry him. Tomorrow.”

A beat of silence.

“What?!” Eli exclaims. “He didn’t tell us he was doing it today!”

Chanthou shrugs, “Well, he did ask for our blessing months ago. He didn’t really say when.”

“He asked you guys for your blessing? That’s so sweet.”

“Of course he did. I would’ve beat his ass if he didn’t.” Eli chuckles. “Sorry, did I even say congratulations?”

“No, but it was implied,” you laugh.

-

The next twenty-four hours are a whirlwind. As much as you’ve said you don’t mind keeping things simple, your friends insist on treating you at least a little bit, helping you with your hair, makeup, and nails. You pick out something nice to wear, having a blast while they get you ready. You’re going to miss living with them dearly.

If you’re honest, they’re the main reason you haven’t suggested moving in with Viktor sooner. As much as you love him, your friends have been so near and dear to your life for years now. Leaving them—even just to a different apartment a few blocks away—feels like a stab in the chest. Especially with everything moving so fast. You’re about to be the wife of Piltover’s finest scientist, after all.

Yet, there’s no doubt in your mind that this is the right thing—long overdue truthfully. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted. You know he’ll love you how you deserve, and any fear and uncertainty about the future seems quieter when you’re around him. You love everything about him inside and out, and you can’t believe he’ll be yours.

Your roommates have made you look beautiful, enhancing all your best features and using all your best colors. You grin at your reflection.

“I should probably go find my future husband, hmm?”

-

“I know it’s short notice, but—“

“Of course I will, Viktor!” Jayce hugs him. “I will be the best best man.”

Viktor isn’t used to receiving physical affection from anyone other than you, but he’s not necessarily opposed to it. Jayce is the reason for everything that’s about to happen, everything that Hextech is going to change. Viktor has bonded with him so quickly, it only seemed natural that he would be involved in this big day.

“So um, what is a best man supposed to do?” Jayce asks.

“I’m...not sure.”

“I could write a speech?”

“No,” Viktor shakes his head and smirks. “You’ll talk too long.”

“What else is there to do then? I’ve never been to a wedding before.”

“Hm. Me neither.”

Suddenly Viktor realizes that planning a wedding in the span of a day is not, in fact, easy. He has no idea where he even wants the ceremony, or how to make it official and legal. His whims got the best of him, it seems.

“I could forge some rings?” Jayce suggests.

“Ah, yes. Good idea.” Viktor nods.

Jayce scurries away, and Viktor’s face falls to his hands. Is this too crazy? He knows nothing about weddings, and very little about marriage itself, for that matter. He knows he wants it—that much is clear—but the only example he grew up with was his parents, and they’ve been gone for quite some time.

If only he could get their advice now. They would’ve loved you, he’s sure of it.

He decides the best use of his time at the moment is to get his apartment ready, assuming you’ll want to come home with him tonight. He wants to make everything special for you, wants to make everything perfect.

He stops by some shops on his way back, buying way more than he should safely carry. He then gets to neatening up his space as best he can, covering the bed with fresh blankets and scattering flowers on the floor. He sets up some candles in your favorite scents on the tables and windowsills, nearly lighting them out of habit. He then assesses his work, making adjustments to the set up and gathering anything else he can think of. He’s not the most natural romantic, but he certainly gives his all when it comes to you.

While he’s still at home, he changes into something nicer and smooths out his hair. He doesn’t own a mirror, but it looks fine enough from his vague reflection in the window on his way back out. His only mission now is to find out how to officially marry you.

-

You and your friends run into Jayce as you’re heading towards the Academy, chuckling a bit as he swiftly hides something behind his back.

“Jayce?” you step up to him, raising your brows. “Have you seen my fiance recently?”

“Everything’s under control!” he blurts out.

“You lost him, didn’t you?”

“No! We just...don’t really know how to do a wedding. Last I saw him he said something about asking Heimerdinger to officiate. We’re going to meet back in the lab, I think.”

“Heimerdinger, huh? And what’s that behind you?”

“Nothing.” he dodges your attempts to look around him. “It’s a surprise!”

“Alright, alright. Can we come with you back to the lab?”

He nods, moving his hands quickly in front of him as he turns around to lead you.

“This is the genius inventor Viktor’s partnering with?” Eli jests.

“Viktor says he’s pretty brilliant.” you laugh.

-

Viktor manages to successfully recruit Heimerdinger to officiate, after no less than a twenty-minute reprimand of disappointment that Viktor disobeyed him. As proud as he is of Viktor’s achievements, and how impressed he is that Hextech might actually work, he’s still a bit burned that Viktor went behind his back with it. After he gets his frustrations out of his system, though, he’s quite ecstatic that Viktor is marrying you.

It’s not long before you show up with Jayce and your friends, and Viktor practically vaults himself to you on his cane, eyes scanning you adoringly.

“You’re beautiful.” he smiles, kissing your cheek. “Are you ready?”

“Of course I am.” you find comfort in his gaze, heart thundering in your chest.

Heimerdinger climbs on top of a nearby table, glancing at a pad of notes.

“Now, I haven’t done one of these in nearly a hundred years, so forgive me.” Heimerdinger clears his throat. “Viktor, my boy, do you intend to take Y/N as your wife?”

Viktor takes your hands and squeezes them, “I do.”

“And do you promise to love, honor, respect, and be faithful to her until death?”

“I do.”

Heimerdinger asks the same to you, and you feel Jayce and your friends watching you excitedly as you answer. You can’t believe this is really happening. So much has occurred in so little time, and your lives are about to change even more with the new Hextech discoveries.

You get lost in Viktor’s eyes as Heimerdinger has you both repeat a few other things, then can’t help but laugh when he starts fumbling with some papers for both of you to sign. It’s quite funny, watching such a highly respected councilor struggle with something so seemingly simple as a wedding. You and Viktor sign the marriage license as he says, exchange the beautiful customized rings Jayce made, and Heimerdinger pronounces you officially married.

Viktor doesn’t waste a moment pulling you in by the waist and crashing his lips to yours, the intensity catching you off guard. He’s not one for PDA, but you suppose his own wedding is an exception. You drink him in happily, the mini audience cheering in the background.

The celebration continues for a while afterwards, your friends breaking out some champagne and Jayce insisting on dancing. You sit on Viktor’s lap, twirling his hair absentmindedly as you watch the party surrounding you. It’s simple, just like you wanted.

Viktor’s eyes are locked on your features, studying your face as if he hasn’t already memorized it a million times. He wants you in every way possible, forever and ever until his last breath. His mind, heart, and soul are mated with yours, intertwined so intricately now that you are an inseparable part of his being. Never had he imagined he would experience a love like this.

But there’s still one way he hasn’t yet expressed his love for you, out of respect for your fears and slower attractions. You’ve verbalized your sexual anxieties from having no prior experience, and your need to have a strong comfortability and bond with someone before even considering such acts. Viktor’s never had a problem with waiting, and has made it very clear to you that there is no pressure on his part. He’s been open with you about how he had a couple experiences as a teenager before he moved to Piltover, but would gladly never do it again if that’s what you wanted. He married you for you, not your body.

Still, he aches for your touch every second of every day. He savors every kiss pressed against his lips. He’s reveled in every way you’ve allowed him to caress you, and dreams about all the ways you haven’t yet. He wants to kiss every inch of skin he hasn’t seen. Everyday he wants to bury his face where your pants dig into your soft stomach, where your top is cut dangerously close to your breasts, where your thighs rub together. The dress you’re wearing today makes the arousal impossibly worse, the way it hugs and flows around the curves he so desperately wants etched into his brain forever. He has never desired anyone in the universe more than you, and he’d be willing to wait an eternity if it meant he would one day have you every way he’s been wanting.

You’ve told him you’ll likely be ready someday soon, so is it selfish of him to hope today might be the day?

“Vik?” you say, giggling as you wave a hand in front of his face. “Losing yourself in thought already?”

“I suppose so,” he smirks, giving you a quick kiss.

“Ready to go home?”

His eyebrow raises, looking back and forth between you and then your friends who have started some sort of weird drinking game with Jayce. The celebration isn’t quite winding down yet, but it’s common for the newlyweds to leave early, right?

Viktor gently slides you off his lap, grabbing his cane and standing up.

“I’d love to.”

***

-

He had forgotten about the decorations in his apartment bedroom when you both shuffle through the door, hearing you gasp and clap a hand to your mouth.

“Viktor...this is so beautiful.”

You pick up and drop a few of the flower petals, watching them flutter to the ground. Viktor grabs some matches and starts lighting the candles, and you flop down on the bed, rubbing your limbs against the soft blankets. You inhale the scents, a perfect level of ambiance filling the space.

“Vik?”

“Hmm?” he throws away the used matches, returning to your side.

“Do you want to try it?” you look up at him, nerves starting to take over you.

He kisses your forehead, wrapping a comforting arm around you.

“Only if you’re ready, darling. We don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to.”

“No, no...I’m ready. I want to. I really want to. I’ve felt it for a while now. I just...I’m terrified.”

Your lip quivers slightly, and your eyes roll at yourself. Why are you about to cry on your wedding night? This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life.

Viktor pulls you into him close, rubbing your back, “Talk to me, my love.”

“It’s so stupid...You’ve been so patient with me, you’ve never pushed me to do anything, but I can’t help but feel like I’ve been disappointing you by making you wait so long. And you’ve actually done stuff before, so you know what you’re missing I guess. What if I’m not good at it? What if we try it and it’s awful or you hate my body—or you unintentionally compare me to other people? What if you regret marrying me? Or what if it really hurts-”

“Sweetheart.” Viktor stops you. “Look at me.”

You do as he asks, still trying to hold back tears after your anxious rambling.

“How long have all those horrible thoughts been in your head?”

“Um. A long time…” you look away again, but Viktor takes your chin and turns you back to his gaze.

“Not a single one of those things are true, do you understand?” he holds your face like precious glass. “You are everything to me. Whether we have sex or not.”

“Okay.” you nod, successfully swallowing back a cry. “I...I really do want to.”

“We’ll go slow, alright? And we can stop whenever you want.” he waits for you to nod again, then lies back on the bed, pulling you on top of him. “But right now I just want you to kiss me.”

You smile, happily obliging. You straddle him, leaning down to capture his lips. He squeezes your thighs on either side of him, moaning when you deepen your kisses and run your hands down his chest. It’s so easy for him to lose himself in you, your touches overtaking his senses. He loves when you make out like this, your form pressed on top of him. He had to beg you to not hold back the first time it happened, insisting he likes your weight on him.

Viktor moves his fingers to twiddle with the hem of your dress, wanting so badly to pull it off of you. He’s never seen you fully naked, and he must admit it’s getting harder and harder to be patient when the outline of your figure looks so...majestic.

He guides your grip to his own shirt, helping you pull it off and sliding his fingers into your hair as you kiss down his neck and collarbone. To his surprise, you’ve always shown so much affection to his scrawny frame, never complaining about his sharp limbs when you cuddle or caress each other like this. He’s never understood any of your insecurities about your body, much preferring your soft and fluffy flesh over his own.

Once you’re satisfied with the amount of kisses you’ve pressed all over his torso, you cover his hands at the bottom of your dress with your own.

“You can take it off.” you tell him, taking a deep breath.

He does so, revealing nothing but your bra, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. Never has he ever wanted to see a pair of tits so badly.

It’s not difficult for you to read his mind, and before you can overthink it—you unhook it and throw it to the floor with the rest of your discarded garments.

Viktor doesn’t blush often, but you’ve never seen his cheeks get so red.

“Wow.” is all he can muster.

“You can touch them, if you want.” you chuckle at his reaction.

Permission is all he needed, his hands squeezing both of them, his thumbs brushing your nipples. A loud sigh escapes your lips, and Viktor decides right then and there that he will do anything to hear a glorious sound like that again.

Your body is a wonderfully pleasant array of textures for his hands to explore, from the raised skin of every stretch mark and scar to the dips and creases of your hips and waist. His touches roam across every inch of your exposed skin, cherishing the beauty he swears to never take for granted.

Your bare breasts press against his chest and he whines into your mouth, a pleasant tingling rushing through you at the noise. His lips then travel down your neck and shoulders, whispering “I love yous” between kisses, most coming out as mumbles against your flesh. Your replies follow suit, breathy and stringed with moans.

Somewhere in the process Viktor loses he pants, leaving both of you in nothing but your underwear. You feel his arousal hardening, and your fingers eagerly pull at his waistband.

He stops you, grabbing your wrist.

“Not yet, my love. I want to prepare you properly first.” he kisses your palm. “Let me get on top, okay?”

You nod, adjusting your positions. He places some pillows for your hips and his knees, then runs a couple fingers in one teasing stroke across your clothed entrance.

“Please,” you groan, already missing his touch when his fingers pull away. “Take them off already.”

He chuckles, leaning down to kiss you, “I’m glad you’re excited, darling.”

He obliges your request and takes off your underwear, his fingers quickly returning to your now exposed entrance. He finds your clit, stimulating it with one finger and inserting another slowly.

“Let me know what feels good and what doesn’t, okay?” he says, studying your expressions closely. Even before you say anything, he changes his movements based on your reactions to him.

“It...feels a little weird. But I like it.” you assure him. “Especially when you—“

The stimulation starts to build, and your gasps cut off your own thoughts.

“When you do that.” you finish your sentence, catching your breath as he slows down his fingers.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to help you orgasm your first time, love. But I’ll certainly try.” Viktor continues pulsing a finger in and out of you, rubbing feather-light circles on your clit.

“It’s okay if you don’t.” you hum. “I know it takes some concentration and practice.”

“It’s a learning process—are you ready for a second?”

You nod, and he slowly enters another finger. You’re still super tense from your nerves, but it’s getting easier to relax and let the arousal take over.

“Fuck.” you exhale. “Your fingers feel good.”

A smirks stretches across his lips, and his long digits push farther into you.

“But I want more.” you continue. “I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?” he slips his fingers out, ghostly touches moving up your body. “Oh sweetheart, you’re so perfect.”

You giggle at his distraction, “Yes, Vik, I’m sure. Please.”

He could never say no to such eager eyes and pouting lips, so he slips off his boxers and readjusts himself above you.

“Holy shit, Vik.”

“Second thoughts?”

“No, just...is that really going to fit inside me?” your eyebrows raise and he laughs.

“You can take me, darling. We’ll go very slow, alright?”

You nod, and he lines himself up. He presses the tip in slowly, holding your hands as he goes further. You squeeze them tight, taking deep breaths until he stops halfway in.

“You’re doing so well, my love. How do you feel?”

“Mmm…” you sigh, trying to wrap your senses around the stretching and pressure you’re experiencing. It’s such an odd feeling, but it’s incredibly pleasurable.

“Are you ready for more?”

You nod, and he slowly pushes all the way in. He leans down to kiss you, giving you time to adjust to him. You dig your fingers into his back, closing the distance between your bodies, his cool skin sending shivers down your spine.

“I must admit,” he utters against your lips. “I will likely not last very long.”

Your foreheads press together and you giggle.

“I don’t care, Vik.”

He begins to thrust in and out gently, placing kisses and nibbles along your jaw. The sounds you make drive him crazy, making it extremely difficult for him to have any hope of holding back. The sensations are overwhelming for both of you, a symphony of moans and whines eliciting from your mouths.

You take his face in your hands, staring deep into his gorgeous golden eyes. You capture his lips once again, more passion brewing between you.

“I love you so much.” you say, breathless and full.

“I love you m—fuck, I’m—“ his orgasm washes over him, his movements losing their former smoothness. His cum floods your walls, his dick starting to soften as he pulls out. His nimble fingers return to your cunt, swirling in the juices and stimulating your clit once again.

“Vik, honey, it’s okay if I don’t finish…” your assurances fall on stubborn ears though, his touches quickly building back the pressure.

“Let me try.” he says, determined.

“Vik.” you sit up, legs still wide open around him. “We can try again tomorrow. I promise you’ve satisfied me for the night.”

You intertwine your fingers with his, admiring his flushed face and tousled hair.

“Did I make your first time special enough?” he asks, fiddling with your hands.

“Viktor, it was amazing. I couldn’t have asked for anything better.”

He smiles, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Shall we clean up, then?” he mumbles, pulling back to look at you.

“Perhaps.” you run a hand through his hair. “I did bring the soaps you always compliment the scent of…”

*** -

You use the bathroom and start a bath, filling it with the products you packed and Epsom salt. Viktor’s tub isn’t very big, but you both fit in it when he sits between your thighs. You wipe each other off and wash each other’s hair, occasionally placing kisses on wet skin.

“Can we move in the rest of your things tomorrow?” he asks.

“Probably.” you reply, rinsing the shampoo from his wavy locks. “You sure you’re ready to share your space?”

“Eh...it’s always been far too empty. I need some...flair.” he laughs.

“I can give you that.” you smile, already imagining all the ways you could decorate and bring life to the place.

After drying off and getting ready for bed, Viktor clears off the top blanket then slips under the covers with you, your limbs immediately encircling one another. He massages your back and shoulders, cuddling you close. His arms feel like home, a warmth in your heart spreading throughout your body.

“I love you so much, Viktor.” you say, looking into his eyes. “And not because of what you do for me or how you make me feel…I love you just because you’re you.”

Your fingers trace his jawline, then slither into his hair.

“I’m so lucky.”

His gaze becomes even softer, at a loss for words from the purity of your love. Nothing in any language could properly describe his own sentiments.

“I can’t wait to love you for the rest of my life.” he peppers kisses across your face, living for the way your nose scrunches. “Every.” —another kiss— “Day.”

You giggle, snuggling impossibly closer. He loves feeling your every breath, every twitch, every tiny movement.

He sighs, closing his eyes and silently thanking Janna for whatever winds brought him to you.

[nrdmssgs]

Sleep, my brother

Masterlist

Nikto befriends reader at their darkest hour. Angst, hurt/comfort TW: mentions of depressive episodes (no descriptions), swearing AN: I had this idea for a while now and a friend of mine, to whom I wanted to dedicate this one-shot, made an incredibly beautiful, striking and sad songfic with Nikto. So it was my sign to finally get on with it. I won't tag a person, to whom I owe this, because this is quite personal, I'm not sure, they will be happy to see their name here. I love you, I wish it didnt hurt so bad.

Cold wind reaches the old table and steam over two cups of tea shutters and leans to the side. You don't react and keep tracing cracks on the oilcloth with your finger, not caring about grease and dust.

One should have start worrying, when a big figure covered with a strange concoction of gear appeared at the stair hall next to their flat. Or when that figure froze right in front of their flat and reached out for a doorbell. Nobody in their right mind would let him in.

But you did. At this point, you didn't care about an obviously military animal lurking around you. The last bits of self-preservation instincts died long ago, when you made the plan and rented this flat for the New Year's holidays. A man standing at your threshold with a few guns and knives, sleeping in carbines scattered around his gear, wouldn't change anything. Or maybe he could lend you a bullet in a spirit of festive celebrations.

You chuckled to your own thoughts automatically. You got no more smiles left, no more laughs, but this lifeless shadow of a sarcastic reaction was still there with you.

He said, it will take him only fifteen minutes, asked you to wait in the kitchen, wear your headphones, watch anything on your smartphone. As if you were that naive and didn't understand, what a guy with a sniper rifle can seek on a top floor of a nine-story block of flats.

This was a strange evening: once you started bringing your plan to life - everything went weird. First, your rented flat turned out decorated for the New Year celebration. The landlord must have thought, you were planning to celebrate. There was a tiny Christmas tree in the bedroom, a plastic faded garland and even a "Happy 1995!" poster right from the past. Then there was this guy... You knew, your home is turning into a crazy place, but never thought, killers, the guys from 90-s TV will come out this fast.

Even your childhood memories of endless bandit-series couldn't prepare you to this encounter. What one does, when a killer uses their room as a sniping position? Runs? Calls anyone? Writes a funny twitter thread?

You were out of ideas, but more importantly - you were out of fear or any emotions at all. So you found cups and teabags in a kitchen drawer and made some tea. There wasn't much thinking behind it - your plan was far too important to try to do the right thing with this guy.

Fifteen minutes turned into thirty, then into fourty-something. You sat with your back facing the kitchen door and watched distant windows turning blue each time one scene of the festive concert changed for another. Everybody was watching the bloody concert today. And in an hour or so your hometown will turn to you, light up a thousand suns of TVs, look at you with myriads of copies of the same face with the darkest holes instead of eyes. "This was a tough year..." will it chant deep in your brain. You won't even need to hear the damned voice to know, exactly, what he tells.

But that won't happen anymore, because this will be the last-

"We are out." A hoarse voice right behind you drags you back to reality. In this time, he spent in the next room, you forgot, that the man speaks so strange. One accent mixes with another, the constant 'we, us' as if there was an army behind him.

"Ok." You don't turn back, just drag an ashtray closer to you and pat your pockets absentmindedly.

Your lighter clicks a few times in an absolute silence. He did just tell you, he's heading out of your place, didn't he? After taking the first smoke drag, you turn back and meet his blizzard gray eyes.

"Waiting for someone?" He points at the second mug. You wish he didn't wear that stupid mask, so that you had a chance to read his face and understand whether he's just confused or grows irritated.

"It's for you. Must have run cold already. Forget it."

The man ignores your last words and squeezes between your chair and the kitchen counter. He unfastens the belts holding his mask and moves it to the side, revealing a black balaclava under it. He takes a mug and looks around while you try to contemplate, what is actually happening.

"We didn't do anything there. Shitty intel. The target didn't come."

"You won't..." You don't know how to ask this, and just tap your hip at the same place where he has a handgun carabiner.

"I am many things, but not a butcher." It's the first time, your guest refers to himself as "I", but you mark this fact just with a tired sigh.

"You're... Disappointed?" The man takes a sip from his mug and catches your palm before you take another drag of your cig.

At first his gaze is cold, irritated, disgusted even. He pulls your cigarette from your fingers, brings it closer to his face, inhales your smoke and returns you the stub.

At first his gaze is cold, irritated, disgusted even. He pulls your cigarette from your fingers, brings it closer to his face, inhales your smoke and returns you the stub. And then his eyes soften and grow worried. As if he realizes something.

"Nobody's coming to celebrate with you?"

"I'm fine with that. Nobody is a way better option than..." You motion towards the window, uncertain if he can even understand, what you meant to say.

For a few minutes, silence wraps your kitchen. Only distant echoes of fireworks and the monotonous humming of the elevator engine muffled by the flat walls accompanies you two. Then he speaks again.

"We are staying with you."

He's not even asking. And that was not a part of your plan.

"No need, I am not celebrating really-"

"What are you doing then?" He cuts you off, completely ignoring your attempts to be polite.

In a desperate attempt to get rid of him, you mumble something about being tired and just planning to go to bed, but it's as if he doesn't hear you. In a few gulps, he finishes his tea, takes his guns and knives off his belt and puts it all on the refrigerator.

"So that you don't worry. We won't do anything stupid," he comments, and you don't bother noting, that the guy is so massive - he can snap your neck with his bare hands, so 'anything stupid' can happen without guns even.

Lastly, he takes the rifle off his shoulder and sets it down in the far corner without looking. A plaintive twang of strings rings in the kitchen, and you instinctively turn towards the sound.

A cheap guitar with a crooked neck - he must have hit it with the butt of his gun, hides in the dark corner. You two don't ask each other, don't share a single word. He just takes it, you light another cigarette and wet your throat with a cold tea. He tries to tune it and start playing. Nothing special, random melodies.

Little by little, you realize, his weird mix of accents must have an origin somewhere around here. Even though, he doesn't sing - you recognize the melodies, he plays. These are the melodies from your childhood. You listen and forget about time. For a short moment, the world narrows to this little kitchen, and feels somehow cozy.

Somehow bearable.

But then he starts playing one particular song, that you vaguely remember, and when you recognize it - the sound cuts your found peace like a razor blade. The man must have noticed your darkened face, because he stops abruptly and looks at you.

"Bad memories?"

"No, I liked this one back when it came out. It's just the guy, who sings it - he went mad." You look past your guest's shoulder, outside, at blue lit windows. "They all are going mad lately."

The man looks in the same direction for a few seconds and then turns back to you.

"Talking to furniture? Listening to the voices in their heads?"

"Talking to butchers," you say that in the most plain voice you can muster, but the lump rolling up your throat is still apparent, "Listening to butchers. Becoming butchers."

You realize that this probably sounds pompous and expect your guest to laugh. But he remains serious. And then something unusual happens: for the first time this evening, he switches to another language: your language.

"Obizhayut tebya tut?"*

Yes. A lot. So fucking much, you don't have any strength left. It hurts so bad, you just wish this all to end. Any way possible. Just make it quick.

But that you can't tell anyone. Not even to some strange man, that a decent person should be afraid of. So you just wave your hand uncertainly and mumble.

"Da kto menya tut obidit..."*

Nobody in his place would hear how much pain hides behind this little lie. But this man hears.

He puts the guitar aside, stands up and touches your shoulder after leveling with your chair.

"You need to sleep. Let's go."

"I need to..." He squeezes your shoulder softly and you grow silent. The turbid, dark-red air outside the window gets colored by bright sheaves of sparks and the cannonade of New Year's fireworks reaches you. Its midnight. And despite everything, you're still here.

Maybe because this whole evening is so surreal, maybe because the last few years felt like a drenching nightmare, but it feels so easy to go sleep on a sofa in a rented flat on a New Years night with this strange man guarding you. He sits in the corner, making sure, you have enough room. His hand runs softly over your shoulder, pets your head, fingers draw little circles between your shoulder blades. You almost fall asleep when he speaks again.

"We liked that song."

"Me too. Liked many things until lately."

"You know what?" He looks down at you, and you notice, there is no coldness left in his eyes. His gaze is still intense, but the blizzard is not roaring there anymore. "Fuck that shithead. It's our song now. We own it. You and... me."

You feel sorry once again that you can't see his whole face, so his expression remains unreadable. But his voice sounds dead serious. So you nod in response.

That night you drift to sleep to the stranger humming a melody from your childhood. He was a threat, a guest, a strange encounter. He was many things, but wasn't a butcher. Because he made sure, the next morning came.

"Obizhayut tebya tut?" - Anyone brings you trouble here?

"Da kto menya tut obidit..." *Nobody would dare/be interested in that.

[grapehyasynth]

maus what if i was curious to know what drabble you cook up based on the song 'impossible' by shontelle?? 💜

MY BELOVED MAUS!

oh boy did this get ANGSTY! my original idea was canon-compliant, since the playlist is meant to align with canon, but then this bubbled up. sorry to my boys </3

Wille wakes up to a splitting headache and a missed call from Simon. He’s not sure which one is the stronger force in keeping him immobilized in his bed for another half an hour. 

They haven’t talked since the breakup, even though it was mutual and mostly amicable. It just hurts too much. Not like it doesn’t hurt, not talking to him. Everything hurts. 

He puts off calling Simon back. He pushes back the thick curtains, washes his face, brushes the stale alcohol breath off his teeth and tongue. He debates not returning the call at all. People still accidentally butt-dial, don’t they? 

It’s only when he catches himself nibbling at his thumbnail, a habit he’s (mostly) kicked, that he drops onto the chaise longue, drawing his knees up to his chest so he can tug his sweatshirt over his legs. 

“Hej?” he ventures, when the call connects. “What’s up?” 

An indignant little huff of a laugh shivers in his ear. He’s spent the months since their breakup absorbing Simon’s voice through videos and mp3 files, but hearing it just for him is better, worse, everything. “Wille, I get that the situation is shitty, but this is your only warning. Next time I’m blocking you, on all the platforms. I know that sounds harsh, but I just can’t -- I need to not--” 

“Platforms?” On a sudden, vertiginous, half-remembered hunch, Wille puts the call on speakerphone and flips through to see which other apps are still open on his phone. Instagram - open to his direct messages with Simon. Shit. Apparently, at 2AM last night, Wille had sent could you maybe act a little less thrilled to be done with me? or give me half the grammy jfc. thanks so much puss och kram. “Shit. Simon--” 

“My manager wanted to cancel my appearances today. And you know how much she does not believe in days off.” 

“It wasn’t -- I didn’t mean to--” He’s not going to tell Simon it was a joke. Not even the most generous interpretation of text tone would let that message read as a joke. 

He’d been drunk, thoroughly blasted from a friend’s birthday party. He’d gotten back to the royal residence well past midnight, and in an effort to escape the silence of the dark, massive, lonely hallways, he’d wound up on his stomach in his bed, still wearing a suit, watching a seemingly endless parade of Simon’s live performances to promote his new album. The new album that exudes fuck you, that proclaims boy bye, that flaunts Simon’s singlehood and freedom. And the whole world knows Wille was Simon’s last boyfriend. So not only does he have to live without Simon, he has to see him thriving, and he has to read all the strangers on the internet, especially Simon’s superfans, speculating about why they broke up, about how shitty Wille must have been as a boyfriend to make Simon this desperate to move on, about how he never deserved Simon and Simon was probably never happy with him. Wille knows it’s not true - they’d fucking loved each other, neither of them wanted to break up, but it got too hard, the demands of their respective careers and duties threatening to ruin what they had. But alone in this castle, drunk and morose, he’d started to wonder. Hence, the DM. 

“It wasn’t about you,” he offers Simon eventually, dully. “Not really, not like it seemed. It just... fuck, Simon, I know your songs aren’t all autobiographical but it hurts.” 

Simon’s quiet too long, a tense silence Wille remembers, when Simon is nearly vibrating with emotion but trying to breathe his way through it. “You’re right, they’re not all autobiographical. And these songs were written ages ago, before we were together - I didn’t even write all of them myself - they’re not about you, not the - not the ones people think, anyway. And of course I know that it hurts, Wille, god, I - do you think I want to sing about a shitty ex and perform like I’m having the time of my life when I’m so heartbroken I can barely get out of bed?” 

Wille doesn’t know what to say. If they were in person, this is when he would go to Simon, hold him as he cried. 

Wasn’t the breakup supposed to prevent them both from falling apart? 

Simon sniffles. “I’ll try to make it more clear, in my interviews. I’ve tried to steer them away from you but I’ll do better. Is that what you want, Wille? Would that help?” 

“Yes. No. I don’t - I don’t know what I want, Simon,” he admits brokenly. “I just want you.” 

“Wille--” 

“I just want you.”

[hoffmansgirl]

omg girl what is happening with nicholas right now ?? i’ve heard so much about NDAs and whatnot and i have no idea where to start to unpack this 😭

first off, check out this post from @cranberrydietcoke since we've had a real long convo here about this whole situation.

now, babe...where do i start...

there's this bald guy on tiktok (i won't tell you the username because i have him blocked — he's just so annoying) that started a whole nicholas hate train. apparently, a lot of girls have been reaching out to him saying nicholas was texting them in november/this month (there is no proof whatsoever — just screenshots with no dates that can easily be manipulated or can be from any time tbh).

this one girl, i think julia was her name, has started posting tiktoks related to nicholas — tbh her whole personality is that he has been "allegedly" texting her. she said that nicholas has been talking about victoria, but for "legal reasons" she doesn't want to show screenshots. so basically she just started a whole god damn hate train to back off when she got too much attention — sorry shawty, that's NOT how it works.

the bald tiktok guy has made a million tiktok's about nicholas. to me? he's literally obsessed. he has been talking about him non stop, saying there's been a lot of girls reaching out and that he has a lot of "proof" of nac cheating on victoria, but he doesn't want to talk about his sources. so there's basically no proof — only the screenshots, that, as i mentioned, could so easily be manipulated.

also, when it comes to that bald guy — i heard that he was a nicholas fan a month ago or so, i don't know if that's true tho.

julia has claimed that nicholas wanted to fly her out to usa so that they could be together. which doesn't really make any sense, but anyway. 🤫

also there's been speculations going around that nicholas made victoria sign an NDA so that she can't talk about their relationship or him now or if they break up. victoria and her friends then started replying to comments on twitter saying that none of this is true. her annoyance is so valid because why do random people online get their noses in THEIR relationship?

nicholas is rich, famous and hot so if he didn't want vicky here — she WOULDN'T BE HERE. people need to start using their brains, simple as that. everyone tries to paint him as a bad guy for some weird reason.

nicholas' team needs to walk in because this whole thing isn't making his reputation any better 😭

also a reminder that nicholas' relationship is none of our business even though we are allowed to dislike his gf.

i'd love to hear your opinions because this whole thing is so weird to me 😭 i hope i explained it well enough 4 u

[faynthearted]

OMG I've been trying to find a fic about switched family background au for 84 years but couldn't find it anywhere 💔 i love the idea of poor weak HT and spoiled rich GS lol

i would love if u share with us a snippet of it or share the whole fic 🥲 I'm sure it's really good since it's your work

hope you're doing well

I'm happy to share what I have of this AU, even if it's not much! :)

(also I'm like 98% sure I already posted this snippet on my old blog a long time ago because a certain section of it feels super familiar to me -- so, just in case anyone has been around long enough to recognize it again, I'm posting a longer/extended version of it! enjoy!)

------

The city is damp with old rainwater as Guan Shan parks on the curb. When he steps out the car, the night is peaceful, but deceivingly so. Noise often gets lost in the city, especially here in the developing urban areas. Late-night construction sites and the nearby highway overpass do well to mask any other miscellaneous noises. It’s exactly the kind of place Guan Shan would expect to find who he’s looking for.

Hands trembling, Guan Shan double checks the image on Qiu’s phone before half-jogging to the store sign flickering at the end of the block. No one is on the streets at this time of night, and he begins to doubt himself as he nears the storefront and still sees nothing. Are they already gone? Is he too late?

But just as he’s about to stop to get his bearings, Guan Shan hears the echo of voices. Breathing heavy, he slows his pace as he approaches the source: a rundown tailor’s shop, its door and windows shuttered, its flickering LED sign the same as the one in the background of the text message’s image. They haven’t left.

Guan Shan steadies himself before pushing forward. They can’t possibly be inside the store so they must be behind it, hidden in the alleys, and he’s right. From around the corner, shadows formed by a streetlamp stretch into view. Guan Shan can see two figures though he knows there are likely more.

But he’s more concerned about the noise — or lack thereof. On the drive over, Guan Shan was expecting shouting, arguing, fighting. The image left no room for misunderstanding the situation at hand. But now, as he comes closer, Guan Shan can only hear chatter; casual and collected, completely undisturbed. He clenches his teeth and clears the final few meters.

The building prevents the streetlamp’s light from touching him, so the two nearest men don’t see him at first, their backs turned. But the third one, lounging against the wall with a dying cigarette between his fingers, does. He must be surprised by Guan Shan’s presence given that he doesn’t immediately react. The hesitation gives Guan Shan a few moments to evaluate exactly what he’s walked into: to determine what damage has been done and, more importantly, what portion of that damage can be reversed.

But it’s wishful thinking. Upon spotting the person on the ground crumpled into himself and the scattered drops of blood that look like oil in the darkness, Guan Shan gets a horrible, nauseous swelling in his stomach that is only deterred by the third man finally coming to his senses.

“Red?” he slurs. “What are you doing he—”

“What the fuck is going on?” Guan Shan demands. All eyes turn to him and, somehow, it makes him feel grounded, secure to the earth. He grits, furious, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The two men nearest to him trade a look. Then one of them drops their smoke, crushing it underfoot as they start, “Look, bud, we—”

“That’s a student, you dipshit!” Guan Shan snaps, pointing to the figure on the ground who, for reasons Guan Shan wants to ignore for as long as humanely fucking possible, cannot look away from Guan Shan now that he’s here. “He’s still in his uniform for fuck’s sake! How the fuck do you justify assaulting a student?"

Recognizing the escalation of the situation, the third man speaks up. “Your father is aware— This kid has had it coming for a long time now, and the little shit knows it—”

Guan Shan storms forward, over the blood and the broken glass, getting in his face. He can smell alcohol heavy like cologne on him. “Look at me. Look at me. Does it look like I actually give a shit what your excuse is?” he growls.

The man doesn’t respond, scowling against Guan Shan’s trembling anger. There’s a moment of silence during which they don’t break eye contact, and then one of the other men behind them shifts in his stance, exhaling.

“You ought to remember who the fuck you’re talking to, Red," he says, low. "I don’t give a shit who your daddy is. Watch your fuckin’ mouth and show some respect.”

Guan Shan likes to think that the man realizes his mistake just as quickly as Guan Shan does. Suddenly, it’s silent. Suddenly, all of the quivering anger traveling through his body like a live wire is gone, replaced with something much colder but much, much sharper, like a blade freshly honed and wielded. The man in front of him stays still as Guan Shan turns to face the other, deliberate and calculative.

“Yeah?” he says. There’s a pause. His target looks away, jaw stiff as he lifts his cigarette to his lips to take a pull. It’s only then that Guan Shan sees the dark purple bruise staining the side of his face. It’s fresh; swollen. Painful.

Guan Shan glances at the student and finds him still staring at him.

Idiot, Guan Shan thinks, looking away. Don’t you know not to fight back when you’re bound to lose?

“Get the fuck out of here,” Guan Shan tells the rest of them. “Now. And don’t worry — I’ll be sure to tell Qiu just how much I fucking respect you."

It takes a moment, but then the three men look at each other and come to a decision. They leave without another word, the only sound being the scuff of their shoes on the pavement and, later, car doors slamming and engines revving in the distance. Guan Shan stares into the dark until they can’t be heard anymore, overridden by the construction sites and the overpass.

Then, it’s just the two of them.

Whatever bravado Guan Shan held only moments ago has been lost. Now, there’s a rapid thudding in his chest and throat that is borderline painful. He doesn’t know what to do when the student — no, He Tian, because they can’t quite pretend they haven’t seen each other before, can they? — pulls himself into a sitting position against the wall, smearing blood from his nose on the back of his hand and rubbing the edge of his purple, swollen jaw with stained fingers and a repressed wince.

Guan Shan doesn’t look at him and that seems to be perfectly fine with He Tian. They stay in silence for a while, only broken by the occasional sniff from He Tian in an attempt to clear the blood. Eventually, Guan Shan just closes his eyes. His head and heart are racing so fast he can’t understand any of his thoughts clearly. All he can understand is the panic, the dread, the complete and utter exhaustion of coming to terms with what lies ahead.

He was so close to graduation. So painstakingly fucking close.

“Hey.”

Guan Shan opens his eyes. He Tian gives him a two-fingered salute from the ground.

“What?” Guan Shan blurts despite himself, incredulous.

He Tian’s head tilts. His voice is dry and croaked. “What do you mean, ‘what’?”

“I mean,” Guan Shan hisses, stepping forward, “what the fuck happened? What are you doing here?”

He Tian shrugs — then winces as it brings an obvious pain with it. Recovering, he says, “I could ask you the same.”

Guan Shan’s mouth snaps shut and he swallows dryly. Eventually he says, “Are you asking?”

“Should I be?”

Guan Shan’s gaze trails over his visible injuries: a potentially broken nose, perhaps a fractured jaw, a definite black eye. His school jacket is torn at the sleeve and there are small patches of blood soaking through his white t-shirt. God knows what damage he can’t see. “No,” he answers.

He Tian nods and crystal-like shards of glass fall from his hair and into his lap. It could be beautiful. “Then let's leave it at that. Give me a hand?”

He reaches out his hand presumably as far as he can without tempting pain, but Guan Shan doesn’t take it. The absurdity of it all seems to finally be catching up with him. He wonders if He Tian feels the same — as if piecing together a puzzle with no reference picture on the box. But even if he does, that doesn’t make Guan Shan feel better. Four school transfers and two different cities since junior high have built callouses on his ability to empathize. He’s long learned that people will sooner cover their own asses before looking out for someone else — especially him.

And of course, this time it has to be He Tian. He Tian. Top of the class, teachers’ pet, social fucking butterfly with a tempting grin and a sadistic streak often mistaken for boys being boys on the basketball courts after school, but Guan Shan knows better. He’s seen it before. He’s just never had a reason — or the interest — to poke the bear. But then again, he never thought he’d find the bear bloody and broken at his feet like this.

Is this reason enough, now?

“Did you fight back?”

The words spill out before he can stop them. He Tian considers him for a long moment before retracting his hand. He looks at the dark coloration of his knuckles that Guan Shan is staring at.

“Yeah,” he answers eventually. “I wasn’t going down without a fight.”

“Idiot,” Guan Shan breathes, throat tight. “You could’ve gotten off with a warning if you’d just — complied.”

He Tian laughs, but it’s broken and rattled and sounds like it hurts. “Thanks for the insight, but no, I really wouldn’t have.”

It sounds like acceptance; like a confession. It paralyzes Guan Shan. Looking down at He Tian’s bruised state is like watching venom take hold of prey’s body. Guan Shan just can’t be sure if it’s his prey or someone else’s.

He doesn’t know what to say so he chooses to say nothing. Instead he sinks to a knee, worrying his lip as he takes a closer look at He Tian’s injuries. Most are open wounds; they’re not life-threatening but are prone to infection if not treated soon. He’ll need some ice on that cheek and swollen wrist, and based on the awkward angle that he’s seated in, Guan Shan suspects bruised or fractured ribs. Remembering he forgot his wallet in his rush out of house, Guan Shan curses under his breath and considers the cash in the armrest of his mom’s car that he can use at the 24-hour convenience store a few blocks down to get gauze and disinfectant and—

“You don’t need to take care of me.”

Guan Shan’s anger returns, prickly. “I can’t just fucking leave you here like this, either.”

A huff. “That’s cute, but you—” He Tian winces. Breathes in, shakily. “You actually can.”

“I know you.”

“Do you?”

He Tian smiles sickly sweet and Guan Shan sees blood in his teeth. The nearest hospital, it should only be a few minutes drive—

“What the hell are you doing?” Guan Shan says as, suddenly, He Tian begins to pull himself to his feet. Every movement makes him shudder but he pushes through it, relying heavily on the wall. “What’re you doing? Stop, you idiot!”

“I’m leaving,” says He Tian, voice tight with pain and something else. “Thanks for coming to my rescue. Red, right?”

“I’m being fucking serious,” Guan Shan tells him sharply, hands hovering close but not knowing where or if he’s allowed to touch. “Stop moving. You’re gonna make it worse, and then what, genius?”

He Tian does stop then, but only momentarily. He fixes Guan Shan with a look that’s nothing short of a warning. Even hunched, he’s still an inch or two taller and Guan Shan gets the notion that He Tian still has some fight left in him. He has a sense of dignity but only as much as a wounded animal backed into a corner, teeth bared and pupils blown wide.

“I’m surprised,” He Tian breathes, “that you’re being so damn adamant right now. You hardly speak to anyone at school.”

‘How would you know?’ Guan Shan wants to shoot back at him, but sometimes a wounded animal can be more dangerous than a healthy one. This situation is a fight Guan Shan doesn’t think he should pick. Still:

“And your fucking fangirls will flip their shit if you show up on Monday looking like that,” Guan Shan snaps. “For a prospective valedictorian, you sure have a thick fucking skull.”

He Tian can’t seem to help laughing at that, the crusted blood at the corners of his mouth cracking. Even beaten, he acts like he’s done the beating. A forgotten, first-year rumor about a dispute involving him and She Li crosses Guan Shan’s mind, but he’d never had enough interest to verify it. It was much easier to take the information at face value and reduce them to just that: entertainment, however fleeting.

Eventually, though, He Tian’s laughter fades out. Guan Shan is too distracted by a fresh drop of blood falling off the edge of his nose to notice He Tian taking a step forward to leave — as if they’re done here. But Guan Shan quickly comes back to himself, sidestepping against the brick wall to block his path of escape.

He Tian’s gaze slides over to him slowly, a small fire lit in his eyes. His profile bleeds into the night’s darkness like it belongs there.

“You’re fucking serious right now?” he asks lowly.

“I’m fucking serious. Sit down. Now.”

He Tian shakes his head and scoffs, disbelieving. But against all odds, he turns and sinks back down the wall, hair mussing against the brickwork as he grunts with the effort. Something deflates inside Guan Shan and he follows him back to the ground, kneeling.

He Tian takes a moment to collect himself, a thin sheen of sweat on his skin while he rests the crown of his head against the wall, eyes closed. While he waits, Guan Shan says, “You need a hospital, but is there anyone you should, like, call? Where’s your phone?”

“They took it. Smashed it, actually, and then threw it onto the tracks. So.”

Guan Shan scowls. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

He Tian’s eyes open. “What?”

“I said I’ll buy you a new one. And are you talking about the train tracks? Like, the metro?”

He Tian blinks once, twice, then nods. “Yeah, the metro. The station around the corner.”

Guan Shan considers the many things he could say right now. “But why did they—”

“Thought we agreed we wouldn’t be asking questions, Red.”

There’s a danger there but Guan Shan can’t help himself, snapping, “Don’t call me that.”

This seems to intrigue He Tian. “I suppose I can’t ask why?” he ventures, snarky.

“No,” Guan Shan bites back, “you can’t.”

He Tian watches as Guan Shan slips out his own phone, pulling up Qiu’s business number since his personal phone is currently in Guan Shan’s possession. The line only rings twice before it’s answered.

“Qiu? Yeah, I need— Fuck, I know it’s late, okay? But I need you to come pick me up. Yes, right now. I don’t really have an address so I’ll send you my location; I’m like ten minutes from the house. And bring first aid, whatever you have. It’s—”

Guan Shan looks at He Tian. He’s quietly watching, wearing a ghost of a smile that he doesn’t bother to hide. Guan Shan looks away, suddenly finding all of this to be very comical because whatever they’ve gotten themselves into, neither of them know how to handle it. That much is crystal fucking clear.

Guan Shan exhales. “It’s urgent.”

[iobartach]

New vocabulary emerged as he rebuilt himself, a parlance that included terms like Evolved and Walker and Mercer, always him. It was daunting enough for any single person to think about, but even that seemed to be the target of threat. What... was he meant to do? Of the cards in his hand, Miguel chose retreat, not necessarily with feet, but rather in thought, receding to a shelter that had once offered him refuge... only to now be filled with noise.

It prompts a need to complain, to spout curses at a God that he spurned a long time ago. But to do so would serve no purpose, accomplishing only the wasting of breathe that's put to better use asking questions of the woman beside him.

"Unlike us, right?" A collective 'we' that he's already aware is inaccurate, but it serves to distinguish them from their mindless peers. There appeared to be a hierarchy in play, with his position in the Infected pecking order yet to be determined. At this, he sighs heavily, shaking out an arm by his side, full range of movement already restored after facing the wrath of her pincers.

"Sounds like he's the type that's willing to send his minions to the slaughter if it guarantees gaining an advantage." Such a rotten tactic disgusts Miguel, who had already settled on the decision to attack and kill all Evolved that Mercer decided to send after them.

But, although vengeance was sought, feet shuffle in a direction that leads away from the monsters lurking around them, desperate for shelter. And the time needed to adjust to his new state of being.

"I'm with you there. I can carry us out of here, if you can tell me where to go?" Via the casting of weblines that can clear entire city blocks in seconds, what abilities he possessed beforehand seemed almost trivial to that enabled by Blacklight. "It's... the least that I can do. Considering all the trouble that I've caused."

Elizabeth shifts, once pincers are free of his shoulders, she proceeds to remove herself from above him. giving him space to breathe and take in what she'd been saying, though she kept her eyes on their surroundings. really, she wasn't expecting Mercer to appear on his own, but his Evolved? she figured he'd send them when things went south with something he wanted. and having a new Evolved pawn to use was certainly enough.

she'd seen some of them, could tell they were Evolved because of her own connection to the Hive Mind, hearing their passive thoughts, and the fact the stench of Blacklight clung to them like fresh gasoline.

when he takes her hand, she easily hauls him to his feet, though her other hand come sup to brace against his hand should he need something to lean on. which was the right course of action as the man needed the help, being so off kilter after their fight. she doesn't blame him, really. being influenced by the Hive Mind is a disorienting experience, or at least that's what she assumes.

while her connection to Mercer's hive mind is different from her own, it never left her dazed or confused. it was always more of a low droning at the base of her proverbial skull, something she could always tap into but tune out should she need to. she imagined for someone that wasn't at her or Mercer's level would be overwhelmed by the sheer amount of noise the Hivemind would funnel into one's mind.

thankfully the spider before her, though a bit worse for wear, seemed to have his mind still in one piece. she held onto his arm until he walked away from her, his discomfort rather plain to see as he took this all in, his gruff answer enough for her at the moment.

she looks in the direction given, shaking her head, " Don't worry about them. They're just Walkers, they don't do much damage, even if they did attack. " she explains, taking her time to walk up near him, " Mercer would much rather send his Evolved after us, I'd imagine he'd do so when he's got something to gain. " she says, before tilting her head in the opposite direction of the shambling monstrosities,

" We should go before they find us. I can't handle another fight right now. "

[jewishbarbies]

my mom has been very vocal about how much she doesn't like that i'm a horror fan for several years, and now she laughs when i mention anything about the Barbie movie because she "can't believe i like Barbie" since it's so different, like, if she only knew what i post about on the internet. oh boy.

[svtskneecaps]

it's still genuinely funny to me that the only eggs to use "she" pronouns decided their pronouns themselves lmfao

[maddy-ferguson]

talking to new people again is making me realize that (this is gonna sound dramatic) i haven't lived in five years but what i have done is watch a lot of movies and read a bunch of books and believe it or not that actually makes me an interesting conversationalist in some ways (?)

[heartshattering]

I wish I could finish the writing I have due for work but like :')

I did so well yesterday during the daytime and then at night that's when the anxiety had to get me again? I had a semi good day today and then I got distracted 'cause my mom needed my help but even before that I'd been feeling off again so I can't blame it all on her...

[wedontdeservethestars]

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[genderfluid-druid]

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[fortunatefool]

Not to date myself but sometimes in the middle of a crisis u get to hear Pursuit of Happiness (Nightmare) by Kid Cudi featuring MGMT and Ratatat, Steve Aoki Remix and feel joy for the first time in a week and a half