#sway bar link

[hometowne-auto-repair-and-tire]

Some car sounds indicate that a part is loose.

Clunking noises could be heard all around a Honda CR-V when it was traveling over normal and bumpy roads. 

Through his inspection, the technician found that the front right sway bar link is noisy and moving a lot.

Worn strut mounts and bushes can also cause clunking sounds.

[cowpokeredeemed]

Applying thermal hammer because BFH wasn’t working

Oh, it’s motivated

[technicallyhappyarcade]

Swaybacks: Effective Solutions for Improved Posture

Swaybacks, also known as lordosis, is a medical condition characterized by an exaggerated inward curvature of the lower back, leading to a distinctive swayback appearance. The condition can result from various factors, such as poor posture, muscle imbalances, obesity, or certain medical conditions. Swaybacks may cause discomfort, reduced flexibility, and increased stress on the spine. Management typically involves physical therapy, exercises to strengthen core muscles, and lifestyle modifications. Early diagnosis and intervention are crucial to prevent further complications. Seeking medical advice and adopting corrective measures can improve posture, alleviate symptoms, and enhance overall spinal health.

[jdm-partsnz]

New Products-#jdm-parts-nz

TOYOTA 86 SUBARU BRZ ZN6 ZC6 Genuine Front Sway Bar Link Rod x2 (USED) Left & Right ( 2 x Rod ) CAR MODEL: TOYOTA 86, ZN6, SUBARU BRZ ZC6 Condition: Used Fresh import item from JAPAN. This item was tested in Japan before taking off. Note: Please check all photos & they must match the model ( ID  / Other ID ) for fitting / Install [block id="jdm-parts-nz"] 3-month (90 days) or 5000km part-only warranty. Please read the Terms & Conditions before purchasing. https://www.jdm-parts.co.nz/product/toyota-86-subaru-brz-zn6-zc6-genuine-front-sway-bar-link-rod-left-right/?feed_id=434635&_unique_id=68738c06a8f05 We sell Classic Wheel, Smart Key,Headlight, Taillight , Wing Mirror , Indicator, Starter Motor,alternator,Other Here https://www.jdm-parts.co.nz/shop/

[steves-auto-repair-va]

Are you hearing a clunking sound? The noise may be coming from your suspension.

A loose link pin (also known as a sway bar end link) was causing this symptom on a Nissan Altima. We recommended replacing the suspension stabilizer and sway bar bushing.

Other possible sources of clunking noises include tie rod ends and idler arms.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

words for when your characters ______

Agree

accede, acceptance, accord, acknowledgment, acquiescence, align, avowal, bear, cohere, compromise, consent, contract, draft, enlist, give in/give up, go along/go along with, grant, negotiate, unanimous, yield

Deny

abjure, abuse, affront, attack, backstab, bad-mouth, belie, blacken, blemish, confront, curse, darn, defamation, defile, demur, denigrate, detract, dig, disclaim, discountenance, disgrace, disown, disparagement, downplay, explode, flout, fulminate, gainsay, gird, invective, jeer, lament, lecture, malign, minimize, mouth, needle, oppose, protest, put down, put-down, rebuff, refute, remonstrate, renunciation, run down, satirize, scold, show up, sit-in, slander, smear, snap, snub, squeal, sully, swearing, taunt, tirade, turn, underestimate, vituperation, write off, yammer

Explain

account for, admit, apprise, cite, clarify, come clean, concede, confirm, corroborate, defense, demonstrate, dilate, elucidate, enlighten, evidence, expand, explicate, gloss, illustrate, itemize, let on, palliate, plea, prove, recite, simplify, speak out/speak up, spell out, translator, warrant

Fabricate

aspersion, belie, disprove, profane

Inform

acknowledge, address, advertise, allow, allusion, apprise, bare, betrayal, blab, breathe, briefing, broadcast, chronicle, clue, come out with, confession, convey, debunk, define, detail, dictate, divulge, expose, feature, furnish, give, gossip, hint, intimate, issue, lecture, newscaster, orate, out of the closet, pass, post, proclaim, promulgate, publication, publish, release, reveal, show up, speak, spill, squeal, talk, tip, uncover, unveil, weatherperson, whisper

Instruct

bar, educate, prescribe

Persuade

advance, argument, bend, budge, carry, coerce, convince, discourage, draw, drum up, elicit, entice, forward, goad, hammer away/hammer into, induce, influence, invite, lobby, motivate, negotiation, pitch, prevail upon/prevail on, prompt, reason, spur, sway, urge, win/win over

Promise

assurance, avow, commitment, ensure, go back/go back on, oath, portend, vouch, warrant, word

Suggest

advice, advocate, ask, come up with, connote, drum into, exhort, fish for, get at, guide, imply, insinuate, moralize, move, nomination, pontificate, preach, propose, recommend, urge

Praise

accent, acclamation, accredit, adulation, apotheosis, applause, benediction, bless, champion, citation, commend, compliment, congratulations, credit, dedicate, deify, elevate, endorse, eulogize, exalt, extol, flatter, flattery, glorify, homage, laud, lionize, obsequy, plaudits, puff, salute, thanks, tribute, worship

Warn

admonish, alert, caution, caveat, defy, enjoin, exhortation, foreboding, foretell, page, remind, warning

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary. Writing Resources PDFs

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary

[timmydraker]

On Tim’s nineteenth birthday he had a party with his friends and had chosen to celebrate it at a karaoke bar.

Kon, Cassie and Bart are there in civilian clothes and identities and so are Tim’s old school friends as well as come of his college’s kids, as well as Tam.

Everyone is having fun and while they have alcohol I drinks available, everyone is being mindful to not send it to hard due to Tim only just agreeing to drink before he’s legal.

Naturally, a few of them get competitive and Ives ends up becoming a judge for who wins in certain face offs.

It’s all fun and games until Kon points out that Tim had been spending most of the time taking photos of other people, though admittedly a fair amount are selfies, and insist on everyone watching Tim perform and filming it.

Tim, who’s used to having lots of eyes on him quickly goes from bashful to scheming and everyone gets the performance of their lives.

Tim wakes up with a mild hangover, (hes a good boy who made sure to drink water and eat a lot), and around a dozen missed calls from various family members. He feels out at first before he sees his latest text is from Stephanie saying ‘Handsome and rich and you can sing? Urg why did we break up again?’ She hadn’t been able to make it due to a break out but promised to make it up to him and she always did.

Attached is a link to a TikTok from an account he knows for a fact is one of his friends.

It’s him, standing on the stage with his big pink feather shall, black dress shirt open with glitter visible on his collar bones and a large jacket that defiantly isn’t his likely hanging over his arms. In the video Tim is swaying around happily, cheekily even, while singing ‘I Am A Good Girl’ by Christina Aguilera from Burlesque and sauntering around as if he himself is playing her role.

Tim’s face isn’t all that flushed and part of him wishes that wasn’t the case if only because it shows he was sober enough to be fully aware of what he was doing, which is unfortunately true.

Tim is confident in his public appearance and knows how to handle any backlash, it’s the text from his family that are going to make him crawl into a hole and die.

Dick: Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, why are you at a club?

Dick: there better not have been alcohol

Dick: also, unimportant and totally not the most important thing, WHY DIDNT YOU INVITE ME 😭

Damian: You look like a fool, Drake. Alfred has been muttering about Father being a bad influence and is threatening my to kick him out.

Damian: I cannot be sure, but I belive I heard Alfred say ‘your playboy ways better not be swaying that boy to be a nuance like you, young man’.

Damian: Fix this.

Stephanie: ‘why you in the club with people wildin’

Stephanie: get it

Stephanie: like the Meghan the Stallion song?

Jason: why the fuck are you at a club

Jason: don’t think I didn’t see that vodka raspberry in your hand

Jason: answer me you little shit

Jason: I swear to go if you were in crime ally I will loose it

Duke: dude Bruce has such a big worry frown I think I heard a muscle snap

Duke: you’re a really good singer though

Duke: good song choice for a rich brat lol

Duke: that was meaner than I meant for it be sorry!

Duke: still true tho

Cass: drink lots of water and I’ll bring you bat burger in the afternoon xx

Bruce: I’m not angry, you haven’t done anything wrong, but did you have to sing a song about being a rich girl when people complain about us being out of touch enough as it is?

Bruce: I’m not mad though.

Bruce: have you drunk water?

Bruce: also did I see Conner Kent there?

Bruce; why was he there.

Bruce: does he understand the dangers of drinking as a Kryptonian?

Bruce: again, I’m not mad at you, just concerned.

Bruce: I’m mean in a little mad but not because Alfred is yelling at me.

Bruce: you know the Brucie Wayne persona was a farce, I have no doubt about that, but that doesn’t mean you need one.

Bruce: not that you can’t have a good time!

Bruce: please answer Dick is yelling at me now too

Damian: Grayson is now yelling at Father.

Damian: He has called him a whore but I believe that had nothing to do with your provocative dancing. I think he just wants to call father a whore.

Jason: I found the bar.

Bart: heyheyheyheyheyhey! Barry said to warn you that Bruce is making everyone do a course on teaching your kids to be alcohol safe and that even the ones who aren’t parents have to do it too lollolololololol

Jason: I was going to get do something but the woman owning it kept talking about how nice you all were so I feel bad

Dick: I mean you didn’t have to invite me I know it’d be weird to have a 27 year old there but that’s not that old!

Alfred: I shall be around shortly with adequate food. Be ready.

Tim was in for it that was for sure, especially when he saw ‘Tim Drake’ and ‘Thristtrap’ trending.

[rememberwren]

Skin Deep

Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand your horizons, you get your first tattoo from an enigmatic artist deemed “Ghost”. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.

Sequel here.

-

“I bit the bullet!” you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friend’s ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.

“You bit what?” she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep. 

“The bullet,” you laugh. “I called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!” 

She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. She’d been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped you—encouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to ‘make more mistakes’, to live life more fully. Now she’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head and it’s the one doing the talking. 

“What guy I recommended?” she asks. 

“Kevin!”

“Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?” 

You frown. “You said you went to Kevin.” 

“It wasn’t a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! He’s a creep; there’s a reason why I never went back.” 

You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. It’s not just the tattoo. It’s the icing on a shitcake of a day. 

A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life. 

“You conveniently left that out. Ugh. I’ll cancel it. What am I even fucking doing—thank you—” you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. “—none of this is like me.” 

Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. “You were the one who said you’d always wanted a tattoo. You’re an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions you’re old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and he’s highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?” 

“Alright,” you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesn’t work out with this next tattoo artist, then you won’t be getting one at all. You’ll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all. 

-

What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it. 

The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to people’s disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isn’t until you’ve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand rings—and it’s him. 

“Hello?” 

“I’m free Wednesdays for consultations,” says a baritone voice from the other end of the line. 

Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. “I work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?” 

He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him. 

“Name a time. I’ll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,” he says. 

Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isn’t trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that you’ve already made an impression so foul that it’s incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted? 

“Alright,” you answer cautiously. “How’s five?” 

“Five. Don’t be late.” 

He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.

-

You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itself—a tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagram—is locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesn’t help. How are you supposed to get in? 

All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy. 

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost. 

Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting. 

Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize. 

“I have a consultation,” you blurt out. “At…five?”

He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. He’s so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.

“Sit,” he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sip—of tea, judging by the smell. “Name?”

You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek. 

“The water is for you,” he says. 

“Oh!” You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. “Thank you.”

“This is your first tattoo.” 

“What gave me away?” you ask with a weak laugh. 

He doesn’t laugh. “Everything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.” 

“What? No, of course not. I want this, I’m just, I’m an anxious personality. I promise.” You hesitate and then add: “I probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.” 

His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as you’re comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.

 He asks what you want and God, that’s a harder question. 

You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silence—pausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair. 

He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing. 

He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and you’re just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book. 

“I think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and we’ll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?” 

“I mean, it hurts?” you offer. 

He stares. “Two sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.” 

You think that maybe he’ll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you can’t help but watch him. 

He’s handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. It’s almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again. 

“Here.” 

You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didn’t make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean. 

His thoughtfulness touches you. 

“I love it. I want it,” you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you. 

“This is just a first sketch,” he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. “I’ll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?” 

“Yes,” you say, nearly buzzing. “I really want to book.”

He’s expensive—but judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, he’s got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldn’t bore him to death. 

“Thanks again for meeting with me,” you say as he sees you out. “I’ll be waiting for your text.” 

“You’ll get it.” He glances past you out the window. It’s dark. “Did you walk?” 

“No, my car is just there.”

“I’ll wait.” 

And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears. 

-

You didn’t tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend. 

GHOST? Cute? I’ve never even seen his face lol. He’s always wearing one of his masks. 

You chew over this information. Yes he’d been wearing a mask, but he’d lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something?  

Masks are cute, you say. 

Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe he’ll ink you for free. 

You’re terrible. 

You’re…thinking about it. 

-

Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. It’s from GHOST. 

The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness. 

I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think that’s the one. 

Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate.  

And fuck, you didn’t even think of that. 

-

“You’re being ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another. 

“You are,” your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. “Your tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.” 

The look you give her is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after, surely. She doesn’t even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. You’ve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed. 

“Be glad you’re not going to creepy Kevin anymore,” your friend says.

“Very glad of it.” 

You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a word—it didn’t embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions. 

“You should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. He’s been doing this for years. I’m sure he’s seen it all,” she says—the first good idea she’s had all night, miles ahead of ‘Just let Ghost see your cute tits’. 

That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you aren’t overstepping some weird artist-client boundary. 

I’m a little nervous.

You can cancel, is all he says. I’ll refund your money.

It’s not that. 

What is it? 

Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true. 

But all he said back was: how can I help?  

I don’t know, you admit. Then; sorry. I’m probably bothering you with this while you’re working. 

I’m not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you aren’t going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. I’ll let my piercer know I’m with a client and not to walk in. I’ll keep you covered every moment I can. Better? 

Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better. 

-

You bring the pasties anyway. 

-

The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase ‘knees knocking together’, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghost’s hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass. 

When it does, he’s like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in place—typical for him, if your friend’s words are to be trusted—but his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasn’t been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs. 

You’re horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friend’s words echo in your mind—fuck the tattoo artist, maybe he’ll ink you for free. 

“Hi,” you squeak. 

Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.

“I’m still nervous,” you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesn’t. 

“That’s normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if it’s still what you want.”

It’s exactly what you want, and more. 

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.” 

He huffs a little, like you shouldn’t have said such a thing. 

The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once he’s gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years. 

You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. There’s just something about a person who knows exactly what they’re doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.

“Ready?” he asks at length. 

You nod, hoping your nerves don’t show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt you’re wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. He’s not watching a strip tease, he’s looking at a canvas. 

Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you. 

“Am I hairy?” you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way. 

“Yes,” he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. “Everyone is. Everywhere. It’s normal.”

“I’m just teasing you.” 

“Didn’t think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,” he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. “You’re nervous, I mean.” 

“Would you take the mask off?” you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face. 

“No,” he says. He adds: “Sorry. It’s more sanitary f’you if I keep it on.” 

You get the feeling that he really is sorry—and that’s well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax. 

After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. It’s sexy. You’ve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than you’d ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadn’t expected. You feel so…badass. 

“Good?” He asks. 

“Very good,” you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.

But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt. 

“Thank you,” you say softly. 

He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. “I’ll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.” 

“I’m not backing out.” 

He clicks his tongue as if to say, It’s your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line. 

It burns more than you expected it to. There’s a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a cat’s tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isn’t overwhelming. In fact…a strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe it’s the rush of endorphins. 

“Good?” He asks. 

“Good,” you squeak. 

You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.

“Let me know when you need to break.” 

You don’t know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs. 

“Alright. Break,” he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. “Take ten.”

He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it. 

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, offering him an out.

“No,” he says. “I make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.”

It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up. 

“Good for more?”

And so it repeats. 

At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. It’s too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through. 

His thumb gently strokes your sternum. 

“It’s rough. You can take it,” he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Good girl.”

Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast. 

“You can do it. Just a little longer for me, and we’ll break.”

“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again. 

He hushes you, surprisingly tender. 

“This is the worst of it.” This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear.  

“Break. Ten minutes,” he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain. 

You call out: “Hey, wait—I’d rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.” 

“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.

You duck your head, feeling silly. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He vanishes again. 

He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoic—what bits of it you can see from behind the mask—as he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again. 

This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breasts—a fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail you’d give your life to follow). 

“I think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,” he mutters at length. 

“Eager to be done?” you wonder. 

He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said. 

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply. 

So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently. 

“Go take a look. I’m going to cover it up.” 

It’s beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.

“I love it,” you choke out. “Thank you.”

“Can I take a picture of it?” he asks. “For Instagram.” 

“Sure!” It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are covered—the very far edges—but you can’t deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way. 

After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: “Let me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Don’t do anything stupid to it. Understand?” 

“I understand.”

“And if you have any questions—text me.” 

-

You get home to find that Ghost’s personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental ‘likes’). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable. 

-

Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you don’t text him like he asked you to. You call. 

Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much? 

The internet doesn’t help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.   

With shaking hands, you don’t even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring. 

He’s going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone else—except he doesn’t. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering. 

“Yes?” Ghost says into the phone, as if that’s a decent hello. 

“There’s something wrong with my tattoo!” you cry. 

“Wait—get out of my goddamn way.” There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. “Say it again. Now I can fucking hear you.”

“There’s. Something. Wrong,” you say through your teeth. “With my tattoo!”

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s falling off, for one!”

He snorts. “That’s normal. That's why you called?” 

“It’s all swollen and hot. And it hurts.” 

Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. “Hurts how bad?”

“Worse than getting it.” 

“Fuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop in…twenty?” 

“Twenty minutes from now?” 

“From when else?” He hangs up. Man doesn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye. 

-

The night is cool. You don’t bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop. 

Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow. 

He’s dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your tits—or resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes. 

“Well. Sit. Show me.”

You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. “What, just flash you?”

“Nothing I’ve never seen before.” 

Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands. 

“I was smoking,” he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation. 

“You’re worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?”

“Fuck my lungs,” he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. “Can I?”

You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. “Any fever?” he asks. 

“Not that I’ve noticed.” 

“You feel warm, but I’ve felt warmer. I don’t think it’s infected. Have you tried icing it?”

“No,” you admit. 

“Ice will help. Just use something clean, for fuck’s sake.” As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. “When you called, I thought it was for me.”

“It was for you,” you say, brow furrowing. “Who else?”

He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. “Forget it.” 

“Forget what?” 

“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”

You groan, tossing up your hands. “You’re impossible.” 

He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttons—you end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one. 

“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry it was for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “And I wasn’t doing much.”

“You were with friends,” you insist.

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?” 

“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.” 

“Nosey.” 

“I could buy you a drink sometime,” you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out?  “Make up for the ones I lost you tonight.” 

“Maybe.”

God, it’s like he’s not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt. 

“Would you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to be…positive?”

He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You don’t cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off. 

“Maybe you should look closer.” 

His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”

Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”

“Can’t get much closer than I am.” 

“You could—if you wanted to.” 

“If I—“ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: “Closer.”

“Mhm.”

The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching. 

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want this—and whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already you’re aching—have been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the street—but he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat. 

“Pretty little tits,” he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair. 

“Be still,” he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. “Let me play with you.” 

“Please,” you gasp. “Play with me—even if that’s all you want—just don’t stop, please.” 

His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I—“ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. He’s so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattoo—and then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness. 

You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex. 

“Driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple. 

You gape at his admission. Had you been? He’d been so closed off and cool…though now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind. 

He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until you’re no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. “You the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?” 

“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing. 

He buries his face in your neck. “Good. I won’t last when I’ve got my cock in you. I’d like you to cum at least once before then.”

“Oh god,” you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips. 

“What else do you need?” he asks. 

“My—touch me—“ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly. 

Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. 

“Fucking perfect.” You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. “Look at me. Look at me.” 

You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure. 

He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth. 

When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. It’s probably a good thing too. You aren’t sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.

Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh. 

Fingers enter your vision—your own—reaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. He’s so bloody tall, too…but he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso. 

“Does it hurt?” You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola. 

“No,” he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. “You can play with it.”

You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite. 

“You’re so—“ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: “—hot.” 

He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You can’t help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. “You broken, or can you take more?” 

“I want more.”

“Want my cock?” 

You nod, feeling like a bobble head. 

“I want to hear you say it.” 

“I want your cock.”

His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artist’s hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps. 

He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter. 

“No gods here,” he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art. 

“Can’t believe you let me ink you,” he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. “Practically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. They’ll know who touched you.” 

“Good,” you breathe. 

His sigh is shaky. You’re learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means he’s pleased with you. You’ve said something right. 

He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to you—for inspection, you realize, though you’ve had so few one night stands (try zero) that you’ve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length. 

Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily. 

“Relax…there you go. Let me in,” he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretch—he’s thick everywhere goddamn it—but it’s a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure. 

“Ghost,” you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.

“I think you can take it,” he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. “But what do you think?” 

“Your cock—want it—please—“

“Alright,” he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. “No need to beg.” 

He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until you’re clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin. 

His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when you’re pinned beneath it. 

“Stay still,” he mutters into the juncture of your neck. “Stay still or I’ll cum and this is all over.”

“Can’t,” you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. “Have to move, ‘m so full—“

“Fucking hell,” he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. “Roll onto your side.” 

He gives you instruction but isn’t shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit. 

You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat. 

“Want you to cum again,” he says, stilling your movements so that you can’t fuck your self back against him. “Give me one more. Then it’s my turn.”

“Ghost—I can’t—“ you’ve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms. 

“If you can’t, then don’t,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit. 

You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you aren’t the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex. 

“Oh fuck,” you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again. 

He hums behind you, a smug sound. 

“Not sure I want you to cum now,” he says. “Hold it. I’m thinking it over.” 

“Ghost!”

He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead. 

He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you. 

The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs. 

He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you. 

Sooner than you’d like—but he’d warned you, hadn’t he?—his thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. And again: “Fuck, fuck. You broken?” 

“Yes.” 

He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he can’t see. 

-

“Sorry about this,” he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. You’re still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself. 

“Regretting it already?” 

“Yes,” he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: “Should have at least taken you to dinner first.” 

“Dinner?”

“You owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.” He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasn’t relaxed, he says: “I don’t regret the sex. Do you?”

You shake your head. 

He scoffs a little. 

“I mean it,” you insist. You touch your tattoo. “I wanted it…the day you did—this.” 

He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” you admitted sheepishly. 

“I jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,” he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. “I was interested.” 

You laugh; you can’t help it. “Dinner, then? Or drinks?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Get dressed.”

[bakubrattt]

Every Inch of You is Mine

-Zayne x Reader

Zayne doesn’t drink. Ever. But when another man dares to offer you a glass of wine at a friend’s wedding, something in him snaps. What begins as a flicker of jealousy ignites into a night of drunken devotion; worshipful, possessive, and fevered. With every thrust a confession, every kiss a promise, every filthy praise whispered into your skin a desperate declaration of dominance and ownership, he makes one truth devastatingly clear: Every. Inch. Of you. Is his.

word count: 26k

genre/warnings: 18+ explicit content--no minors!--fluff, smut, roleplay, oral sex, worship, squirting, pet names, drunk Zayne, soft dom Zayne, possessive Zayne, Zayne talking dirty

🩵My Zayne Masterlist🩵AO3 Link🩵Ko-Fi🩵

The ballroom shimmered with dim, amber light, golden reflections from the chandeliers glinting off the curves of wine glasses and polished silverware. Soft jazz hummed from a live quartet in the corner, mellowing into the air beneath the low murmur of a hundred conversations. Laughter spilled near the open bar, where bottles glittered behind crystal decanters and neatly arranged flutes. It was night outside, but the world inside was glitz and warmth and velvet shadows.

You swayed slightly in your heels, your navy-colored dress hugging your curves as you lifted your wine glass and stepped into Zayne’s space with a tipsy, teasing grin. There was a playful flush to your cheeks, your lashes heavy with mascara as you fluttered them up at him—like you knew the effect you had.

“One little sip,” you coaxed sweetly, swirling the ruby liquid in your glass. Your voice was low and lazy, drunk on more than just wine, “please? At least for the sake of being on vacation together…And at your friend’s wedding, no less?”

Zayne glanced down at the glass as if it were offering him nothing but trouble in a crystal stem. His green eyes—sharp, restrained, and knowing—lingered on yours, unamused by your persuasion but deeply patient nonetheless. The noise around him blurred; there were eyes everywhere, familiar faces in suits and gowns—people from the medical world who knew his name, his reputation. And here you were, his gorgeous, flushed girlfriend, asking him to bend.

He sighed, ever the composed one, always so careful. Not because he judged, but because he weighed every choice like it was surgery. The wine wasn’t temptation to him—it never was. There was no allure in intoxication, no romanticized rebellion. He didn’t need it. He had control. He liked control.

“Is that supposed to convince me?” Zayne asked quietly, his voice warm but skeptical, a dry little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leaned in. His hand lifted to gently pat down a stray hair at your temple, fingers careful not to disturb your make up.

“Yes!” You insisted with a breathless laugh, as if the answer were obvious. You batted your lashes again, unabashedly leaning toward him, your perfume sweet and dizzying, like a bouquet of jasmines in bloom, “it is, actually.”

Zayne watched as you tipped your wine glass back again, the crimson liquid sliding past your lips in a way that made something tighten low in his stomach. His gaze flicked over the elegant tilt of your throat as you swallowed, then down to the flushed pink creeping over your cheeks, blooming like warmth beneath the surface. You were glowing—soft around the edges, eyes slightly glazed, lined in smokey shadow and mischief. Your gaze caught his, glittering with the kind of playful defiance that always seemed to undo him.

“I don’t think it’s working,” he said flatly, though there was a flicker of amused fondness in his eyes.

His fingers reached for the fine gold chain at your neck—the one he had given you last Christmas, delicate and understated, chosen because it reminded him of you. He adjusted it with care, his knuckles brushing over the hollow of your collarbone, then lingered there for just a second longer than necessary, tracing a lazy path over the delicate skin where your pulse fluttered.

“You’re quite warm now…” He murmured as if stating a diagnosis, his thumb ghosting the dip of your shoulder, “are you drunk already? Isn’t it a bit too early in the night for that?” He looked back up at you, expression unreadable, voice low, “you don’t need to get me drunk too to have your way with me, you know.”

You let out a peal of laughter, the sound light and wicked as you slapped your hand gently to his chest—more a flirtatious pat than anything else. He felt it through the pressed fabric of his matching navy suit, right over his heart.

“I wasn’t even trying to have my way with you!” You teased, feigning innocence.

Your fingers traced downward, finding the edge of his silk tie. It was deep blue, perfectly knotted—of course—and smooth beneath your fingertip as you dragged it slowly, deliberately, feeling the tension hum between your bodies.

“Besides…” You whispered as you stepped into his space, rising onto your toes in those tall heels. You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear as your breath warmed his skin, “I know you don’t need any convincing, or alcohol at all, to get in bed with me.”

Zayne gave a low, amused chuckle as he leaned in again, his voice brushing hot over your ear in a velvet murmur, “neither do you. In fact,” he paused, letting the words drip like honey into your bloodstream, “I’d wager that if I whispered I wanted to steal you away to our room right now, you’d beat me there barefoot.”

You gasped in mock offense, scandalized as you leaned back, eyes wide, “are you calling me needy?”

“Not at all, love,” he smiled, head tilting slightly as his fingers tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, drifting down the elegant slope of your neck, so light it was more a sensation than contact. It sent a tremble chasing down your spine that you couldn’t hide—not from him. He saw the flutter of your lashes, the telltale dilation of your pupils, and his lips curled slowly as he pulled back just enough to drink in your expression, “I’m calling you my insatiably irresistible, drunk little minx.”

You let out a giggle, swatting at his chest with playful defiance as he booped your cheek with one smug fingertip, “I’m not even drunk! I’m just…Enthusiastic. Whatever. I’m gonna go dance.”

“Without me?” Zayne’s hand slipped gently around your forearm, stilling your spinning momentum before you could make your grand escape. He kept his grip feather-light but firm, guiding you subtly toward the flow of people beginning to gather at the impromptu dance floor where soft amber light spilled in golden pools across the floor. Just before you could disappear into the crowd, he pulled you back slightly, his body warm and close behind you as he ducked down, lips barely grazing your ear, “if I see a single man approach you, I won’t hesitate to make a scene and embarrass you with my allegedly stiff dance moves.”

You laughed aloud at that, turning in his arms to face him, your palm pressing fondly over the center of his chest, “what, like some kind of territorial mating ritual so everyone knows I’m yours? Would you at least come dance with me when it’s a slow song? You’re better than I am…”

Zayne sighed through the curl of a smile, his large hands sliding with practiced familiarity down the satin slope of your waist until they came to rest on your hips, “if my memory serves me correctly, at the last wedding we attended, you said I danced like a robot that needed his joints oiled.”

“I was kidding!” You whined, full of dramatic apology as your arms tightened slightly around his shoulders, “please, babe? Just for the slow songs. You’re really good at the waltz.”

He let you sway him—just a little—his gaze heavy with affection. He relented, brushing a thumb over your hipbone through the fabric of your dress, “okay…I’ll waltz with you. On one condition.”

You tilted your head like a curious kitten, “hmm?”

“Try not to step on my toes this time,” he teased, squeezing your waist gently in retaliation for the memory.

“No promises,” You rolled your eyes, grinning as you leaned in to meet the kiss he dipped to place on your lips. It was sweet. Light. A promise of more. It left your heart drumming softly beneath your ribs as you parted with a sparkle still in your eyes.

As you turned to make your way through the crowd, heels clicking quickly across the smooth ballroom floor, the lights and flashes of color blurred in vibrant streaks at the edges of your vision. The air was warm with bodies and music, filled with the sharp scent of wine and cologne, laughter mingling with classical strings and low percussion pulsing from the speakers. The room spun gently—not in dizziness, but in that fuzzy, mellow way wine draped itself across your senses. You were light on your feet, smiling to yourself as you slipped between groups of glittering guests, half-drunk, half-dreaming.

Your hand instinctively lifted the wine glass you’d forgotten you were still holding, a soft ah! Of realization escaping you. A last sip slipped past your lips, dry and velvety, just enough to warm your chest. Before reaching the dance floor, you turned on a whim and detoured toward the bar, weaving toward its polished surface to leave the empty glass behind and free your hands—one hand for the music, and one, soon, for Zayne.

You squeezed through the thick swell of bodies, shoulders brushing yours, the murmurs and laughter of strangers ringing just above the bass of the music. Every step felt like you were navigating through a warm, fragrant fog of perfume, cologne, and expensive hairspray. You bumped into people here and there—some too distracted to notice, others too drunk to care—and figured, by the loose, swaying gait of half the room, that everyone was just as intoxicated as you were. Maybe more.

As you reached the bar and leaned over the polished edge to set your empty wine glass down, a particularly rough nudge from behind jarred you forward a step. Your palm caught the bar for balance as your brows pulled together, spinning around to see who’d jostled you. A man—tall and unsteady on his feet—caught himself by the bar’s corner just in time. In front of him, a woman in glittery heels stumbled, laughing and apologizing profusely as he helped steady her by the elbow, waving it off with a chuckle. You shook your head. Figures. Everyone was a fucking mess.

But then the man turned—and your breath caught.

“…Y/n?”

“…David?”

“Is that you??” You both said in unison, your voices lifting over the music in shared disbelief.

David. An old friend from high school. Your mind flashed to his younger self: lanky frame, the soft rounding of teenage boyhood, the acne scars he always tried to hide. But the man before you was almost unrecognizable. His jaw was more angular now, framed by a subtle stubble that made his features seem sharper. His skin had cleared, his shoulders had broadened, and he carried himself with a confidence that hadn’t existed back then.

You both laughed as he swooped in and wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug. The scent of his cologne was unfamiliar—clean and woodsy. He patted your backside in the casual, overfamiliar way old friends sometimes forget they shouldn’t. Your breath hitched. Right—your dress. It was backless. The sudden touch against your exposed skin startled you more than anything, and you jolted slightly, instinctively stepping back out of the embrace. But it wasn’t malicious. Not from him. Just careless.

“Oh man, I haven’t seen you in forever!” He grinned, his voice warm and full of nostalgia.

“I know!” You grinned back, smoothing your hair, “how have you been? Where have you been?”

You both slipped into an easy rhythm, the kind that only old familiarity could provide—no awkward small talk, just a slow unspooling of updates stitched with laughter. The two of you leaned slightly over the bar as you caught up in the muted golden glow of the ballroom lights, voices occasionally rising over the thrum of bass and laughter. Apparently, David had become a college professor over the years—at a school overseas with a big name, no less. You weren’t surprised. He’d always been sharp. Driven. The kind of kid who sat front row and took notes in a perfectly organized color-coded system.

You smiled, genuinely happy for him, “of course you did.”

And when you told him what you did now—that you’d become a Hunter—his brows shot up in impressed amusement. But again, no surprise. He looked at you like the puzzle had always been there; he just hadn’t realized the final piece would fit so…Perfectly.

“Let me get you a drink,” he offered with a smile that was both casual and eager.

“Oh, it’s okay,” you waved him off politely, lifting your hand with the grace of someone trying to avoid adding fuel to their fuzzy head, “I just finished a whole glass of wine, but thanks.”

“Aw, c’mon!” He exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exaggerated protest, his voice teasing, light, “don’t tell me you’re a lightweight! One glass of wine is nothing.”

But you had three.

He leaned in just a bit, mischief in his grin, “look, it’s on me. If you can’t finish it, I’ll finish it for you. Deal?”

It sounded tempting. Especially with how warm and light the air felt around you, the soft sway of music, the glimmer of chandelier light dusting the tops of everyone’s heads like powdered gold.

“For old time’s sake,” he added, holding up a hand in mock surrender, “I’m just happy to bump into an old friend.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. It was easy, familiar, harmless. And besides, what was one more?

“…Okay, fine,” you relented with a smile, lifting a playful finger at him, “but just one. And make it quick!”

He flagged down the bartender with an easy flick of his hand, the overhead lights catching on his watch as he leaned slightly over the counter. You both exchanged playful protests over who would pay for yours, but he was quicker, sliding his card across the glossy bar top before you could even reach for yours. You clicked your tongue in defeat, shaking your head with a grin as he gave you a smug little shrug that hadn’t changed since high school.

While waiting, you both chatted more—his cadence still animated, his stories laced with that same self-assuredness you remembered from years ago. Eventually, the bartender returned with two neat glasses of wine, the ruby liquid glowing warmly under the ballroom lights as it swirled.

David lifted his glass and smiled, “to friendship?”

“To friendship,” you echoed, the clink of glass against glass clear and delicate between your fingers.

You brought the drink to your lips, hesitating. Your lips barely brushed the rim before you pulled away, grimacing at the dryness that tried to creep down your throat.

“I’m gonna sip at it,” you smiled sheepishly, swirling the wine in its glass, watching the garnet ripples catch the reflections of chandeliers above, “don’t wanna get too fucked up, you know?”

“And that’s why nobody’s driving,” he said, shrugging, “don’t be shy, I won’t make fun of you if you say something stupid.”

“I’m not that drunk,” you declared with emphasis, though your laugh betrayed you, soft and tipsy as it spilled from your lips.

The warm buzz of alcohol dulled the edges of the music, the chatter, and even your own thoughts. You leaned slightly against the bar without realizing it, one hand loosely curled around the half-full glass of wine you’d forgotten to keep sipping. The ballroom pulsed with life around you—distant laughter, clinking glasses, shoes scuffing against marble floors as couples spun lazily to the rhythm of whatever was playing now. The haze of your intoxication softened the room like gauze over a lens, and the vague recollection that you’d been on your way to dance barely flickered in your mind before fading again.

Catching up with David felt like a pocket of stillness in the blur. He hadn’t changed as much as you’d thought—not really. He still talked with that familiar cadence, still gestured with the same flicks of his fingers, still laughed a half-second before the punchline like he was always trying to charm the ending out of every sentence. For a moment, it felt like you were seventeen again, bumping into him between class periods, waving at him and his girlfriend as they held hands by the lockers.

Apparently, that chapter had ended not long after high school. You let him vent a little—more than a little, actually. His words started to stretch and meander, his tone growing heavier, tinged with an introspective bitterness that he seemed almost too eager to pour out. He talked about the break-up, about how it didn’t work out, about how he hadn’t really dated seriously since. You nodded, murmuring the occasional “that sucks” or “I’m sorry to hear that,” but your focus drifted.

You glanced vaguely around the crowded room, squinting toward where you thought your table had been. But it was too far, too busy, too disorienting in the swirl of bodies and dim lights. Zayne was probably deep in conversation with his colleagues. Doctors tended to talk like they were trying to solve the world’s problems all in one night, and you figured he hadn’t noticed your absence yet.

David kept talking. And talking. You smiled gently, sympathetically, even as unease crept up the back of your neck. It was starting to feel…Odd. The way he lingered on the subject of romance, the way his voice dropped into something almost confessional. It wasn’t inappropriate. Just…Off. Like there was something he was inching toward but hadn’t quite said. You waited for a lull, a breath, anything that would give you room to pivot the conversation.

“You know,” he said suddenly, eyes lingering a bit too long, “I’m really happy I ran into you. You were always a really cool friend growing up.”

Relief washed over you like a quick breeze, sweeping away the brief tension when he called you that.

“You too,” you grinned, giving him a light punch on the shoulder, playful and familiar.

“I was thinking…” David began, voice casual, almost too casual as he swirled the wine in his glass, “we should hang out sometime, yeah? There’s a ton I gotta catch you up on still. Not tonight, though, it’s way too loud in here.”

You gave a polite nod, the kind that didn’t mean yes, but didn’t risk seeming rude either. It was the kind of nod you gave acquaintances, people who belonged to an old world that no longer had any claim on you. He didn’t know your life now. Didn’t know Zayne. And frankly, you didn’t want to hang out with a man who wasn’t your boyfriend. Especially not a straight man you hadn’t spoken to in years. It wasn’t that David had said or done anything explicitly wrong. But there was a reason your stomach twisted. A reason your skin itched with discomfort that no amount of polite smiling could shake. You’d never fully trusted straight men. Not really. Not their timing. Not their friendliness. Not their sudden reappearances cloaked in nostalgia.

“Maybe we can have a coffee or something sometime,” he offered with a shrug, like it was casual. Harmless, “see if there’s anything there.”

For a moment, your wine-hazed mind blinked blank. Your thoughts paused on the wording, dull at first, then sharpening: anything there.

“Hm?” You tilted your head, unsure you’d heard right, or maybe just hoping you hadn’t.

“Get to know each other again,” he clarified, and there it was—that subtle lean-in, just a degree too familiar, too close for comfort, “get to know each other a little better. I’m interested in you. I always thought you were pretty, but I had a girlfriend back then…Now I can actually admit it.”

Eek. Everything came to a screeching halt. The air between you and David, once filled with casual nostalgia, now felt heavy—like a door had slammed shut behind you and locked from the outside. Your body stiffened instinctively, guard shooting straight up as your heart gave a dry thump of discomfort. Yikes. So much for a friendly catch-up. You blinked, mind scrambling to replay the conversation from the beginning—was this what he meant the whole time?

You’d genuinely thought this was just two old friends running into each other at a wedding, swapping memories and light laughter over drinks. But now, the laughter felt tainted. Retroactively dishonest. There was a quiet, creeping disappointment curling up in your chest—because you’d really believed it was genuine. You kind of wished he would’ve said something upfront, rather than wait until you’d accepted a drink. Now it just felt…Sleazy. Like being baited. Trapped. Like he’d dressed up the whole interaction in the safe costume of “friendship,” only to tear it off at the end.

“O-oh,” you stuttered, trying to keep your voice steady despite the chill crawling over your skin, “I have a boyfriend. Sorry…”

You watched his brow twitch ever so slightly—just enough to register. He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. There was something clipped about it, restrained. Something like irritation behind the curve of his smile as he gestured at your nearly empty drink.

“My bad,” he said, his tone suddenly lighter, too light, “I assumed you were single when you accepted a drink from me.”

Your stomach turned. There it was. That quiet snap in the air that confirmed what you were afraid of: this had never been about friendship.

“…I thought this was just a friendly catch-up like you said,” you replied, voice lower now, the amusement drained from your tone as your expression shifted, more guarded, more real. Your gaze met his directly, and you didn’t blink, “right?”

Before David could even open his mouth to respond, you felt it—a shift in the air, a warm pressure at your side, followed by the grounding sound of a familiar voice that pulled you like a tether snapping back to safety.

“Love,” Zayne’s voice was velvety and firm, as he slid into the moment like it belonged to him—because it did. Without hesitation, he reached past you and plucked the half-full glass of wine from your hand, his fingers brushing yours as he added, almost lazily, “I said I didn’t want any.”

You blinked, stunned. The atmosphere around you seemed to freeze. Time slowed, bent around the gravity of what Zayne did next. He lifted the glass to his lips—fluid, composed, with the kind of casual command that felt utterly unreal. Your jaw went slack. Pigs were flying. Somewhere, the Earth tilted off its axis. Zayne Li, your rule-bound, teetotaler, rational-to-a-fault boyfriend—drank. And not just sipped. Downed it. In a single gulp. Like he’d done it a million times before.

But then you saw it—just a flicker, a betraying twitch at the corner of his lips, the barest wince he almost masked but didn’t quite. That was the truth. Zayne didn’t drink.

“But I’d rather me than you,” he said calmly, slipping his long fingers around the exposed small of your back with a touch so familiar it made you shiver.

In the next breath, he set the glass down on the bar with a soft clink, nudging your body into his orbit, gently but firmly moving you away from David and into him. His presence did the talking. It was territorial. Intentional. Possessive.

“You’re drunk. I don’t want you getting a hangover in the morning when we go somewhere for breakfast,” he added smoothly, “but I brought the IV infusion in case you need me to administer a quick treatment when we get ready to start the day…Together.”

Oh, that sly, calculating bastard. The message couldn’t have been clearer if he’d shouted it into a microphone: you were his. Not just romantically—intimately. Completely. The kind of love bound not only by desire but by duty. He wasn’t just your boyfriend. He was your doctor. Your protection. Your boundary. Your wall, and he wanted David to know it.

Zayne had been looking for you—wondering why you weren’t out on the dance floor when he’d gone to check. And when he saw you by the open bar, trapped in a conversation with another man, body language closed off, tension in your shoulders—you didn’t need to say a word. He understood. And in classic Zayne fashion, he didn’t confront with drama. He made a statement. Unshakable. Quietly devastating. Surgical. And sure, he’d probably regret drinking the wine later. It would hit his bloodstream like fire. But right then? Right then, it didn’t matter. Because in that moment, Zayne did exactly what he needed to do. He claimed you.

“She doesn’t metabolize alcohol well. Gets a bit mischievous. I just handle the aftercare,” Zayne replied with effortless composure, his voice smooth as satin, yet carrying a quiet authority that cut through the noise of the ballroom like a scalpel through silk. He extended his hand toward the other man, graceful and steady, the gesture formal yet layered in subtle dominance, “Zayne. I’m her boyfriend and her primary care physician…And you are? An old classmate, I presume?”

The way he said it—an old classmate—sounded less like an inquiry and more like a categorization. A label. Something filed away with zero importance. Zayne had always wielded his words like scalpels: careful, clinical, cutting. This wasn’t just a greeting. It was a boundary, delivered with charm.

David paused as he accepted the handshake. For a brief moment, his eyes flickered down, catching the Evol scars carved across Zayne’s pale knuckles and wrists—those faint, jagged reminders of a power too immense to fully control. The flash of discomfort that passed over David’s face didn’t go unnoticed. Neither did the small, almost defensive lift of his chest.

“…Oh! David,” he replied, managing a nod, clearly trying to compose himself, “nice to meet you, Zayne. I’m an old friend from her childhood, we go wayyy back! So, how’d you two meet? You uh, break some code of ethics? Kidding, kidding!” His laughter was light, but forced, a bit too loud, his hands raised in mock surrender as if trying to disarm a landmine he just stepped on.

“Old friend from her childhood,” Zayne repeated, a sliver of amusement curling at the corners of his lips. He turned to you then, his hand gliding from your lower back, possessive but gentle, curling protectively around your hip, pulling you in close. You felt the warmth of him settle through the thin material of your dress, his quiet pride in the gesture humming through his touch, “we also go way back…”

“No way!” David exclaimed, his tone exaggerated, cheerful, strained, “did we all go to school together or something? I don’t really remember you, man.”

“No,” Zayne’s reply was crisp, yet unbothered, delivered with clinical precision, “if you were in the same grade as Y/n, I’m five years your senior.”

“Ahhh!” David let out a loud, drawn-out laugh, his tone smug as he nodded exaggeratedly, eyes squinting in a wink that turned your stomach. He leaned in, just a little too close, with that strange, frat-boy playfulness that had no place in your shared history—let alone in the moment, “I see you like ’em a little older, huh?”

The words were oil on water—unsettling, tone-deaf, and utterly transparent. You cringed. But before Zayne could land what you knew would’ve been a devastating verbal blow, you stepped in yourself.

“I really do,” you cut in sharply, your hand sliding instinctively over Zayne’s abdomen—warm through the fabric of his suit, familiar and grounding. You leaned in against his side, letting your weight rest there as a shield, a statement. The irritation in your voice was barely smothered by the playful sweetness you laced into your tone, a sweetness reserved only for him, “okay, I’m officially drunk, now…You wanna whisk me away and take advantage of me?”

Zayne exhaled through his nose in a sigh—not annoyed, just exasperated in that quiet, affectionate way only he could manage when it came to you. He knew you’d said it to scream even louder that you were his, and he gladly played along. He nodded once and began to guide you gently, a large hand secure at your lower back as he maneuvered you through the crowd.

“I promised you a dance, so at least allow me that first. I’m a gentleman,” he said, calm as ever. But his next words cut sharp and dry, cool as steel as he offered David an aloof, almost bored nod, “nice to meet you, Darren. Now, please excuse us.”

“It’s David!” The man called after the two of you, but it was too late. You were already moving away, heels clicking lightly over the polished ballroom floor as Zayne’s tall form shepherded you with effortless finesse.

God. Your insides buzzed—not just from the wine or the awkward confrontation, but from everything. From the way David made your skin crawl. From the way Zayne’s presence doused every bad feeling with a single steadying touch. From the lingering memory of that glass in Zayne’s hand—how smoothly, shockingly, he’d taken the drink straight from you and downed it. Even drunk, that detail stood out like a lighthouse in the storm. Zayne didn’t drink. Ever. Not willingly. Not for anything. And yet…He had. You didn’t even have time to question it. Because the look in his eye? The sharp line of his jaw, the cold calm of his tone, the tension in his hand as it cradled your waist? Zayne was on one.

“What a persistent, bothersome little man,” Zayne muttered, his voice low and tight like it was wrapped in a leash he was barely keeping on.

You could feel the frustration humming beneath his skin, pulsing under the warmth of his arm around you. It wasn’t often you saw Zayne rattled like this—he was the embodiment of composure, always. But a man pestering you? That was one of the rare triggers that flipped something primal in him. His protectiveness wasn’t loud or brutish. It was sharp like a scalpel, cold like ice.

He exhaled with quiet restraint, his jaw tight, “what did he want? Or rather, let me rephrase—what did he portray his intention to be, initially? Some friendly catch-up that he absolutely wasn’t using as a guise to try to court you?” There was dry venom in his voice, a flash of disdain that darkened his usually calm gaze, “I’d laugh, if I didn’t mind so much that someone tried to take advantage of your drunken state.”

“Honey, hold on a sec,” you interrupted gently, pressing your palm flat to his chest. His warmth grounded you instantly, even through the heavy buzz still melting your edges. You tugged him close enough that he had to dip his head to meet your eyes, and your gaze sharpened as you searched his face, “you just drank alcohol. You know that, right? Alcohol.”

He sighed, and his fingers reflexively curled around your wrist, protective even in this. His voice dropped lower, softer, only for you, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“No no, don’t apologize,” you said quickly, thumb brushing against the fabric of his suit as you shook your head, still trying to fully compute what you had witnessed, “you know I don’t mind…I’m just surprised. You don’t drink. At all. Ever. What happened back there, anyway?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. If anything, they only grew more intense—more focused, more unreadably full, “I’m apologizing because I made a decision fueled by emotion instead of logic. I saw you drinking alcohol from another man. I didn’t think. I just acted…There could’ve been something in it. And you’re already drunk, on top of that.”

“How come you didn’t just put the glass away at the bar or something?” You asked, voice soft but laced with that pointed curiosity you always used when you were trying to pull the truth gently from Zayne without cornering him.

He blinked, looking genuinely caught off guard by the simplicity of the question, like it hadn’t even registered as a possibility until now, “I—…I don’t even know, honestly,” his brows drew together, faintly furrowed in reflection, “but you’re right. I should’ve just done that…I don’t know why I didn’t. Like I said, I wasn’t thinking.”

You nodded slightly, biting the inside of your cheek, observing him. That checked out. It wasn’t like Zayne to make decisions without deliberate thought, but that was the thing—you unraveled him. It was a kind of unraveling that didn’t come with chaos, but with raw, powerful instinct. And sometimes, even for a man as logical and self-contained as Zayne, instinct overrode reason.

You figured it was something deeper than his usual rational mind could explain. A primal flicker of ownership, maybe. A protective surge. Something older than logic. Something human. You’d always known you were the only thing capable of shaking his composure. And now there he was, shaken—not by fear, not by danger, but by the overwhelming cocktail of possessiveness, concern, and love. Even Zayne, with all his guarded elegance and restraint, wasn’t immune to that.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” you murmured, grounding your palm on his upper arm. The steady heat of his lean muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his sleeve comforted you. He was so warm. Always so warm, “you’re human. It’s okay. Besides…” You leaned in on your toes, brushing your lips close to his ear as you grinned against the shell of it, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper, “…We both already know what to expect when you’re drunk.”

He let out a low chuckle—one that curled at the edges with something warmer than amusement. The tips of his ears went red, visibly reddening in that way they only ever did when a particular memory hit him right between the ribs. And God, you knew exactly which one it was. That night. That infamous night, a couple years ago—when he’d gotten drunk off a single chocolate-infused candy, the alcohol melting past his near-zero tolerance and unshackling every boundary of restraint he had kept so tightly around himself. The way he’d carried you to bed that night still lingered in the way he sometimes kissed you with aching intensity, like he could remember exactly how it felt to give in after months of denial.

It was the night Zayne lost his virginity to you. And he had done it like a man starved. Reverent. Fervent. Desperate to worship every inch of you after denying himself for so long. His restraint hadn’t slipped—it had shattered. You saw it all flicker through him right then and there in the slight tension of his throat, in the way his hand twitched at his side before rising to loosen the knot of his tie, swallowing down the warmth that threatened to bloom lower than appropriate.

“We do?” Zayne asked, feigning innocence with that deceptively calm, velvet-smooth voice of his.

His body remained close, his breath warm against your temple as he cast a quick, discreet glance around the room. Ever the protective one, even in a space that buzzed with music, laughter, and the soft clinking of glass. It was loud, crowded, a blur of bodies in suits and satin, but he was still careful—still yours. Still making sure no wandering eyes or listening ears would catch what belonged only to him.

“Tell me,” he murmured low, the words warm against the shell of your ear.

“Oh, you know,” you purred, your voice syrupy and mock-innocent in that drunk, flirty way he adored. Your fingertips tiptoed up the silk of his tie, slow and teasing, until you were whispering right by his lips, “shoving books off of desks, lifting me up against the wall, pinning me on every surface you can find…”

A smile threatened the edge of his mouth, faint but undeniably fond—warmer than wine, sweeter than any memory in that ballroom. He didn’t hide the way your words affected him. The blush that started beneath his collar and crept all the way to his ears told on him.

He took your hand gently, bringing it up to his lips with a kiss that burned soft and reverent over your knuckles, “I become a little…Unhinged, don’t I?”

“Just a tad,” you laughed, winking, letting him pull you closer. Your arms draped naturally over his broad shoulders, fingers locking behind his neck while his palm found the small of your back, spreading wide to anchor you to him, “but I’ll take that any day over mister weirdo over there…”

The warmth in Zayne’s green eyes cooled just slightly at the reminder, not from jealousy, but from vigilance. That instinct of his to shield, to claim, to protect. Couples around you swayed beneath soft lighting and strings of delicate music—the slow, late-hour songs meant for lingering and intimacy. And so you two danced like the rest of them, bodies pressed together in easy rhythm, hips brushing in time as you nestled into the familiar strength of his frame.

“What happened, anyway?” Zayne asked quietly near your ear, his lips brushing your skin, eyes flickering over your shoulder to scan the crowd again, every nerve on alert.

You rolled your eyes with a sigh, thankful the man was gone, his shadow already fading into the sea of sequined gowns and tuxedos under the ballroom’s string-lit haze. The music pulsed faintly beneath your feet, but Zayne was the only rhythm that mattered—his presence firm and grounding around you as you moved in your own slow, private orbit.

“He was someone I was friends with back in high school…” You explained, lips pursed in frustration as you leaned your weight into Zayne’s embrace, letting the warmth of his chest soothe your nerves, “never saw him as anything more than that, but I guess he thought ordering me a drink I declined and me politely taking a sip meant something more.”

You felt him back up to see you, his gaze meeting yours with silent encouragement. Go on, it said. You leaned your temple against his collarbone, cheek flushed from more than just wine.

“He said he thought me accepting his drink meant I was single,” you exhaled, averting your gaze slightly as you confessed, “but I thought it was just a friendly catch up and that he was being polite! I swear…”

Zayne let out a soft, soundless laugh through his nose. You felt it, the gentle puff of air ghosting against your hair as his chest rose and fell against you.

“What??” You huffed, eyes narrowing with mock indignation as you gave his shoulder a light smack, “am I missing something?? Care to diagnose my obliviousness, Doctor Zayne?”

He tilted his head slightly, that smug little smile playing over his lips as if he found your outrage charming—like he always did when you got all flustered and defensive. His voice was velvet and low when he finally responded, “you have quite the chronic case of childlike innocence.”

You pouted, that exaggerated frown coming out as your brows furrowed.

But his next words softened the blow, quiet and loving, “I’m afraid the only cure is having me intervene sometimes.”

Your head cocked with a brow arched, curiosity washing over your flushed features as your body relaxed deeper into his hold. The ballroom blurred around you—nothing but sound and color and the safety of him. Zayne. His emerald eyes always held that same warmth when he looked at you, that adoring, reverent softness like you were something he still couldn’t believe belonged to him.

“Unfortunately,” he added with a tinge of resignation, “you can never assume a man is just being polite and friendly.”

“Then how do I know?” You murmured, brows knitting with genuine frustration.

“You don’t, I’m afraid.”

You sighed hopelessly, deflating into him as if there were no fight left in you. But he caught you without pause, his arms strong and sure as they pulled you in closer. The music around you wasn’t slow enough—but you danced anyway, or something like it, swaying in your own little universe as laughter and music spun around you like the snow globe of a memory in the making. His body was the constant. His heartbeat, the metronome you trusted.

“Do you remember the first time we ran into each other outside of Akso Hospital after I was assigned to be your doctor?” Zayne’s voice came soft but vivid, painting a memory with practiced precision, gently guiding your thoughts through the haze of wine, “at that restaurant. I was having lunch and you just so happened to walk in.”

“Oh, I remember…” You laughed, light and warm, nostalgia bubbling in your chest as you squeezed his shoulder playfully. The stiff fabric of his suit dipped slightly under your fingers, “you hardly spoke a word to me back then…I thought you must have hated me. Why?”

“Do you remember what I said to you before we parted ways?” His eyes searched your face as he coaxed the recollection from you.

You squinted slightly, brows knitting in concentration, drunk mind foggy as you worked to untangle the memory, “…We were talking about how that one pet store used to be a bookstore, right? At least I think.”

“Yes,” he murmured with that familiar patience, the one that always held a quiet affection. His hand gave your waist a gentle squeeze, the heat of his palm soaking through your dress. Then he leaned in, brushing close to your ear as his other hand trailed up, fingers delicately guiding yours down from around his neck. He held your hand instead, his larger one completely enveloping yours, leading you into a slow step you hadn’t even realized you’d taken. You were dancing now. Truly dancing, “and then I told you that we should stop by together next time?”

“Mhmm?” You smiled up at him, eyes glazed with warmth and fondness, your chest fluttering like the very first time.

“I wasn’t being polite,” he said it plainly, like it was the most obvious truth in the world, “I was courting you.”

Your giggle was soft and breathy, curling up like a sigh as your cheeks warmed further—not from the alcohol this time, but from the quiet reverence in his voice. You followed his gentle lead with ease, steps syncing into his without thought, “well sure, but you gave me a choice! You didn’t just spring it on me mid-conversation. Actually, you were being very polite with me…You gave me the choice and left me with it without any kind of pressure to see you again outside of just being my doctor…”

“Of course I did,” Zayne said with a low smile, his eyes glowing with quiet pride at your recollection, “I’d much rather be up front than be sneaky about my intentions. But my point is, would you have known what my intentions were? Would you have known for sure if I was being polite, or if I had an interest in you?”

You fell quiet for a beat, thoughtful, your brows pulling inward as you chewed softly on the inside of your cheek. Zayne’s question echoed in your mind like a bell ringing down a long hallway, pulling your memory back to that afternoon—the sunlight over his table at the café, how stiff he’d seemed, how little he’d said.

“…Maybe not?” You admitted after a moment, blinking slowly, gaze softened with recollection, “hell, I was surprised you even wanted to see me again. If anything…I thought maybe you were just being polite, at first. So, no.”

“Then why did you accept?” Zayne asked, the question almost too gentle to sound like one. His hand warmed over the curve of your hip, thumb tracing idle lines through the fabric of your dress, “were you really being that gracious to a man out of politeness? Obligation? Guilt? Or, perhaps…” The way his voice dipped on that last word teased at something deeper—something mutual that had been quietly burning between the two of you from the very start.

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. A giggle escaped before you could contain it, airy and unguarded, “…Because I always thought you were cute. Ever since we were kids.”

Zayne’s brow arched, lips curling into a little smile at your answer, “and if you didn’t?”

“Then maybe not,” you laughed with shameless honesty, letting out a playfully dramatic sigh, “oh, I see where I messed up…”

“Don’t think of it as messing up. You didn’t know any better,” he said, voice hushed as he shook his head, fingers tightening ever so slightly where they rested at your waist. His jaw shifted, a flicker of irritation passing his usually even features, “not all men are up front about their intentions. Some don’t know where they stand with you and might need to gauge you. Some might try to be sneaky and hide behind friendliness…”

His eyes flicked briefly over his shoulder—back toward the bar. You followed the shift in his gaze and felt his entire body subtly reposition, putting himself squarely between you and that direction. The gesture was automatic, protective. His hand slid from your waist to a more possessive grip over the bend of your hip, grounding you closer against him as he steered you subtly away from the noise and crowd.

“Don’t accept anything if you’re alone,” he murmured, each word deliberate, calm but serious, “don’t accept invites that don’t include others. Don’t let anyone pay for anything. And if they do because they can’t take no for an answer, don’t feel obligated to accept what they give you. There is always a risk that a man might have ulterior motives.”

He looked down at you then, eyes softening just slightly, voice dipping low—measured, cautious, but full of care.

“Notice that I say risk, not guarantee,” he stressed, “but it’s better to be suspicious than trusting in certain scenarios.”

You nodded, taking in his guidance, his words threading through the gentle haze of wine that softened the edges of your world. Your body drifted closer to him like a tide drawn to the moon, that effortless gravitational pull of his presence—steady, warm, familiar. Without thought, you pressed lightly into him, letting his broad frame take you in, your movements unconscious as his hands tightened instinctively around your waist, holding you like something precious. Something his.

You knew men. Knew their tendencies to smile with one face while hiding intentions behind another. Sneaky. Conniving. The kind of cunning that lingered in sidelong glances and loaded generosity. Not all men—but always a man. Always a risk. Yet…Zayne was a man, too. And still, with him, none of that dread existed. He made you feel like the only untouchable thing in the world. You could trust your back turned to him. You could trust the way his hands slid over your body—never possessive in greed, but protective in reverence. Zayne was like a kind wolf, watching over a rabbit not to consume her, but because he loved her. Because he couldn’t fathom the thought of sinking his teeth into what he held dear.

“You know a lot for a guy who’s only had one girlfriend at the ripe age of twenty-nine,” you teased, your voice a flirtatious murmur as your fingers found their way along the lapel of his jacket, playfully tugging.

“I’m a man. I know how men work,” he replied, eyes gleaming, the soft scratch of his fingertips teasing your hip in a way that made your spine tingle, “next time a man tries to buy you a drink after you decline, tell him you’ll give it to your husband—um, boyfriend,” he corrected, a little too quickly.

You caught it. That slight slip. The way it came out just a breath too naturally. The way his voice tipped with a slur, subtle but there. You laughed and leaned back just enough to catch the bloom of color spreading across his cheeks, that flustered pink that stained him like a secret only you knew. He looked away instantly, as if hiding the heat would keep you from teasing him, but it only endeared him more. His adam’s apple bobbed in a swallow as he tried to recover with dignity.

“And before you accuse me of being drunk,” he said, the moment your lips parted in preparation to do just that, “I’m not drunk.”

“You sure?” You smirked, head tilting just so with affection and mischief, catching his hand in yours as you reversed your steps for a moment, guiding him just to watch him falter, “your wife disagrees.”

You barely had time to enjoy your little victory before he reclaimed control of the rhythm, effortlessly shifting the lead back into his hands. His movements were smooth, sure, like muscle memory written in devotion. He lifted your hand in his, spun you gently beneath it, then pulled you close again with that same ease that always made your heart skip a beat.

“My wife is drunk,” he replied, half a smile tugging at his lips as he let you move in the space between his arms again, “and has no idea what she’s on about.”

“Am not!” You swatted at his chest with a light flick of your hand, warmth blooming in your cheeks that had nothing to do with the wine. You met his gaze again and were caught, stilled, by that look—green eyes soft, adoring, and laced with the teasing gleam of a man who loved you with every fiber of his being.

He began to slowly coax you into a spin beneath the lift of his arm, the warmth of his palm brushing yours, his voice dipped in calm amusement, “she’s three whole drinks in, and—”

“—Three and a half, after that creep!” You interjected, your heels clicking softly against the ballroom floor as you spun for him. Your dress flared gently around your legs, shimmering in the golden light as you made the turn, your movements light but clumsy with intoxicated energy.

“Three and a half,” Zayne repeated with a sigh, his voice exasperated but full of fondness as he pulled you close again the moment your balance wobbled. His arms caught you like they always did—certain, protective, steady, “and entirely hopeless, but she’s somehow managing to do the waltz with me without stepping on my toes, this time. I’m impressed…”

“Maybe because I’m totally fine, Doctor Zay—yeep!” You squealed, breath catching in your throat as your heel caught in the glide and you stumbled forward.

Your body jolted against Zayne’s chest with a soft thump, arms clutching at him instinctively as your stomach did a wild flip. It took a second for your world to still, your breath unfreezing only once you were upright and secure again—anchored in his arms. And then you felt it. Oh no. The solid, unforgiving feel of his polished shoe under yours. You froze, eyes wide with mortification, before you quickly—immediately—stepped off it, heat rushing to your cheeks as you dared to peek up at him.

“…Nevermind,” Zayne sighed, but he was smiling despite himself. He leaned in, brushing a stray hair from your cheek with delicate fingers before letting them trace a soft, warm path down your face, “it appears I spoke too soon. My wife is entirely hopeless.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, breathless and blushing, as you let your forehead tip briefly against his chest. The two of you resumed your dancing—if it could even be called that anymore. You weren’t graceful. You never had been. Your steps were light, your footing uncertain, your rhythm uneven. But Zayne didn’t seem to care in the slightest. If anything, he cherished it. Cherished you. Your spirit. Your joy. The way you poured every ounce of yourself into loving him without reserve.

Zayne was the contrast to your chaos. Measured. Controlled. Methodical. He moved like he’d been born to follow a rhythm, to lead a dance, to stay two steps ahead. Always the anchor. Always the one who kept you from spinning too far off into the world. He held you like he was counting your heartbeat, like your every breath mattered. Every slip of your heel was met with a guiding hand, a soft tug back to center. Always there. Always watching. Watching the curve of your smile, the flush in your cheeks, the flutter of your lashes every time you giggled. And when he wasn’t watching you, he was watching your step—each turn, each sway—just to make sure you didn’t fall.

He spun you again, slower this time. More deliberate. His hand never leaving yours. And when he brought you back to him, he didn’t stop at polite closeness. He brought you in—really in—pressing your body to his chest as he inhaled the scent of your hair, the sweetness of you mixed with the subtle linger of wine.

You felt his palm slide lower behind you, gliding with smooth intent down your spine, until the long stretch of his fingers splayed wide across the small of your open back—so low they hovered just above where your behind began with a raised curve. You shivered at the contact. At the possessiveness in his touch. It wasn’t vulgar. It wasn’t showy. It was subtle, warm, and unrestrained—Zayne’s quiet brand of intensity radiating out through the heat of his hand, pressing straight through the fine fabric of your dress and into your skin.

Your whole body bloomed with heat. A flush that started in your chest and rippled outward in waves of butterflies. Your breath caught, clutched in your lungs like it didn’t want to escape. The intimacy of his grip—the claim in it, the wordless mine—made your fingers instinctively tighten around the hand still holding yours. His other arm pulled you along gently, continuing the dance as though none of this was happening, as if he weren’t absolutely undoing you just with the way he touched you. And God, did you melt.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed with a depth of awe that softened the edges of every syllable. His voice was low, reverent, the words laced with a kind of tender ache—as if he still couldn’t believe you were real, let alone his, “people can’t seem to take their eyes off of you, I notice…”

You let out a warm, wine-loose laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder, “maybe because they all know you, Zaynie,” you slurred playfully, voice warm and teasing, “the infamous, highly intimidating, super strict and scary Doctor Zayne, canoodling with his girlfriend on the—”

“—Wife,” he interrupted, quiet but firm.

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t even boldness. It was certainty. Zayne said it like a fact already carved into the timeline of his life—like it had always been that way. Like he couldn’t possibly think of you as anything else. There was something about the way he held you a little tighter after saying it, the way his hand curved around your waist, like he was anchoring himself to that word. To you.

It caught you off guard, melted through your drunken haze. Not because he said it, but because of how real it felt—how easy it was to believe. How deeply sincere it sounded. Like in that moment, with the lights low and music blurring softly through the ballroom, you weren’t two people imagining the future…You were already there. Already his wife. Already back from a honeymoon in the country you’d once dreamily talked about together. Already wearing the exact dream ring he asked you to describe that night in bed, tracing the curve of your hand like he was etching it into memory.

“…Wife,” you whispered under your breath, more to yourself than him, the word tasting sweet and dizzy on your tongue.

A tender, intoxicated smile curled your lips as you leaned in to breathe him in—his warmth, his scent, the steady thrum of his heartbeat where your bodies pressed together. You closed your eyes as the music dipped into something slower, softer, almost reverent. And for just a breath of time, you let yourself believe you were already Mrs. Li.

“Part of me enjoys it,” Zayne confessed, voice hushed against the swell of music and chatter, low enough that the words felt like they were meant for your skin more than your ears, “part of me…Wishes I was the only person in this room with eyes. That no one else could see you. Just me. That only I was special.”

Your heart fluttered at the confession, tender and vulnerable in the way only Zayne could be when his guard melted a little—when the quiet storm inside him softened under the warmth of wine and love. You looked up at him through your lashes, drunk on him more than anything else.

“You are special,” you smiled, fingertips grazing along the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the way it tensed and then relaxed beneath your touch, “this whole room might as well just be us two, in my eyes. I’m blind to everyone else…”

And that—those words, that look in your eyes—was what Zayne lived for. That was love, the kind that rooted itself deep in his soul and took up residence there with sacred weight. The kind that was quiet and colossal all at once. The kind that didn’t need to be shouted to be known. It just was. He was seen. Chosen. Not despite the crowd, but because of it. In a ballroom filled with gazes, laughter, music, temptation—you picked him. Still. Always. In every room. And it made him ache with the beauty of it.

Because to Zayne, loving you was a kind of worship. And being loved back by you—being the one you reached for, leaned on, twirled toward in your softest, drunkest smile—that was fulfillment in its purest form. That was the reward. That was what made every ounce of his restraint worth it, every inch of his devotion meaningful. You could have anyone. You were surrounded by anyone. Yet you saw only him. Wanted only him. And to Zayne, that was the divine. To be the one you chose again and again, when you had the whole world? That was everything.

His breath caressed your ear as he crooned down closer, the scent of wine and warmth and something deeply him curling in the space between your skin and his. He slid his hand from your clasp, wrapping it behind your back with the other, arms circling you fully now, enveloping you in the kind of embrace that left no part of you untouched. He held you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, like his hands had been made just for your waist and nothing else.

“Say you’re mine,” he murmured, low and reverent, almost a plea.

You tilted your head back to look at him, to catch the softness in his emerald eyes, and you smiled. It was tender, tinged with affection and the kind of endearment that came only from knowing someone so wholly.

“I’m yours, Zayne,” you whispered, and the sincerity in your voice curled around his heart like a vow.

He exhaled a deep, shuddered breath that seemed to come from his very soul, sinking you closer into his hold, like letting you go even an inch would make the whole world unravel. He wasn’t thinking about the ballroom anymore, or the music, or the sea of eyes. Just you. His warmth. Your heartbeat against his chest. You felt the security of it—the way you were cradled like something irreplaceable, and it sent a flurry of butterflies through your chest, left your cheeks pink and your throat tight with affection.

But then you leaned in, brushing your lips against the shell of his flushed ear, your voice hushed and sultry with mischief and meaning, “I wouldn’t want anyone here to be blind…”

Zayne froze slightly, lips parting as your breath ghosted against him.

“I want them all to be able to see me,” you whispered, “you know why?”

His voice was a hush, a catch of air, “why?”

“Because that way,” you murmured, your lips brushing his skin like a kiss, “all of them can see that I’m yours.”

Zayne’s soul swelled to the brim. Your words echoed through him like a sacred vow, like a key fitting into every lock that ever rattled with uncertainty inside his chest. For so long, he’d carried that quiet war within himself—the reverent urge to keep you hidden and safe in the depths of his arms, where only he could reach you, and the deeper, hungrier pride of wanting the world to know. To see. To understand that you were the center of his gravity. And suddenly, in the warmth of your whisper, in the way you curled against him in this room full of eyes and noise, Zayne understood he didn’t have to choose between the two. There was no conflict. No more tension. He could treasure you in the open, wear the bond like a badge across his chest.

He looked around—not with anxiety, not with hesitation, but with clarity. The ballroom buzzed with conversation and music and light, all of it washing out into a blur. To Zayne, it may as well have been static. Because you were all he saw. Pressed so delicately against his chest, your cheek tucked into the crook of his neck, your arms wrapped around him like you were trying to fuse the two of you into one. You smiled like a secret that belonged only to him, glowing with intoxication and affection. And there he was—holding you, openly, in front of every colleague, every man and woman who’d ever known him as the cold, intimidating, stoic Doctor Zayne. Their vision of him cracked at the seams as he revealed what you had always known: that underneath the white coat and surgical precision was a man capable of worship. Of love so blinding, it eclipsed the world around him.

His lips brushed your ear, “please, say it again,” he breathed.

You smiled sweetly, teasing as always—your voice thick with wine and affection, “you say it.”

He didn’t hesitate, “I’m yours, Y/n. Completely.”

You pulled back just enough to tilt your face to his, eyes gleaming with that soft glow only you had, a quiet dare in your expression, “no,” you whispered, eyes locking with his, “tell me that I’m yours.”

He stilled, the moment expanding between your bodies like a heartbeat held in suspension. Then his hand lifted from your waist, strong and warm and trembling with something soft as it cupped your jaw. His thumb brushed your heated cheek, reverent. Your breath hitched—just a little—at the tenderness of it.

And Zayne, with all the stillness of a man who had found his entire world in one single moment, looked into your eyes and said, low and sure, “you’re mine. All mine.”

Your heart clenched with adrenaline. Love, lust—God, who could tell the difference anymore? The way he said it, claimed you with that low, possessive whisper—it sent a white-hot rush through your body so intense it almost knocked the air from your lungs. And then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was molten; brief but thorough, like he poured all his soul into the brush of his lips against yours. It wasn’t greedy. It wasn’t rushed. It was reverent, full of want, full of something primal and protective. You were stunned by how much you felt it, how much you melted into it, dizzy and stunned even in your drunken haze. And when he pulled back, you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning forward again, on your toes, craving another—but then your body registered something. Hard. Pressed against you. Oh…Oh God.

Your eyes flew open slightly. That. You felt that.

You damn near forgot what turned Zayne on the most—it was never just your body. It was you. Your voice. Your loyalty. The way you loved him. Worshipped him. Belonged to him. It was the words, the devotion, the way you whispered that you were his. That’s what did it. That’s what always undid him.

“Zayne,” you giggled, a little startled, smacking his chest with the flat of your palm, trying to steady both of you.

But before you could say anything else, he was already leaning in again, his voice low, firm, warm against your ear.

“Let’s go back to our room,” he said, velvet-drenched urgency curling into every syllable, “can you walk?”

“Huh?” You blinked, your mind needing a full second to catch up to his words. Then you saw it—that look in his eyes. That razor-sharp, utterly focused glint that only appeared when he was in this kind of mood. Serious. Desperate. Determined, “y-yeah, but I’m drunk and in heels, so—”

“—I know,” he murmured with a tender edge of amusement, brushing his knuckles across your cheek. His hand trailed to your jaw, then swept down along your neck.

You shivered. It was all he said. He didn’t need to say more. Not with the way his arm linked into yours and his pace pulled you forward, like you were both tethered, like the gravity between you was the only thing keeping your legs from turning to wine-soaked jelly. You clung to him—not just because your steps were unsteady, but because your whole body felt like it was floating somewhere between the chandeliers and the alcohol humming through your blood. You could barely tell where the room ended and his warmth began.

The music blurred behind you as he carved a path through the crowd. You didn’t even notice if anyone spoke to you—if they waved, or smiled, or gave a double-take at the infamously poised Doctor Zayne storming through the ballroom with his girlfriend glued to his side. He didn’t break stride. His eyes were straight ahead, unreadable, determined. Whatever looks people gave were instantly silenced by his expression. You giggled faintly, drunk and dazed and dizzy, head swimming with every step. God, the floor didn’t feel flat. Or maybe your heels were just too high. Or maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it was him.

The hallway hit you like a breath of air—a cold slap of reality against your burning skin. It was quieter, so much quieter. Still bright, but everything felt a little out of focus. Your stomach tipped slightly with the shift in light, the absence of music, the way your footsteps suddenly echoed like they were trying to catch up to you.

“Wait—” you began, one foot faltering behind the other.

You didn’t even get the chance to steady yourself. Zayne caught the hesitation before the wobble, his hand already sliding to your elbow, other curling around your back. And then he bent, wrapping your arm behind his neck. Your world tilted as he swept you off the ground like you weighed nothing at all. Your stomach flipped. You gasped—more of a squeal, really—your arms snapping tight around his neck as your heels lifted from the tile and dangled midair.

Lord. Even alcohol couldn’t get in that man’s way. It was like it only fueled him—gave him sharper vision, harder purpose, heat in his blood that burned straight through the haze. His grip was secure, his arms steady, like you weighed nothing in his hands. He moved like he did in the hospital—calm in emergency, sure in chaos, decisive with every motion. That same clinical precision bled into the way he carried you now, like the world might have fallen apart if he slowed down, like he was beelining for the O.R. and you were the only patient who mattered.

“Babe,” you whisper-shouted into the crook of his neck, trying not to burst into laughter when you caught the amused eyes of a stumbling couple leaning against a hallway wall, “slow down, Zayne! What’s the rush??”

“Every second passing between us and that hotel room is a second that I wish would burn in hell,” he muttered through gritted teeth, eyes flashing, voice tight with restraint.

You blinked, breath catching in your throat, not sure if you were more flustered by the confession or the heat pouring off of him. That man was on fire—skin hot, jaw taut, arms tense around you like he was physically holding himself back from whatever sinful thoughts had taken hold of him. The hallway blurred as he turned a corner, those impossibly long legs of his devouring distance like he’d kill time itself if he could.

You couldn’t even respond. You were too busy trying not to combust. By the time you reached the elevators, your entire body was flushed, not just from the wine but from being wrapped up in the storm that was Zayne with a little alcohol in his blood and too much love in his heart. He set you down carefully, reluctantly, like it physically pained him to part from the heat of your body, his hand still glued to your back, thumb grazing the bare strip of your spine exposed by your dress.

He was burning. Literally and figuratively. You felt the feverish hum of his body where it pressed into yours, saw the slight sheen on his brow, the tension in his shoulders as he rolled them like his suit was suffocating him. His hand slid lower without him noticing, fingertips stroking absent circles into the curve of your waist as he stared at the elevator doors like he could will them open faster. He sighed. Sharp. Controlled. Then tapped the up arrow again, just for good measure.

“Watch your step,” he said the moment the elevator dinged, already reaching to take your hand, his voice low and still somehow composed despite the fact that you could feel how unraveled he was beneath it.

He didn’t even glance at your face. He was staring down at your heels, hyper-focused, like watching every step you took might spare his already-fraying sanity one more thread. You stepped inside. He followed. And when the doors slid shut, it was just you and him, and the suffocating silence of restraint. He was just as impatient—if not more—as he stabbed the button for your floor, then immediately hit the one to close the doors. His movements were sharp, controlled, but barely concealing the storm gathering in his chest.

“Honey, relax,” you laughed, breath warm with wine as your fingers grazed his arm, “God, you’re so intense—”

The moment the elevator doors sealed shut, Zayne surged forward, pinning you between the cool, mirrored wall and the scorching heat of his body. His palms found your wrists and lifted them, securing them above your head like a promise he wasn’t asking permission to fulfill. And then—his mouth. Crashing onto yours. No hesitation. No warning. Just heat and hunger and need tangled in his kiss.

You gasped against him, your heart stuttering, a jolt of adrenaline crashing through your drunken haze. And then you felt it—him. The thick press of an erection between you, unforgiving and urgent through the tailored lines of his slacks. He pulsed against you, like every heartbeat was demanding more.

His kiss tasted like wine and want. His body, overheated and electric, trembled faintly with restraint he was quickly losing. Your knees buckled at the intensity of it—the smell of his cologne, the thrum in his chest, the way his tongue stole your breath. You were dizzy. Lightheaded. Your brain sloshed with wine and euphoria and lust. You weren’t ready. And yet, you were starving for him.

You slipped a wrist free from his grasp and hooked your fingers around his tie, yanking him down with a suddenness that made Zayne dip at the knees. You knew exactly where this was going. The moment was charged, inevitable. He responded in kind, lifting you clean off the floor with ease, pinning you back against the mirrored wall of the elevator as your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist. Your dress hitched high, sliding up without care, without shame. All you wanted was to keep tasting his tongue, keep feeling his breath break against yours, to be swallowed whole in the fire of his need.

The only thing that pulled him off of you—the only thing that made him let you breathe—was the sharp ding of the elevator doors sliding open. What followed was a blur. A fevered, head-spinning blur. Your vision swayed and pulsed as Zayne carried you out into the hallway with the same urgency he had outside of the ballroom. You clung to him, arms looped around his neck, watching the corridor pass behind him in streaks of gold and shadow. His strides were long, driven, purposeful—like he was moving through a crisis at the hospital.

You remembered the room: far corner, low foot traffic, quieter walls. Zayne had requested it himself. Yet in his haze, he veered toward the wrong side of the hallway.

“Other side,” you slurred against his heated ear, your fingers threading into his hair with lazy affection, “it’s the room behind you, sweetie…”

Zayne let out a low huff at himself and pivoted smoothly, “right.”

He never put you down. Not even when he reached the door. He only hitched one of your thighs higher around his waist, holding you tighter against him like his body had no interest in letting you go. With one hand still braced beneath your bum, the other fumbled into his pocket, blindly searching until you heard the muted beep of the keycard and the click of the lock disengaging. The door swung open—then shut behind you with a soft, final thud that echoed like a heartbeat in the quiet.

The silence was thick. Comforting. Sacred. A smile curled at the corners of your lips, breath catching in your throat as the hush of privacy wrapped around you both at last. No guests. No champagne flutes. No music. Just Zayne, flushed and focused and full of intent. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t pause to adjust his footing. He carried you across the threshold with unrelenting purpose and headed straight for the bed. With a low grunt of effort and a sigh like he’d been holding his lungs hostage all night, he collapsed forward onto the mattress with you still in his arms. You went with him, a tangle of limbs and heat, the both of you tumbling into the center of the bed like gravity had given up.

His shoes thudded to the floor with two careless kicks—quick, impatient—and then he was kissing you again, mouth finding yours with a sigh that sounded less like relief and more like need. Like he’d been holding his breath since the second he saw you in that dress, and only now could finally inhale.

“I can’t relax…” He murmured against your mouth, voice frayed and uneven as his body settled between your thighs. Your knees rose instinctively, cradling him, heat meeting heat. He groaned softly, the sound pressed into your lips before pulling back just enough to look at you.

His eyes were dark. Half-lidded, glossy from alcohol, but honed with pure hunger—that Zayne kind of hunger, deep and deliberate, as if his entire world had narrowed down to the lines of your body beneath him.

“Not when I need you all to myself,” he whispered, forehead resting briefly against yours, his hips pressing forward with slow, aching insistence, “it’s too much…”

Your fingers were already buried in his suit, clutching at the lapels like they were the only thing anchoring you. You tugged with clumsy urgency, drunk on the kiss, on him, on the electric friction of too many layers between you. His mouth chased yours—kiss after kiss, messy, breathless, tongues clashing—and still, somehow, not enough.

“What’s too much?” You breathed, lips brushing his jaw, your hands sliding beneath the lapels now, pushing at the shoulders of his suit, “tell me.”

He kissed down your jaw, slow and open-mouthed, as though the answer lived there.

“My addiction,” he said into your skin, the words thick with restraint and reverence.

“To?” You asked, dazed, as you fumbled at his buttons, your vision tilting slightly as the ceiling spun above you—wine and lust dancing in your veins, every part of you already aching to be uncovered.

He exhaled like the truth physically pained him, “you…”

He said it simply. Like it was a fact. Like it had always been a fact. His lips pressed to your neck, warm and unsteady. His suit fell to the floor with a whisper of fabric and the soft thud of weight, and then he was back—hands framing your face, mouth claiming yours again, more certain, more starved. He was everywhere. His mouth trailed fire down your throat, slipping between words and kisses, reverent as a worshiper at the altar of your skin.

The straps of your dress slid down your shoulders one by one under his insistent touch, guided by lips too eager to wait, too gentle to rip. He kissed every inch he uncovered—jaw, collarbone, the soft arch where your neck met your shoulder—feverish and unhurried, as though the ache in him could only be quieted by the shape of your body beneath his mouth.

“You look divine in this dress,” he murmured between wet, worshipful kisses, his voice thick with arousal and admiration, “you look divine in anything…”

A sudden nip at your skin made you gasp, breath hitching.

“But this dress…” His mouth dragged upward, lips brushing your ear, the scent of wine and want on his breath as his hand tucked your hair behind your ear with tender clumsiness, “is unfortunately in my way right now, isn’t it?”

You could hear the strain in his voice, the rasp of tension woven into every syllable—restraint barely clinging to its place as his hands slid between the curve of your back and the mattress, fumbling to find the hidden zipper. His fingers roamed blindly, desperate and imprecise, while you reached for the knot of his tie, loosening it from around his throat, letting it fall as your fingers skimmed the heat radiating from his hard chest.

“I’m afraid,” he breathed, kissing slowly down the column of your neck again, “it’ll have to come off…”

Where was the damn zipper? Zayne was growing frustrated, his fingers slipping fruitlessly against the back of your dress as if the whole thing were conspiring to stay on you. You could feel his breath huffing against your collarbone, warm and quick, his kisses becoming distracted, less coordinated as he let his mouth wander instead—down the slope of your clavicle, across the top swell of your breasts. He was starving. Unfocused. So overcome by the nearness of your skin that the zipper might as well have been invisible.

You giggled beneath him, the sound spilling out light and breathless as you gave his shoulder a nudge—just enough to pull his attention, or maybe half of it. He didn’t stop kissing you, but he let you slip your hands to the buttons of his dress shirt, working them loose one by one, halfway down the line of his chest.

“Here,” you said, tapping lightly against his now-bared skin, your voice honeyed with laughter and drunken boldness, “let me help you deflower me, then.”

The word lingered in the air, featherlight and ridiculous, and Zayne froze against you for half a breath—long enough for amusement to twitch at the corner of his mouth, then dissolve into something warmer. Deeper. He let out a small, helpless sigh, as if physically trying to resist his own urge to keep kissing your breasts, then finally, reluctantly, helped you sit up. His hands were warm on your back, guiding, steadying. He couldn’t stop touching you. Wouldn’t. And as soon as you were upright, he leaned in again, eyes hooded and glazed, lips parting to fall into another kiss—But you stopped him.

Your palm pressed against his chest, your pout gently exaggerated as you looked up at him through lashes half-lowered and pointed down toward your feet, “Zaynie…”

His breath hitched. The sound of your voice, softened like that, like a spoiled plea, made his entire body go still.

“You’re so drunk you forgot I still have my heels on…” You whined, dragging out the last word just enough to make it sweet, “you don’t want them touching the bed, right?”

Zayne blinked absentmindedly. His head tipped back slightly as he ran his hand slowly through his heated scalp, dragging it to the nape of his neck with embarrassment and residual want, “…I didn’t even—oh.”

“It’s okay,” you murmured, still giggling at his expression, at the disoriented frustration melting from his face. You slid your knee between his thighs with a slow, deliberate nudge. The movement ground up against the tension at his groin, and he exhaled, the sound low and strained as your knee brushed over the unmistakable heat pressing against the front of his slacks. You rubbed slow, playful circles along the inside of his thigh, your voice turning syrupy.

“Can you take them off for me, please?” you asked, the words pitched just right, teasing and tender, “I’m wayyy too drunk, and you’re better with your hands than I am…”

He sighed—like the last thread of his composure had been gently, lovingly severed by that one line. His hand slid down your thigh, fingers splaying, lingering. And then, without a word, he started to move. Zayne slid off the bed in one smooth, unhurried motion, his hands finding your calves and pulling you gently toward the edge as he sank down to his knees on the floor. The moment he kneeled before you on the carpet, something deep inside you twisted with heat.

There was something devastating about seeing him like that—on his knees for you, not in desperation, but in quiet, deliberate devotion. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t begging. He was serving. And even then, with his shirt half-unbuttoned and his breath still shaky from the taste of you on his tongue, he handled your body like it was something sacred. Despite the wine in his veins, the flush in his cheeks, the hunger in his eyes—his touch was steady. Careful. Loving. That paradox—of restraint wrapped around wild desire—was what did it. That was what always did it. Not the overt, not the vulgar. It was the reverence. The way Zayne could make the simple act of taking off your shoes feel like a holy ritual.

You ached. God, you ached. His fingers, long and elegant, traced down your calf in a slow stroke, like he needed to feel every inch of you on his way to the buckle. Then, without warning, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee—soft, slow, reverent. A sound—half whimper, half breath—escaped you as your hand instinctively slipped into his hair, threading through the silky strands like it was the only way to ground yourself. He let one of his knees rise, propping your foot in his lap.

“Do you like them?” You asked, your voice lower than intended, your head tipping slightly to the side. You watched him intently, barely breathing as his fingers found the delicate clasp and began to work it loose. Your stomach fluttered—something warm and tense blooming there—as he worshipped you in that quiet, focused way of his.

“I love your legs,” he murmured, almost absentmindedly, as though the words simply slipped out in response to the truth of your body under his hands. His lips brushed over your skin again, and you felt the goosebumps rise beneath them. He smiled faintly at the sensation, at the way your body responded to even the softest part of his mouth. God, the thrill that gave him. Feeling you react. Knowing that even like that—drunk, shirt halfway unbuttoned, knees pressing into cheap hotel carpet—he could still undo you. You let out a breathy laugh, voice light with affection as he slipped the strap loose.

“I was talking about my shoes,” you teased, eyes glinting down at him.

He looked up at you from where he knelt, his hands paused at your ankle like he’d just remembered where he was. That look on his face—equal parts dazed affection and single-minded focus—sent something hot and syrupy flooding through your chest.

“That depends,” he said slowly, voice weighted and just slightly slurred, each word draped in velvet.

He slipped the shoe off with deliberate care, like it might bruise you if he wasn’t gentle enough. Setting it aside, he cradled your bare foot in both hands, letting it rest in his palm while his fingers curved around the arch. You curled your toes unconsciously, the small pop of joints cracking in the quiet room somehow obscene in its satisfaction. Zayne raised an eyebrow, watching with clinical curiosity, like he was examining the aftermath of a trauma.

“Did they leave your feet sore?” He asked, turning your foot ever so slightly in his hand, his thumb already sliding to your sole as if to answer the question himself.

You opened your mouth to protest—no, of course not, they were fine—but then his thumbs pressed in. Right at the base of your arch, strong and slow, circling up into the softest pressure point with the precision of a man who knew how to take the human body apart piece by piece if he wanted to. Your voice failed you. Your breath escaped in a helpless, trembling sigh.

“A-apparently,” you managed, eyes fluttering as his thumbs worked in slow spirals along the curve of your foot, up toward the ball, pressing just deep enough to unravel something inside you. The tension drained out of you like water from a glass. One of his hands slid up the back of your ankle, pinching and rolling the muscle in firm, practiced pulses, and then—

“Oh my God,” you moaned, flopping backward onto the bed with dramatic flair, one arm flung over your eyes as your foot remained cradled in his lap, “yes, yes!”

Zayne chuckled softly beneath you. A real laugh—low and fond—as he pressed into the arch again, wringing out another gasp from your mouth.

“They killed my feet, yes!” You cried out with mock despair, grinning through the haze of pure pleasure, “ooh, I think I need a doctor…”

“Then I hate your shoes,” he said flatly, as though it were a medical diagnosis, not a declaration.

Before you could respond, he leaned in, kissed the top of your foot—soft, lingering—and then slowly, almost regretfully, lowered it to the floor.

“Why?!” You demanded, shooting upright in protest.

The room spun slightly with the motion and you reached for your head, blinking as your balance tilted beneath the wine and laughter. Zayne was already reaching for your other foot, his touch gentle but hasty as he sought the second clasp.

“Because they caused you discomfort,” he said simply, never looking up, his fingers slipping beneath the strap with care, “I don’t like anything that hurts you. Sorry.”

You laughed softly, helplessly—God, this sweet, silly man.

He looked so serious, so gently offended on your behalf, as if your shoes had committed a personal crime. Your gaze lingered on him as he bent back over your foot, undoing the final buckle with care, his brows drawn in focus. You watched him through lowered lashes, letting your amusement curl over your lips in a quiet, indulgent smile.

He had no idea what you were about to do to him. While he tended to the strap, your other leg stretched languidly, toes pointed like a dancer, and found their mark—his inner thigh. Warm. Firm. Solid. The sudden contact earned you a breath—sharp, startled. His fingers froze on the clasp. Zayne gasped softly. The smile deepened at your mouth, slow and coy, as you dragged your toes—slow, featherlight—across the unmistakable shape straining beneath the fabric of his slacks.

“I could say the same about your pants,” you murmured, all sweetened innocence, the kind that was anything but pure. You pouted as you spoke, tilting your head, “they look so…Tight.”

He exhaled—shaky, uneven. His gaze flicked up briefly, torn between the strap he was meant to finish unfastening and the seduction playing out against his lap. You could see it on his face: the internal war between indulging in that moment and succumbing entirely to it. Part of him wanted to let you tease him to hell and back—to watch you smirk and press and pout. But the other part…The other part was ready to break. Ready to take. He realized it too, in that second—what you were doing. What you always did. Toying with him. Baiting him. Coaxing out that careful, dominant fire you loved to see consume him. A breath escaped him, half a laugh, half a sigh of defeat.

“My pants?” He repeated flatly, eyes narrowing as he lifted his head to look at you properly.

But you beat him to it. Your toes trailed up his neck, beneath his chin, lifting it with mocking gentleness, and his head tipped back with your touch. His hand rose to catch your ankle, gripping it without thinking, the feel of your skin against his palm a visceral thing. He frowned—but not in anger. It was the look he always gave you when you were two seconds from pushing him over the edge.

It made your stomach clench, made the ache between your legs pulse with want. God, how you loved teasing Zayne. Loved pushing just far enough to see that restraint slip. Loved toying with a man who could—and would—make you pay for every second of it later.

“They look so tight,” you whispered, your voice like sugar dissolving in heat, “suffocating your poor cock like that…”

Your last shoe finally slipped free, landing somewhere behind him, forgotten. Your newly bare foot slid slowly, deliberately, to press down over the hard line of him with unspoken promise. Carefully. Even drunk, your motions were tender, almost reverent, and yet wicked all the same.

“Can it even breathe, Zayne?” You asked, smiling like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to him as you squished your toes over that warm, throbbing mass.

You fucking minx. That look on his face—low-lidded, jaw tight, lips parted just barely around a breath he didn’t realize he was holding—lasted only a second before it shifted. The glare that followed wasn’t anger. It was something far more dangerous: resolve. He grabbed your knees, large hands curling over them with purpose, and pried them apart in one swift motion—disarming you in an instant. Your feet slipped from him, falling useless as your legs parted and he rose up between them, fluid and commanding.

Oh. Oh my. Zayne, looming before you like a storm held together only by the thin fabric of his slacks and the throb of his restraint, was devastating. His shirt hung open down his chest, exposing the firm lines of his torso, the tension in his abdomen carved into hard, controlled breath. His cock—full, heavy, aching—strained beneath his pants, hanging thick and low and directly in front of your face. You stared. Of course you did. And of course—he noticed.

Shit. Was it really that easy for him to turn the tables? To break your little game apart with nothing but a shift of his posture and a look from under those lashes? Goddamn it. Of course it was. This was Zayne. And with him, control wasn’t something he had to take—it was something he was born holding. Just as natural for him as your need to test it, to tiptoe toward his limits like a spark daring a powder keg. And yet—he always managed to put you right back in your place. Every. Single. Time.

“Can it?” He murmured, arching a brow down at you.

His hand rose, two fingers catching your chin, tilting your gaze upward to meet the weight of his. His thumb swept slowly over your lower lip—silent and firm—and you felt it all the way between your thighs. The heat of him. The authority. He took a single step forward. The bulge in his slacks shifted as he moved, dragging your eyes back to it—bold, defined, shamelessly outlined against the seam of his thigh.

“Why don’t you check for me?” He said softly.

Your heart skipped. Then raced. Your core pulsed so hard it made your knees ache. And God, he knew it. He could see it in your face. Your eyes, wide and breathless. Your chest, rising too fast. Your mouth, parting helplessly beneath the pressure of his thumb. But you smiled anyway. Because he’d let you go first—for once. And even if it was just another extension of his control, that tiny window of permission made you ache.

Your fingers reached forward, delicate at first, tracing the waistband of his slacks. He worked on the last of his shirt buttons as you hooked your fingers into the closure and began to undo it slowly, dragging down the zipper with a sound that felt obscene in the quiet of the room. His dress shirt slid from his broad shoulders, the white fabric whispering against his skin before he shrugged it off entirely, letting it fall somewhere behind him without care. The lines of him—broad chest, sculpted waist, flushed skin glowing faintly under the low light—left you drooling in your mouth.

Then, with devastating gentleness, he ran his hand through your hair. Not urgently. Not impatiently. Just enough to push it back behind your ears, tucking it away from your face in a motion that told you everything he wanted next. No words needed.

“Oh, is Doctor Zayne gonna teach me how to perform a check-up?” You asked with a smirk, your voice light but syrupy with intent as you began easing his slacks down his legs.

You took your time. Your nails raked along the smooth plane of his quads as you dragged the material lower, your touch featherlight but precise—tracing the outline of every firm muscle, every twitch beneath his skin. His breath caught—just a hair—and when your hand cupped his cock through his briefs, kneading the heavy heat of him with teasing reverence, his composure finally cracked.

Zayne exhaled sharply through his nose, a low sound drawn from somewhere deeper than just arousal. His hand shot out, steadying himself on your shoulder, fingers curling into your skin as if to anchor the moment.

“I’ll walk you through every step,” he murmured, voice rough and slow with restraint, “but first…”

He took a step back, just enough to reclaim the space between you, then gently took the very hand you’d used to toy with him and brought it close, kissed the backs of your fingers—soft, delicate, guiding your forward.

“I need you to be in the proper position,” he said, “on your knees.”

The words rippled through you like a shiver made of silk and heat. There was no bark in his voice. No demand. Just that quiet, iron certainty that never failed to turn your spine to honey. You obeyed immediately. Sliding off the bed, your bare knees kissed the cool surface of the hotel carpet, the world narrowing to the smell of his skin, the warmth of his thighs, the slight tremble in your hands as you steadied yourself. Zayne guided you down carefully, watching you with a gaze so focused it made your breath catch. His palm brushed back your hair again, fingers sweeping it away from your face, curling it behind your ears with the same tenderness you’d felt earlier—only now, it was purposeful. Controlled.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and the praise alone made your stomach tighten, “next…”

He tilted your chin up, summoning your gaze with a light pressure beneath your jaw, his thumb brushing across your lower lip as you looked up at him, dazed and aching.

“I want you to eliminate any obstructions between you and the patient.”

Oh God. In any other context, you would’ve laughed. Would’ve cracked some joke about him being terminally in character, even while drunk. He sounded so clinical, so convincing—like he was dictating procedure in the middle of a sterile exam room, not standing half-naked in a dim hotel suite with his cock straining against cotton just inches from your mouth. But the way he said it…That tone. Low. Measured. Completely immersed in the fantasy. He wasn’t half playing—he was all in, as he always was. And that, somehow, turned you on even more. It wasn’t just the role-play. It was the way he wanted to excite you. The way he imagined with you. How deeply he enjoyed creating these moments, building them from your shared language of want.

You obeyed. Fingers trembling slightly, you slid them beneath the waistband of his briefs. The elastic fought you for a breath before giving way, and you peeled them down his hips slowly, reverently, watching as his cock—thick, flushed, heavy with need—sprung free from the tight confines. It bounced up, brushing across your chin, hot and firm and so close you could feel the heat radiating from it. Your mouth watered. Your breath hitched. You leaned in, thoughtless, about to drag your tongue across the length of him—But Zayne’s hand was suddenly in your hair.

He caught you gently but with absolute control, gripping the roots at the nape of your neck and tilting your head back just enough to pull your attention up. His other hand wrapped around the base of his cock, holding it out of reach. The denial made your thighs clench, your breath stutter. His gaze dropped to you—stern, focused, burning.

“Your impatience will cost you,” he said, voice calm but edged in warning.

You swallowed hard, blinking up at him, lips parted and trembling with restraint.

“I didn’t say to begin the examination yet, did I?” He continued, thumbing your cheek, “are we getting ahead of ourselves without any direction, here?”

You’d almost forgotten about his reputation. Among his students. His residents. The hushed stories in Akso Hospital’s halls. That blend of fear and awe that followed him like the tail of a comet. The way even the boldest trainees lowered their eyes when he walked into the room. His exacting standards. That voice—cool, crisp, clinical—capable of eviscerating someone without ever raising a decibel. You’d seen it in passing, sitting quietly at his lectures or waiting for him at the back of the auditorium, pretending to be nothing more than a supportive partner when inside, you’d been watching him the way one might watch a fire through glass: spellbound. Slightly afraid.

But this? Now, kneeling in front of him, undone, saliva thickening behind your teeth, your pulse beating loud in your ears as his hand held the weight of your attention—Now, you understood what they meant. You weren’t just seeing the sharp edge of Doctor Zayne anymore. You were experiencing him. And fuck, it was doing something to you. The authority in his voice. The chill of his restraint. How, even drunk, he moved and spoke like someone who expected his directions to be followed—not questioned. Your body trembled. And still, your voice was soft. Submissive. Almost reverent.

“No, Doctor Zayne,” you said, shaking your head as much as you could in his grasp under your chin. Your mouth watered shamelessly around his thumb as it poked in between your lips, your breath shallow with need.

You watched his green eyes flick down to your throat, and your heart stuttered. He saw it. Saw the way you swallowed. Saw how close to coming undone you were without even being touched down there. Your skin flushed from collar to cheekbone. And God, the glint in his eyes—measured, clinical, knowing—nearly made your thighs squeeze together.

“So eager to perform,” Zayne murmured, the edge of his voice that dangerous silk that always left you breathless. His eyes traveled down the line of your dress, slow and assessing, as though you were a case to be studied—corrected, “yet you aren’t even suited properly.”

You blinked, dumb with arousal, “huh?”

It took you a second—too long—to realize what he meant. The dress. You still had your dress on. You barely had time to respond before he was already turning you in place, his palm firm on your shoulder as he gently maneuvered you to face away from him. His breath ghosted against your back as he crooned down, his fingers finally found the zipper that had taunted him earlier. And yet, he didn’t yank it down in a rush. No, this was Zayne. Even drunk, his hands were surgical. Careful. Skilled. The teeth of the zipper unfurled down your back with a slow, whispering sound, parting inch by inch until the bodice gave way, the weight of the fabric surrendering to gravity. He kept an eye on you. Always one eye on you. His cock, so hard it pulsed, hung just out of your reach—because he knew you. Knew your bratty instinct to strike when he was distracted. Knew you’d try to take control the second he gave you an opening. He gave you none. Then he straightened.

“Expose your breasts,” he said—flat, clinical. A verbal scalpel. Clean and precise.

Your toes curled in the plush carpet. Your whole body buzzed. He was being raunchy. Deliciously, decadently raunchy. But in the most professionally delivered way possible. As if this was all part of a lesson. As if you were nothing more than a wayward student needing instruction. Like he wasn’t currently leaking precum through the head of his cock, his breathing growing more shallow with every tick of silence between you.

You obeyed. You eased the straps from your arms with trembling fingers, the fabric falling slowly, reluctantly, before you drew it down your bussom and bared yourself to him. The cool air kissed your skin instantly, drawing tight peaks to your nipples, your breasts rising and falling visibly with every breath you took.

And Zayne watched. His gaze locked on the sight of you—on the dusky flush spreading across your breasts, the way you offered them without hesitation, the way your arousal hung on every part of you, from your parted lips to your clenched thighs. You caught it—the moment his control slipped. His hand, wrapping around the base of his cock, squeezed. Not hard. Not impatient. But as if his palm needed the pressure. As if the weight of him demanded something to push against. His cock twitched. A droplet trailed down from the tip—glistening, obscene, gleaming against the flushed skin like a pearl, and his jaw clenched.

Zayne was a mess. A beautiful, controlled, drunk mess trying to hold on just long enough to ensure you didn’t take the lead. Not yet. Not tonight. He would lose it—but not by your hand. Not until he’d dragged the pleasure out of you. Not until he had reminded you, in no uncertain terms, who was in charge.

“Better,” he murmured, sweeping your hair back once more—deliberate, reverent, like you were a sculpture he was preparing to display.

His fingers slid through the strands behind your ears, baring your flushed face to him as if he wanted to watch every flicker of response, every tremble.

“Come here…” He coaxed, his voice thick with restrained heat, “I want you to only examine with your hands first…”

You shifted closer on your knees, breath held, thighs pressed tight as another ripple of heat coiled inside you. Your fingers lifted—tentative at first—then curled confidently around the thick weight of him. Zayne’s hand released him to you without resistance, his gaze sharpening as you took control with all the tenderness you had. He was soaked at the tip, hot in your palm. Every throb of his cock pulsed up through your hand like the tick of a living thing, eager, needy—his entire body reduced to this. You swallowed instinctively, your mouth watering with the overwhelming want to taste him, but you obeyed. Just your hands. For now.

Your other palm joined him, tracing the bulging ridges of veins that curled around his shaft like sinuous roots. His skin was warm satin, pulled tight over steel. You felt every twitch, every subtle jerk of need his body couldn’t hide from you. Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t look away—not from his cock, not from the pulse under your fingertips, not from the faint tremble that moved through his abs every time your fingers drifted too close to the head.

“Report your findings…” Came his voice—low, breathy, dangerous in its softness. His cock twitched hard in your grip at the instruction. You knew he wasn’t even pretending anymore. His body couldn’t lie—not when you touched him like that, “what condition is your patient in?”

Oh, God. The more he committed to the role, the wetter you became. You felt it between your thighs—slick and hot with every small shift of your hips.

“…Hard as all hell,” you whispered, the heat of your breath fanning over the flushed tip of his cock as you gave him a long, deliberate stroke.

His breath faltered. His fingers slid back into your hair like instinct, lovingly combing through it—his last anchor to composure. You pinched your fingers lightly around the crown, watching the way it made his abs tense, the twitch of reaction you drew from him with just the softest touch. You stroked upward, letting your fingers feather over the tip—light, so light—until your thumb dragged a small smear of precum across the head in slow, reverent circles.

“Healthy pulse,” you added under your breath.

A sigh escaped him. His cock throbbed in your hands. You glanced up at him then—at Zayne’s face, tight with restraint, green eyes darkened into something raw and glassy with need. You bit your lip, watching his jaw flex as he barely kept from thrusting forward into your fist.

“My patient is…” You whispered, breathless, lips curling into a small smile of satisfaction, “…Completely immune to alcohol when it comes to erectile function.”

That—that made him twitch.

“Keep talking,” he ordered—shaky now, wrecked beneath the clinical sheen of his words. A command wrapped in plea.

Your heart was pounding—loud, bright, pulsing like a drum in your chest—as you watched him: Zayne, breathless, lips parted, his chest rising and falling in quiet tremors, his cock hot and twitching in your hands. You were slowly wrecking him. Again.

“Patient is…” You murmured, slipping one hand down to cup his balls with aching tenderness, your fingers curling under the weight of them. They were heavy. Full. So full they ached in your palm.

Your other hand moved in a slow, precise twist around the shaft, lifting his cock to attention, exposing him fully, spreading him open like a page in a textbook you were about to study with your mouth. Zayne’s jaw clenched. His knuckles tightened in your hair. You leaned forward—closer—your lips hovering just over the flushed, leaking tip of his cock as you exhaled purposefully, letting your breath sweep across the sensitive skin.

“So, so full,” you whispered, and you felt it—his sharp intake of breath, the slight flex in his thighs, the pulse that surged in your grip, “feels like he’s full of life…But dying for relief.”

Zayne swallowed audibly.

You grinned, sweet and wicked all at once, “I think he needs mouth-to-mouth CPR…”

“Agreed,” he breathed. It wasn’t even a command—just permission. A quiet surrender. Then his voice hitched, “you can administer—s–shit…!”

The second your lips wrapped around the head of his cock, the control shattered. He cursed. The sound of it tore through his throat like it was wrenched from the deepest part of him. His hands locked tight in your hair as your cheeks hollowed around him, lips stretching wide to take the thickness of him in. You moaned softly at the taste, at the feel of his weight on your tongue, at the low, tortured noise he made as he fought to keep his knees steady beneath your worship.

It was so satisfying. Not just the feel of him—though it was everything: hot, heavy, perfect—but the look on his face. Zayne, beautiful and undone, blinking down at you with that flushed, half-wrecked expression, his mouth parted in disbelief. He held that breath—held your gaze—as if he could survive on nothing but the sight of you down on your knees for him. And then he exhaled. A moan left him—raw and unrestrained. His hips jerked ever so slightly, instinctively, against your mouth.

“CPR requires…” He began, voice shaky as he gently began to guide your rhythm, hand tightening into a firm ponytail at the base of your skull, “…A hundred to a hundred and twenty…” He swallowed again, trying to hold on as you followed his pace, more eager now, lips gliding, tongue flattening, pressure perfect, “…Beats per minute,” he finished, a rasp as his jaw fell slack again.

You moaned around him—helpless, needy—and the vibration traveled straight up his cock, pulling another choked sound from his throat. His thighs tensed. His hips began to move—not thrusting, not yet—but swaying in time with the rhythm he set, controlled but unraveling. And in your hands, in your mouth, he throbbed. Helpless to you.

You were dizzy. Utterly, deliciously lost—in the rhythm, in the heat, in the taste of him. Zayne’s cock filled your mouth so completely that it almost numbed thought. Your jaw ached from how wide you had to stretch to take him, and still you wanted more. Your hand gripped the base where your lips couldn’t reach, wet and glistening from your drool and the slick sheen of his arousal as you stroked him with messy devotion.

Your cheeks were hollowed around him, your head bobbing steadily in time with the pace he guided, his fist firm in your hair. The thick length of him pressed to the back of your throat again and again, teasing your gag reflex, testing it—not cruelly, not harshly, but with the kind of greedy reverence only Zayne could possess. And you let him. You wanted it. Your eyes blurred from the effort, from the ache, from the sheer size of him. Mascara-stained tears welled at the corners of your lashes, but still you looked up at him—had to see him. His face. His reaction. That slack-jawed, trembling expression of being wrecked by you. He gasped—sharp and breathless. A moan, bitten off and dragged from his throat like it cost him.

“You’re so good,” he panted, hips bucking into your mouth involuntarily, his voice dissolving into air, “you’re so…S-so good for me, baby…Oh my—Oh, God…”

You moaned around him—no shame, no hesitation. The sound vibrated through your throat, and his cock twitched in your mouth, so thick, so hot, so fucking perfect. You sucked harder. You licked more desperately. You couldn’t stop. You were falling apart with him—drenched and pulsing. His free hand came down shakily, searching your bossom, and when he found your breast above the fallen fabric of your dress, he groaned—low and deep. His fingers pinched your nipple, tugging and rolling it until sparks of raw sensation arced down your spine and straight between your legs. You arched toward him. You moaned again, breath catching wetly over his cock as you bobbed in long, needy strokes—noisy, messy, reckless. Then suddenly, he grabbed your free hand—snatched it right off his thigh, his grip commanding.

“Touch yourself,” he breathed, “between your legs…”

Your breath hitched. You obeyed instantly. Your hand slipped beneath the bunched hem of your dress, fumbling it higher with trembling urgency, revealing skin still flushed with heat. You reached beneath your panties, fingers brushing against the soaked lace—sticky and humid. He watched.

His voice roughened, eyes momentarily squeezing shut as he fought to hold onto what little restraint he had left, “tell me…” He rasped, “…how wet your panties are right now.”

You whimpered around his cock, pulled off just long enough to gasp a reply.

“I’m soaked for you,” you said, panting, eyes wild and lips slick with spit and precum as you jerked him in your fist, “I’m wet everywhere down there, it’s a mess…”

His cock twitched violently at that. His hand in your hair tightened.

“Show me,” he said, the command ragged and sharp, “on your fingers…”

And you knew what he meant. Your fingers slipped with a gasp you couldn’t contain, your moan muffled around the thick weight of him in your mouth. The moment your fingertips rubbed your heat—wet, pulsing, devastated with want—you nearly fell apart. That first swipe past your clit was firm and slick and too much. Your whole body shuddered around the sensation as you exhaled over his cock. Two fingers plunged into your soaked cunt, and you whimpered. You clenched down around yourself, already fluttering with the need for release, and it took everything you had not to start fucking your hand like a woman possessed.

But not yet. Not yet. With slow, deliberate care, you pulled your hand free from between your thighs. The soft squelch of your arousal coated the air like the sweetest sin. Your fingers glistened in the low, warm light—sticky, gleaming with your nectar—and you raised them to him. He seized your wrist before your offering could even reach his face. Zayne’s grip was immediate—firm, possessive—and he stretched your arm toward him, his green eyes locked on your slicked fingers like a man hypnotized. There was something almost reverent in the silence that followed, something sacred in the hunger behind his gaze.

Oh, that sensual, worshipful freak. You watched, hypnotized, as he leaned down and moaned—moaned—just from the sight before taking your soaked fingers into his mouth. His lips parted, wet heat enveloping you. You felt his tongue—felt the intentional swirl of it around every knuckle, every line, every crevice of you. He licked and sucked like a man tasting the divine—slow, focused, savoring it with closed eyes and an expression of such wrecked reverence it made your knees buckle.

And then, something in him snapped. Like tasting you ignited something deeper. Something that could no longer be softened by the veneer of control. He kissed your palm, then your wrist. Each kiss a little more urgent, a little more breathless, until he was pulling you up off the floor—gathering your body to his like he was afraid you’d vanish. You stumbled to your feet, lightheaded and flushed, catching your balance on his broad shoulders. His hands found your hips and yanked you against him. His cock pressed thick and throbbing against the slouched edge of your dress, leaving a wet heat between you as his mouth crashed to yours.

The kiss was a mess. Open. Greedy. Tongues sliding, tasting each other—your slick still faint on his tongue, his precum on your lips. He tasted like you. You tasted like him. It was maddening. Raw. You gripped his jaw, then his chest, and you felt him groan into your mouth as he kissed you harder. Zayne’s hands found the edge of your dress with urgent tenderness, his fingertips curling into the fabric at your waist as he dragged it down your body in one slow, reverent motion. His lips never left your skin—skimming along your jaw with molten softness, then grazing lower, down the curve of your throat, the dip above your collarbone, lingering with parted, fevered kisses that trembled against your fluttering pulse.

And then he dropped to his knees again. The world tilted with the grace of it. Your breath caught. There was something so powerfully wrong about a man like him kneeling—and something even more devastatingly right. Zayne, strong and sovereign, down at your feet like you were his altar, as if the only way to worship you properly was with his whole body lowered, his whole soul laid bare.

You stood trembling above him, your fingers threaded instinctively into his hair—dark, thick, soft against your palms—as he steadied you by your thighs, easing the last of your dress down your hips. Your panties followed, delicate lace dragged along your ankles with care. You stepped out of everything, bare and vulnerable and burning under his gaze.

He kissed your thigh. High up. Just beneath the place that ached for him the most. You gasped, a sound like prayer escaping your lips as he kissed again, higher still, his breath searing heat over your inner leg. His hands slid behind your hips, firm and possessive as they pulled you closer. And then—There it was. The place he’d always craved more than anything. More than your mouth on his cock. More than the slick warmth of your hands. That was what Zayne lived for. Your sex. Your scent. The soft, slick folds of you, flushed and soaked and trembling with need.

He buried his face between your legs with a groan of reverence, as if he were breathing for the first time in hours. He inhaled you. Deep. Slow. Filling his lungs with the scent of your arousal like it was oxygen. His nose pressed into you, just beside the cleft of your center, and his lips brushed your skin—kisses that barely touched your clit, maddeningly close, deliberate in their restraint.

You moaned—unsteady, weak in the knees—and he nudged your thighs wider to make space. He wanted more. Always more. His tongue licked a long, languid stripe up your slit, tasting every drop of you that clung to your folds. Your thighs shuddered around his face. You could feel his moan against your core. Could feel the way he needed this—needed you. The way his tongue swirled, slow and greedy, not rushing to devour but to savor.

“This is mine,” he murmured into your cunt, lips wet, voice thick with devotion. It was more breath than sound—more feeling than words—as he pressed a kiss to your clit so gentle it made your hips jolt.

He was already guiding you backward—his scarred hands strong as you stumbled drunkenly, the back of your knees finding the edge of the bed, folding beneath you until you collapsed into the softness of it. The plush bedding caught your fall, but nothing could catch the way his words set you ablaze.

“Every inch of you…” He rasped, spoken like a vow—no, like a branding—each syllable seared into the air, “…Is mine.”

The moment shattered any thought you had left. You were already spreading for him before he even touched you, legs rising and parting in offering, in need, in surrender. It was primal. Inevitable. He took your hips in his hands with a force so reverent it made you ache, and dragged you—firmly, unrelentingly—to the edge of the bed until your heat was flush with his face, until you could feel his breath ghost over you in fevered waves.

Then—A sigh. A sigh—like he’d just tasted divinity, and you were the altar. Zayne’s mouth latched to you like he’d been dying for it, like kissing your pussy was air and he’d been holding his breath all night. Your spine left the bed in a shocked arc, neck taut, eyes rolling into some white-flecked heaven as he pulled you into his mouth like a man lost in worship. The first suck was sweet. Deep. Almost tender. The second—not.

He licked you like he couldn’t get enough. Because he couldn’t. The rhythm of it was obscene and intoxicating, sloppy and passionate, fast and utterly devout. His tongue pressed, flattened, flicked—worshiped. Every motion bespoke hunger, but it was his love—his unbearable, messy, possessive love for you—that made it devastating. His hands wandered, warm and wanting, skimming up the silk of your tummy like he needed to memorize you. His hair spilled above your mound, soft black strands tickling over sensitive skin, beautiful and maddening. Then those hands—those hands—found your breasts and the world tilted again.

“Th-that’s all yours,” you whimpered, trembling as your sex lifted into his mouth on instinct, searching for pressure, for friction, for him.

And he gave it. Oh, he gave it. A thick, wet smear of tongue swept over your clit—greedy and filthy and perfect. Your hips jerked and your voice broke, caught between gasp and moan and prayer. He felt it. All of it. The quiver in your thighs. The way your nipples hardened like he’d breathed desire straight into them. The way you were already rolling your hips, grinding shamelessly into the rhythm he gave you like you needed to fuse to his face. Your body begged for more with every twitch, and Zayne—fully drunk, wholly in love—devoured that desperation. He didn’t just lick you. He drank you in. He swore, mouth full of you, silently promising more, deeper, always. And he hadn’t even started yet.

“Say it again for me,” Zayne murmured, his breath wet and sin-warmed against your most sensitive skin, each syllable puffing over your clit like a promise. His tongue swept up in another devastating flick, thick and unhurried, savoring the taste of you as if your pleasure was the only thing anchoring him to the world, “God, say it again, Y/n…”

The way he spoke—pleaded—against your folds made you clench, made your thighs twitch, made heat curl in your belly like smoke and lightning tangled into one. It was too much. It was not enough. His voice, low and desperate, didn’t match the sacred filth of what he was doing between your legs—didn’t match the brutal reverence with which he consumed you like you were a miracle he had to pray for with his mouth. Your head lifted from the bed—somehow, barely, you pulled yourself upward, compelled by the magnetic need to see him, hands trembling as you kept your knees hooked apart.

And there he was. Zayne’s face nestled between your thighs, mouth glistening with your arousal, dark lashes spiked from sweat, his emerald eyes fixed right on you the second you moved. His gaze struck you down like a divine weapon—hot, unblinking, starving—and yet loving in a way that made your chest ache. Your hand reached for him without thinking, threading into his black hair, brushing it away from those beautiful, insatiable eyes. And in that very moment, as you swept his hair from his face, he dragged his tongue slow and heavy up the length of your clit in a motion so precise it felt like a signature, just for you to watch, for him to see. You jolted. Your stomach lurched. Fire carved its way up your spine, tearing a gasp from your lungs.

“Th-that’s your pussy, Zayne,” you cried—no control, no shame, just the raw, filthy truth tumbling from your lips like confession.

His breath hitched. His eyes widened—not with shock at what you said, but at how you said it. The way the words cracked, soaked in heat and honesty and so much need it nearly undid him. And then—then—his eyes changed. Darkened. Deepened. He looked like he’d just tasted the kind of truth you couldn’t unlearn.

“My God,” he exhaled, like he was chastising you but couldn’t stop devouring your sweet fruit in sinful greed, “you’re absolutely obscene…”

The words sounded like worship. And somehow, being scolded—dirty little praise stitched in silk and sin—only ignited you more. Your entire body buzzed, vision going soft around the edges as Zayne’s scarred hands traveled lower, as though your words had made him even more reverent, more determined to trace every piece of you like scripture. He mapped your body with fingers full of adoration and possession—ribs, waist, hips, thighs—every inch touched like it mattered, like it belonged to him. Then he dipped in again, mouth parted, lips swollen, and when he sucked your clit back into his mouth with a filthy, noisy pop, your whole body convulsed. It was loud. Shameless. The kind of sound that should’ve embarrassed you, but instead sent a pulse of desperate pleasure through you like a lightning strike. And Zayne moaned into you. Moaned like you were the one pleasuring him.

“The only thing that’s—unf!—obscene,” you choked out, every syllable breaking under the strain of your unraveling control, your breath hitching as pleasure coiled low and molten in your belly, “is how good you look licking my clit back and fo—”

“—Shhhh,” Zayne hushed you, his voice frayed with restraint, rough and husky with something dangerously close to a groan. He sealed his mouth back to you with a noise that made you see stars, dragging his tongue with a sharp, almost punishing shake of his head, as if to rattle the filthy words right out of you. Your entire body jumped—a gasp cracked out of you, stunned and breathless.

“You don’t know what you’re saying right now…” He murmured into you, voice nearly breaking, as if your words were doing things to him he wasn’t ready to admit.

“Y-yes I do,” you shot back on instinct, breathless, defiant, burning for him.

But then—he was moving. Suddenly, he rose up from his knees with a grace so fluid and fast it made your stomach clench. His hands found your hips, and in a flash he was on the bed grabbing you, spinning your trembling body around until you lay fully, thighs still parted and held up. And then he was there again—mouth reuniting with your clit like he missed it, like he’d been deprived of it for years, not seconds. And you were sensitive now, unbearably so. The break had made you dizzy, your nerves exposed, raw, ready to break.

Your fingers dove into his hair again, tangling tight as if anchoring yourself to the world, or maybe just to him, “God, baby, you’re so good!”

The words slipped out on their own—honest and helpless—and the moment they did, the heat in your belly turned volcanic. He moaned into you, grinding his tongue in tighter circles, faster, deeper, lapping like he was dying to drink every last drop of your pleasure. And oh, he did. Again and again and again. Over and over, he lapped at you. And lapped. And lapped. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. All you could do was feel. Pleasure rose in waves, crashing up your spine, shaking through your limbs. You panted hard, hips grinding into his face, into his mouth, chasing the rhythm, chasing that rapture that was no longer approaching—it was already here.

“Yes!” You cried, voice ragged, breaking, your body nothing but heat and nerve and hunger, “Zayne, I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna cum! Baby, yes!”

Your spine arched in a perfect, helpless curve, head thrown back into the plush, cloud-soft blankets as if they alone could ground you—but nothing could. Not with Zayne’s mouth working you like that, lips sealing you into the center of your own euphoria, tongue painting stars behind your fluttering eyelids. Fireworks went off everywhere—in your vision, your limbs, your core. You twitched beneath him, spasming sweet and raw, nerve endings flaring as he didn’t stop.

And then—oh, God—you felt it. Two long fingers, slick and precise, slide inside you with an ease born of deep knowledge and unrelenting hunger. He worked you even as you came, even as you trembled and clenched around him, your walls fluttering around the intrusion, milking his knuckles like you couldn’t bear to let him go. You sobbed his name, a broken cry of joy and heat and something so much deeper—something wild and sacred. Fingers in his hair, you clutched him to you, hips rising, your whole body offering, smothering, begging as he lapped and moaned and curled. Lord—his fingertips curled toward the ceiling with exacting force, hitting that spot that made the whole world melt into white-hot sensation.

“You want to talk about obscene?” He gasped for air, lifting his head at last, voice wrecked, soaked in your taste, your moan.

You whimpered, already overstimulated, but your body said yes even as your mind struggled to keep up. Zayne sat back on his calves, eyes dark, possessive. He pushed your legs up again with one smooth motion, commanding. He leaned over one thigh, hooking your calf over his shoulder like it belonged there, folding you open like a page only he knew how to read. You gasped—sharp, high, vulnerable—as his fingers suddenly slammed back inside you. Fast. Deep. A brutal, beautiful rhythm that punched up into that spot again and again, leaving your lip trembling, your breath stuttering. Each thrust sent another shot of molten lightning through your veins, the kind of heat that didn’t just warm—it scorched.

And then—his face. God, his face. That look. The pure, undeniable possessiveness in the way he stared down at you—green eyes locked, unblinking, unapologetic. He looked at you like he owned every twitch of your body, every breath, every moan. Like no matter how bratty, how bold, how tempting you ever were—you’d never win. Because you never wanted to. Because you’d already surrendered. And under that gaze? You melted. You opened. You couldn’t help yourself. Your other leg slipped wide, spread away from you like muscle memory, like submission carved into your bones. Welcoming him. Welcoming everything he had.

“I’ll show you obscene,” Zayne growled, his voice velvet and gravel wrapped around molten want. And then—he did.

His wrist blurred with speed, every piston of his fingers punching deep inside you with merciless precision, the heel of his palm smacking rhythmically against your soaked skin. The motion wasn’t just fast—it was furious. Like his body couldn’t contain what he felt for you and had to show it with force, with heat, with everything he had. You shook with each thrust, breasts rippling, your body rocked helplessly over the mattress like a ragdoll of pleasure.

“Tell me again, my love…” He demanded, voice low, breathy from restraint and desire and command, “who’s pussy is this?”

And that. That was it. That broke you. The dam inside you shattered with a fury you couldn’t have prepared for, and the orgasm came not as a wave, but a flood—violent, divine, explosive. It ripped through you, molten and white-hot, the kind of release that seized your body and didn’t let go. You gushed—gushed—hot and wild over his arm, soaking his scarred skin, watching in raw, stunned awe as your own body betrayed its devotion.

You shouted—no, you wailed, your voice trembling from the rawness of it, cracked and vibrating with the pitch of something too big for words. It was filthy. It was gorgeous. It was ruinous. The squelch of your sex under his fingers was obscene music in the air, lewd and slick and wet beyond reason, echoing off the walls and your own ears. And all you could do—all your broken, ecstatic mind could manage—was watch. Watch him own you.

“Yours!” You cried out, throat raw, words breaking apart as you dug your nails into the blanket and your calf as you raised it high, clutching tight to hold something, to feel anything but the overwhelming pleasure, “it’s Zayne’s pussy!”

And it was. It always had been. Your juices sprayed again, shooting over his forearm, coating your thighs, soaking the blankets in a wild, beautiful mess. It was primal. It was his. And Zayne—relentless, in control, unyielding—did not stop. He knew your body, knew you deeper than any man ever could. With every precise thrust, he hit that perfect spot inside you—again. Again. Again. Until your vision blurred into white and your body gave up resisting, all nerves overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the sensation.

Then his free hand slid down from your leg over his shoulder, broad and warm and grounding, and pressed against your lower belly—right where the pressure burned hottest. And that—That made your body snap. You cried out, a broken, wordless sound, split open under the weight of pleasure too vast, too consuming to hold. You were no longer speaking. No longer thinking. Just feeling.

“Filthy girl,” Zayne breathed, reverent and wrecked, the words dripping from his lips like sacred sin, dark adoration pooling in every syllable. His fingers still moved within you—unrelenting, devastating—as your body convulsed beneath him, muscles spasming around his hand in erratic, desperate pulses. You couldn’t stop trembling. Couldn’t stop coming. You were beyond the point of return, nerves frayed to ribbons, skin slick and glowing from the sheer exhaustion of pleasure.

“Filthy, beautiful girl…” He murmured again, half in awe, half in heat, “you’re so lovely, even when you’re this obscene…”

You couldn’t reply. You were too busy pouring—waves of wetness gushing from your center, soaking the bed beneath you, soaking him. You’d stop for a moment—just long enough to breathe—and then the next orgasm would crash down again, shattering you anew. Zayne worked you like a man starved and you were his feast, writhing, crying out, scrambling for purchase, for relief—for anything.

Your hand clawed across the blankets in blind desperation until you found it—his tie. His favorite. Left discarded, draped across the bed. You seized it, shoved the silk into your mouth and bit down, muffling the scream building in your throat. Your face burned, flushed and soaked, your hair a halo of sweat and wildness. You screamed into the fabric as your body seized up with another orgasm, unrelenting, dizzying, uncountable.

“Gorgeous little minx,” he praised, voice like rough velvet, the sound of it painting ecstasy straight onto your skin, “you love pleasure, don’t you?”

The words were almost a growl, spoken as your slick sprayed over his chest, over his stomach, one hot stream even catching across the base of his hard cock, heavy and untouched and aching. His jaw clenched, his fingers working like your arousal only made him hungrier. You couldn’t reply. Could barely breathe. Couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but him, him, him. And then—finally—he slowed.

Zayne withdrew his wrinkled fingers with agonizing slowness, savoring the sight of them soaked and dripping, your sex still twitching, your thighs trying to snap closed but shaking too hard to even move. He rose over you slowly, reverently, his soaked hand trailing down your thigh while his other reached up, fingers combing gently through your damp hair. He leaned down close. Close enough to taste your breath. To breathe your desperation like perfume.

“Answer me, angel,” he whispered, tender now, his voice featherlight and coaxing. His lips found your jaw—warm, soft kisses between each word, “do you love the way I love you?”

You were limp beneath him. Broken open. Fucked soft and delirious, your head lolling slightly as you clutched the damp tie in one trembling hand. You could barely nod—but you did. The motion was small, half-thought, devoted. Zayne smiled, brushing your hair from your flushed, tear-wet cheek. You let go of the tie as he gently tugged it free from your teeth, the silk slick with your bite, with your need.

“I love…” You whispered, voice ragged and thready as your eyes fluttered open, “l-love…Yes, honey…”

His clean hand found yours like instinct, as if your bodies were still mid-conversation even though your lips had fallen silent from the sheer intensity of what had passed between you. His fingers laced through yours, long and warm, and then his mouth was on your cheek. A kiss that wasn’t hurried or ravenous, but slow. Deep. A devotion pressed into skin. You could feel his breath as much as his lips, feel the softness of him, the affection—and yet, beneath all of it, the pulse of him hard and insistent, throbbing against your thigh like a secret he was barely keeping.

You smiled. Dizzy. Drunk on love. On him. Your whole body humming in the aftermath of ruin. And still, the need returned. Fierce. Immediate. Unrelenting. Zayne lifted you like something sacred, one arm slipping beneath your hips to tuck a pillow there just right, the other adjusting your legs, guiding them open. You bent your knees, hooked your arms beneath your calves to hold yourself open—bare, offered, desperate. Every motion was slow and exact, his hands gentle as they swept your hair from your face, caressing you like you were fragile only because he adored you too much not to be careful. He leaned down, kissing the tender hollow of your collarbone as if to seal you.

“Can you fall apart…” He whispered against your skin, the words melting into the flush of your neck, “just one more time, for me?”

How could a man sound like that? That voice—rasped with need, soaked in love, touched with trembling restraint—it ruined you. You couldn’t speak. You just nodded, vision soft, nerves wrecked, your body craving the only thing that would soothe the ache now: him. The weight of him. The thick, slow stretch of his cock inside you. Your cunt clenched at nothing in anticipation, fluttering open, leaking, waiting.

Zayne straightened, sitting back on his calves, cock heavy and slick in his hand. Your eyes met—green fire to the daze of your blown pupils—and in that moment, you both knew: you were past the point of tenderness. It wasn’t about buildup. It wasn’t about patience. It was about consumption. He swiped the head of his cock against your drenched folds, coating himself in the slickness of your ruin, your need, the taste of everything he had pulled from you. And then—He plunged. And you both shattered.

Your mouths fell open, no sound, no words—just a twin gasp, one single breath of shock. Of pleasure. Of finally. Your brows furrowed at the same time, faces twisting in that indescribable expression of two people being drawn into something primal, something holy. Inch by inch, your body took him, your inner walls fluttering around the invasion, desperately sucking him deeper, stretching, yielding, clinging.

He groaned—a sound from the chest, heavy and reverent—as he bottomed out inside you, groin pressed flush to your soaked lips. His hands wrapped around the tops of your thighs, grounding himself in the feel of you. Of this. And then—together—you moaned. It wasn’t just pleasure. It was love. It was alcohol. It was you and Zayne, undone and lost in the kind of intimacy that blurred the line between self and soul. The room smelled like sex and sweetness, the musky perfume of something too sacred to name.

You could feel every inch of him. The weight. The width. The stretch that made your vision pulse with white around the edges. And you needed it. Oh, God—you needed it hard. No teasing. No slow push and pull. You needed him to fuck you like he was breaking something in you open—breaking it so he could live inside it. You wanted to be pounded. Brutal. Deep. Relentless. You didn’t need foreplay anymore. You needed to belong.

Your vision blurred and trembled with each press of his hips, your eyes trying—desperately trying—to focus through the dizziness. You needed to see him. Needed to ground yourself in something before you splintered entirely. And there he was. Wrecked. Zayne’s beautiful face was slack with raw feeling, his composure utterly gone. The strong lines of his frame were bowed slightly forward over you like even being inside you broke something in him, stole his breath, his mind, his sense of self. His head hung low, black hair damp and sticking to his flushed forehead, jaw loose with panting effort. You loved seeing him like that—so wrecked, so overwhelmed by you.

“Zayne—” you breathed, voice barely air, a plea, a prayer, a confession.

“—I know,” he cut in softly, like he’d been waiting to say it. His hand squeezed your thigh, grounding you in the gentlest reassurance, fingers stroking tenderly into your skin—an I’ve got you in the form of touch. His eyes flicked up, emerald and feral with need, locking to yours with a flicker of aching love amid the heat. And then—he lost it. There was no slow build, no sweet whisper trailing down your neck this time.

Zayne drove into you. Ruthless. Relentless. A sharp, devastating rhythm that had you lurching with every impact. His groin smacked wetly into your open folds, again. And again. And again, the room full of the obscene music of skin, slickness, and desire. His cock slammed into your cunt at that perfect upward angle—God, that angle—brushing and then punching into that sensitive, swollen spot inside you that made your spine snap back like you were being shocked with pleasure. You arched before him, nails digging under your calves, neck pulled taut as your pressed back, lips parted and trembling. Your voice broke over his name—Zayne—again and again, the sound of it completely uncontrolled, completely worshipful. His name was your mantra. And his thrusts were your ruin. He groaned, each sound a ragged piece of his soul breaking loose and pouring into you. The wet slap of his cock driving into your fluttering heat was constant, rhythmic, obscene—a symphony of sex, your moans the melody, his gasping devotion the harmony.

“I want to give you every ounce of pleasure you can possibly take,” he sighed, and his voice—God, that voice—shook with restraint and reverence, as if even he didn’t know how much more he could stand. He pistoned harder, deeper—helplessly, like his own body had abandoned reason and now moved only to serve the heat of your sex, the worship of your need. And then his hand—wide, strong, reverent—slid to your lower belly, pressing down just enough to make you feel him even more, “f-fill you to the brim with pleasure…”

Zayne pressed down, his fingers spreading possessively across your stomach, grounding you beneath the sheer force of his body as his thumb found your clit—soft, flushed, aching. He didn’t rub. He didn’t circle. He just rested there. Let the slick, rhythmic pounding of his thrusts do the work. The pressure of his thumb was perfect, perfectly placed, using the momentum of every slam of his cock into your heat to drag your clit against him in desperate friction. You cried out—high, broken—because it was too much. Too precise. He was hitting every part of you. Every nerve. Every inch. Zayne was a weapon of pleasure. A divinely-sent man made to destroy you with gentleness wrapped around brute need.

“I want, w-want everything you have if—!” Your voice slurred into moans, the words falling apart as your head lolled, the pleasure splintering your ability to think, “i-if it feels this amazing!”

You couldn’t see straight. You couldn’t think. All you could feel was the way his cock dragged through your core, heavy and so thick, the friction spreading you open on every stroke. Your inner walls spasmed with every hit, clinging to him like your body knew this was it—this was the only place you ever wanted to be again. Zayne wasn’t just fucking you. He was worshipping you with his cock. With his need. His gaze was torn between your face and your sex—wrecked, drenched, your slick dripping and coating his thighs, his abs, the loud, wet squelch of every thrust driving him closer to madness. He groaned—again and again—eyes flicking between the mess you were making for him and the desperate contortions of your face. He looked possessed. He looked owned.

“Then take it,” he breathed out, the words husky as he leaned over you more, voice full of reverent surrender, “take everything I have, my love…!”

He looked gorgeous. His face flushed crimson with heat and effort, hair sticking to his temple, jaw clenched in an expression of pure, unbearable restraint. His strong, beautiful frame trembled, every hard-earned muscle twitching with the effort of holding himself back from release just yet. Sweat gleamed across his chest and dripped down onto your stomach as he pushed himself harder, deeper, faster—like he was racing the edge of his own control and losing. You could hear it in his breath—those ragged, desperate exhalations. The concentration on his face as he stared down at you like you were both his salvation and his undoing. His eyes kept flickering—between your clit, your fluttering hole, your mouth as it hung open around choked moans—and every time he looked, he got closer.

“Zayne,” you gasped, your voice a ragged moan, barely enough air behind it, but full of need, full of command. Your limbs were trembling, strung out, your head swimming in ecstasy, and still—you fought to keep your eyes open. Fought to see him, “look at me!”

And he did. Even with his cock slamming into you like a man who had no right to be that deep, that thick, that perfect—he still lifted his gaze again. His breath was wrecked. His body slick and shaking. But when you called to him like that, Zayne looked. Your eyes met, and it hit you both like an aftershock—how wrecked you both were, how far gone. And still you pushed. You were greedy for him. Greedy to burn.

“You love fucking me senseless, don’t you?” You panted, your voice pitched low, sultry, cracked from strain, but sharp with sinful joy, “don’t you, baby?”

This time there was no hesitation. No stunned pause. Just a full-body groan that ripped out of him like you’d torn it straight from his soul. His face twisted in pleasure, jaw clenched like your words lit something in him on fire.

“I love fucking you…” He panted, hips hammering into your drenched sex with force and purpose, his thumb grinding against your clit with every snap of his hips, “love every s-second of…F-fucking you senseless!”

Your walls twitched. The sound of him talking like that—Zayne, who was usually all quiet devotion and tender hands—now panting, cursing, pounding into you with a need so raw it made your spine seize. Your thighs jerked. Your insides clamped. Every single thrust was like an earthquake, knocking you farther into a place beyond thought. Your belly burned. That pressure in your core? It was unbearable now. Unstoppable. The combination of the angle from the pillow beneath you, the grinding weight of his hand pressing down on your lower stomach, his cock hammering your sweet spot, and his thumb grazing your clit like he knew you were about to explode—it was all too much.

“You’re gonna make me cum so hard,” you sobbed, your voice no longer words but pleading sound, raw from the back of your throat, “I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna—ahh! Ahhh!”

“Cum for me,” Zayne pleaded—commanded—his hands tightening on your thigh and lower belly as he rammed into you like a man utterly consumed. His control had long since vanished, all restraint shattered under the heat of you. The wild slap of skin meeting skin filled the room, and his emerald eyes—God, those eyes—were glazed, feral, drowned in lust, “God, cum for me! One more time! Yes! Yes!”

And you did. You came on command. Like your body was wired to his voice, to his hands, to his cock, to his love. The heat inside you detonated—violently, beautifully—into a blinding inferno that seized you in full-body convulsions. Your walls clenched down hard around him, squeezing the thick length of his cock with a relentless, fluttering grip that refused to let go. You gushed—poured—liquid heat coating both of you, splattering between your thighs with every powerful shove of his hips.

You screamed—his name, broken, bliss-drunk, holy—as your spine arched clear off the bed, head tossed back, mouth open in surrender. Light burst behind your eyelids like fireworks, your climax crashing through you in endless, punishing waves. And then—he followed. Zayne groaned from the depths of his chest and collapsed forward, catching himself with one trembling arm as the other clamped over your mouth, muffling your scream while his cock shoved deep and stayed. He twitched inside you. Twitched again. And then spilled. You could feel it—thick, hot, endless—bursting from deep inside him and flooding into you in white-hot pulses. Ropes. Ropes of him flooding you, painting your walls white while he pressed his hips down hard, burying himself to the hilt to keep every drop locked inside your fluttering warmth.

“Just like this…” He panted against your ear, wrecked, lips brushing your skin with each broken word, “I love making you cum, sweet girl…”

His voice was shaking, soft, warm, aching, every syllable dripping with adoration and exhaustion. His weight settled over you like a promise—like safety. Zayne’s hips rolled slow, lazy, still twitching as the last spurts spilled from him, his breath hot at your throat, his cock still throbbing in your overwhelmed core. He clung to you—chest to chest, heart to heart—never pulling away.

“I’ll do anything…” He whispered, lips ghosting along your cheek, your jaw, a trembling kiss on your sweat-damp temple, “say anything…If it makes you feel good…”

His voice cracked again, breath catching on the weight of how much he loved you, how utterly you had him.

“As long as you scream my name the way you do…” He kissed you again, this time slower, deeper, melting against your mouth, “I’m completely fulfilled.”

You lay there in the breathless quiet, your bodies still humming from the aftershocks of the high you had just shared—violent, sacred, unforgettable. The room was painted in the thick perfume of sex and sweat, the low hum of the air conditioning finally cooling your skin as it clung to his. Your legs shook as they settled back onto the mattress, muscles soft and helpless.

Zayne didn’t say anything as you reached up to wipe the damp strands of hair from his forehead, his lashes fluttering at the gentle touch like you were soothing something raw and vulnerable deep inside him. Then he pulled out with a hiss, a wince twisting his face—not in regret, but in that particular ache that only came from giving and receiving everything. He was spent. Body sore, cock spent, every inch of him used up in the beautiful act of loving you. With a groan, he flopped onto his back, tossing an arm over his eyes for a second, the other tangled with your trembling fingers. You felt him squeeze gently, grounding both of you in the silence that followed—the kind of silence that didn’t ask for anything, that just held.

“…Are you alright?” He asked after a moment, voice slurring softly, his head turning to catch the dew of your flushed face.

You nodded, your tired smile lighting up your eyes, “oh, I’m amazing, Zaynie…”

That name—slurred so sweetly, so intimately—made him laugh, and you joined him, your giggles tangling into the hoarseness of his breathless chuckles as he extended an arm to gather you into his chest. You curled into him like muscle memory, like you belonged there—because you did.

“You really are,” he murmured against your hair, kissing the crown of your head. His lips lingered there, his breath catching slightly as he whispered, “I love you so much…Enough to be alright with how mortified I know I’ll be in the morning when I remember all the obscenities I uttered tonight…And when I get a barrage of voicemails with noise complaints from the hotel staff…”

You laughed into his chest, your body still trembling as you tucked yourself tighter against him, “your obscenities were my favorite…I loved it.”

And you meant it. Every moan, every filthy praise, every desperate cry—it wasn’t just sex. It was Zayne. Yours.

“Don’t be mortified,” you whispered with a sleepy smile, “we’ll be brave about it together tomorrow.”

Zayne nodded into your hair, holding you a little closer, as if the weight of your words stirred something ancient in him. He didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence sit, deep and warm, pulsing between your bodies like a second heartbeat. But inside him, something cracked open—softly, quietly.

He remembered that night. The fireworks blooming in the sky above you, lighting up your smile in bursts of color and wonder. You’d been curled into his side, nervous about how much you were starting to love him, how terrifying it felt to fall so hard. And he, in his quiet, steady way, had promised you: “The girl I love will never have to be brave on her own.”

And now—you remembered. You remembered and gave it back to him, tucked into a giggle, sweet and sleepy, like it had always lived inside you. It pierced him. Right through the chest. Zayne pressed a long kiss into your crown and shut his eyes. And then another memory came. The wish. He hadn’t told you about it—not once, not even when you’d teased him for being so secretive about it since. But on that same night, beneath those blooming stars, he’d made a wish. Silly, stubborn, sacred. One he wouldn’t speak aloud until the moment it came true. That you’d say yes when he asked you to marry him. That you’d look at him with those same star-bright eyes and say yes to forever.

He bought a ring and had been keeping it ever since. Tucked into the lining of his travel case, always with him, like a secret promise only he could feel burning through the silk. Sometimes, when you weren’t looking, he’d touch the spot just to reassure himself it was still there. Still possible. And maybe it was almost time. Maybe soon. Maybe tomorrow, even. Maybe next week. But you—silly, lovely girl—hadn’t figured it out. Hadn’t guessed that the thing he’d wished for all this time was you, with your legs in his lap, your laughter in his ears, your hand slipping into his like it had always belonged there.

After a lazy, half-drunken cleanup—just enough to climb into dry sheets and bury yourselves under a nest of tangled blankets—you both collapsed into bed. You, curled into his side. Zayne, still a little dazed, still pulsing with everything you’d just shared. His hand never left your waist. And as sleep took him, heavy and slow, he smiled to himself. Because even with his body sore and the air still thick with the echo of your names, his last waking thought was that ring. And how beautiful you’d look when he’d finally ask you to marry him.

[hometowne-auto-repair-and-tire]

Sway bar end links are torn and cracking on a Lexus.

By replacing them soon, we can avoid more damage.

Worn sway bar end links can cause knocking or rattling noises.

[pretzelwrites]

THE COLONEL'S INSPECTION .

summary: after being apart from caleb for months, you and tara visit skyhaven for the summer solstice festival. he has… concerns about how you spent your time apart.

warnings: nsfw (18+, minors dni), dubcon/noncon, caleb is very controlling and a little mean in this, pet names (pipsqueak, silly girl, and 1 singular ‘gege’), fingering, virginity testing, smut with plot, lowkey badafabanatomy101, extreme jealousy, inappropriate use of evol, pre-confession caleb & mc, manhandling, orgasm denial if you squint. 

characters: caleb from love and deepspace (post-explosion with some edits), afab!mc reader, and tara. everyone is in their twenties.

wc: 2.9k

author’s note: soooo this is my first fic in like ten years… i hope you all like it! i took creative liberties for dramatic effect (i.e. mc’s grandma gifting caleb her antique dining table pre-explosion.) also, this was originally written in present tense before i switched it to past tense so if you notice any typos or grammatical errors…. that’s why rip. if i missed any warnings, please let me know!

* link to part two.  

visiting caleb happened less and less often. between your work with the hunter’s association, and his work as a colonel for the fleet, there was not much room in either of your schedules to meet up. that’s why whenever you had a few days of freedom, the two of you made sure to make the best of it. this time, luck was on your side. not only did you manage to get three days off of work because a big case you were working on concluded a month earlier than expected, but it also coincided with the summer solstice festival in skyhaven— and caleb said he would be free for most of your visit. what were the odds?

being freed up from the case meant tara could tag along with you, and you immediately invited her after asking caleb. he agreed to allow this with only one condition: she could not sleepover. it was a surprisingly rude request from the typically friendly and accommodating caleb, plus it was extremely inconvenient for tara. afterall, it was the only summer festival in skyhaven. most hotels would be booked up by now, and what was leftover would probably be low quality or expensive.

and your efforts to persuade him?

“i’m not changing my mind, pipsqueak.” he said dismissively although his tone was still cheerful. his rich violet eyes remained fixated on the new model plane he was assembling while he spoke into the phone, “this home is open to family, and family only.” even if you two weren’t technically family, you understood exactly what that meant— and no amount of pleading or batting your lashes would sway him. so, you begrudgingly told tara she’d have to find a place to crash for the entire trip. your friend, always the optimist, took it in stride and even seemed to enjoy flipping through the listings of premium hotels in the city.

“ooh! Y/N, look at this one! it’s got one of those infinity pools on the roof!” she’d exclaim while shoving her phone towards you over your desk of files. a holographic 3D model of the swanky hotel popped up from her screen. it was sleek and clean, mirroring the aesthetic that decorated most of skyhaven. you smiled and nodded in an attempt to feign the same level of excitement as her, but you found it hard to. 

for some reason, there was a growing sense of dread in the center of your chest. 

two days passed by quickly, with most of the time being spent trotting through the festival with tara and caleb— then finishing the night off at the bar with tara. caleb would say he couldn’t stay long, that he had something to tend to early in the morning, but that meant you two could enjoy yourselves without him. things were going smoothly… perhaps your worries were truly irrational afterall?

the first night, you and tara had gone a little overboard and were too drunk to end up anywhere other than the hard couch in her hotel room. the second night, you were invited out to dinner by tara’s favorite artist from the festival, you couldn’t possibly say no to her desperate pleas to tag along. that meant you had to cancel dinner with caleb twice, but you swore you’d make it up to him later. 

on the third day, you all decided to conclude your last festival visit with something sweet. the local shops were selling all sorts of solstice themed foods, and this particular parlor had brightly colored frozen yogurt with the cutest sun-shaped cookie bites topped off with iridescent sprinkles. you and tara couldn’t bare to pass it up, even though caleb seemed worn out by the constant activities. 

as you stood in line to order, he leaned down to whisper at a level only you could hear, “don’t spoil your appetite, pipsqueak.”  

that sounded like a threat.

you found a small table beside the window, and the three of you settled in. you sat beside tara, and caleb took the seat across from you. right away, the table was loud with lively conversation and laughter between bites of creamy sweetness. you all exchanged jokes and tidbits seamlessly, there was barely a second to breathe between the chatting. considering both tara and caleb were social butterflies, it was no surprise they got along well. 

somehow, the flow of conversation brought you to discuss each other's silly childhood habits. tara laughed at the way you’d steal his t-shirts from the dirty laundry to mop up any spilled juice and coffee, and caleb brought up how he would send you at least ten check-in texts every time you’d go out with your friends when you were teens.

tara’s eyes lit up and she nudged her knee against yours under the table. “oh, just like that guy leonardo! there must be something about you that brings out protectiveness from guys.” she turned to face caleb, “it makes sense that you’d do that since you two are close, but i told Y/N before that it would be so weird if leonardo wasn’t cute!” 

it was like the air had been sucked out of your lungs. even though you and leo were just friends, his feelings for you were hard to ignore, and you had gone on a few dates with him. you had told tara plenty of times that your ‘gege’ was protective, and wouldn’t be fond of the idea of you casually dating someone he’d never met. regardless of how old you both were, caleb was unable to shake this role. you blinked at tara, a silent plea for her to stop— be quiet, take it back, anything other than continue talking. 

she immediately caught on to the pleading look in your eye and attempted to backpedal. “i- i mean, not that it’s- hah- he’s not anything serious, of course. h-he’s a good coworker, is my point.” she laughed nervously, and you joined her in it. the conversation at the table carries on to a new topic, thankfully, and for a moment you thought you were in the clear… until you looked over to caleb. 

it was something only you, someone who had nearly a lifetime of experiencing caleb’s personality, would be able to detect. as he listened to tara’s ramblings about the exhibit of her favorite artist at the festival, the same one you two had drinks with prior, you immediately notice the way his smile fails to reach his eyes. in fact, his typically vibrant gaze seemed to have lost every fleck of color it had. he was merely going through the motions to keep up appearances.

the feeling of dread you had managed to shake off earlier returned tenfold, and the colorful dessert in your bowl suddenly became incredibly unappetizing. it melted into a puddle of sugary goop and soggy bits of shortbread as the sun disappeared under the horizon.

it was tara who first announced she would be turning in for the night. your heart fell further from your chest when you realized that meant being alone with caleb for the aforementioned dinner you promised him, and absolutely could not back out on. dinners with caleb were always a treat, but this time…

“it was good to see you, tara.” caleb’s smooth voice interrupted your train of thought. tara smiled widely and nodded, “it was nice to see you, too! you two have a goodnight!” she turned on her heels to walk in the opposite direction towards her hotel, while you and caleb headed back to his place. 

the trip back was full of what could only be described as bizarre small talk; retreading old ground, repeating details you’d already told him over the phone months ago, and answering questions that felt pointless to you. you wanted to shrug it off, to reason that surely the man you’d known nearly your entire life didn’t deserve to be treated so suspiciously, but this wasn’t meaningless small talk. he was fishing for information, attempting to piece together just what you were up to during your time apart. when the realization dawned on you, you suddenly became concerned about how every detail would be interpreted, and your responses shortened to a handful of words at most. 

you stepped inside of the familiarity of caleb’s home, letting out a satisfied sigh when the scent of him enveloped you like a warm blanket. “mmm, it’s always nice to come back to—” your words are cut off with a loud ‘click’, the sound of the door being locked behind you. 

“i already have dinner from last night prepared in the fridge, it just needs to be heated up.” caleb muttered while pulling off his heavy bomber jacket to toss onto the couch. the fact that this was likely the dinner you two were supposed to have the night before felt like yet another bad omen. “i- uh, great! i-i’ll set the table.” it was a habit you had picked up on in your youth. a dining table full of plates, even if empty, made you feel like your family was bigger than the one you’d found. you swallow down your anxiety and quickly trot to the kitchen, walking past the old table that used to be your grandmother’s. 

when you return, arms heavy with a stack of porcelain, caleb is standing by the table with his hands planted firmly on his hips. furrowed brows and underneath that, eyes downcast and unfocused. he appeared to be locked in deep thought.

“cal—?” 

“put the plates down and come here.” 

his tone was authoritative and flat—  the same tone he used when you were caught in a lie all those years ago. that persistent dread fully consumes you as you carefully place the stack of fragile plates onto the table and walk to his side. you looked to him expectantly, fists tightly squeezed shut, waiting to get scolded for your flakiness during the trip. in a flash, he pulled you flush against his body by your wrists, wedging you between his large build and the table. “a-ah! c-caleb, what the-”

“do you have any idea how fuckin’ rude you’ve been? how much restraint i’ve had to use lately?” his bionic arm, with all of its unnatural strength, takes control of your throat and holds your back firmly against his body. your frantic wiggling only makes the feeling worse, the metal causing red patches of friction on your throat. you have no choice but to stay still.

detecting your reluctant submission, he chuckled in bitter amusement. “ah, so pips hasn’t completely lost her mind…” caleb whispered, his warm breath skating down the side of your face. “cooperate and this will be over quickly.”  his human hand snaked under the hem of your dress, traveling up your skin and leaving a trail of heat in it’s wake. his fingertips gracing the frilly hem of your panties makes you squirm automatically, despite your efforts to stay still. 

he seemed to hesitate for a millisecond before his fingers roll over your mound. “h-hey!” you gasped, your entire body freezes in shock. caleb stroked over your pussy, the only thing between his touch and your skin being the thin lacey fabric of your underwear. his breath deepens as he traces over your folds, dipping a single fingertip down the center to trace over your covered clit. 

“you know, i didn’t pull strings on that case just to share our trip with someone else, right?” there wasn’t even enough time for you to be shocked by this revelation, caleb was moving quicker than your brain could comprehend. his hand trailed from your clothed heat up your body to cup your breast, rolling his palm over your nipple and then firmly squeezing the flesh. it was hard for him to control himself for longer than a few seconds, made abundantly clear by the way he alternated between roughness and tender touches on your hardening peaks.

“and after all i did, you have the nerve to skip out on dinner with me twice in a goddamn row…”

“caleb, y-you’re being-” your voice was trembling under the pressure of his robotic hand. it didn’t hurt, but it was rough and unrelenting. 

“and who exactly is leonardo? why didn’t you tell me about him when i called? just what did you do to make him think he could check on you like that, huh? it’s my job to protect you- or are you trying to replace me?” caleb’s questions are delivered in rapid fire succession, leaving no room for you to respond or plead your case. his robotic arm released your throat, giving you a chance to glimpse the dark blue and red ripples out of the corner of your eye. a heavy weight crashes onto your back, forcing you to lurch forward against the dining room table, your face crushed into the cold antique wood by his gravity evol. you squeal in protest, but all that does is make him press you down harder. 

he quickly hikes up your skirt once more until you can feel the cool air on your rear, which only solidifies how impossibly vulnerable you are in the moment. there’s another beat of hesitation, or admiration, from him before he pulls your panties to the side to fully reveal your pussy. caleb pressed his hand to your warmth, rubbing his knuckles over your folds slowly, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. “c-caleb, please think about what you’re doing. t-this isn’t right!” you whisper in desperation, as if he’d listen.

“i know exactly what i’m doing. i’ve just never had to resort to this.” he murmurs disapprovingly. “i used to trust that you’d tell me everything, pipsqueak.”

“i have told you every- unff!” your eyes widen from the sudden intrusion.

“hush. i’ll be the judge of that.” caleb’s middle finger, long and thick, slowly pushes it’s way deeper into your heat until it’s fully sheathed inside. “we promised to never keep secrets from one another, remember?” you are rendered completely speechless as his digit explores your most tender area, a place no one but yourself had. sliding along your walls slowly, rotating, prodding. it’s not like he was trying to give you pleasure, but rather inspecting you. sensing your shock and confusion, caleb answers the unspoken question on your lips.

“i’m just making sure you aren’t doing anything you’ll regret... there’s no reason for you to fight this if you have nothing to hide.”

caleb slowly drew his finger out and then slid back in with a second digit. the extra girth made you flinch and teeter on your toes. he watched your legs tremble from the unfamiliar pressure, your pussy fluttering and tensing around his fingers reflected both your discomfort and inexperience. “tolerate it for just a little while longer,” he urged sternly. his fingers pumped as slowly as possible, stretching your walls carefully.

caleb’s touch inside of you felt so right— blissfully so, despite it all. it was like every inch of his finger was created for your cunt, every ridge hitting you just right and coaxing out more slick from your core. shameful pleasure began to build in your body within a few pumps, which didn’t help how pathetic you felt being subjected to caleb’s control so easily. just as you were beginning to enjoy this bizarre sensation, it ended. he let out an approving sigh and pulled his fingers out with a wet ‘pop.’ 

your body was still his. 

despite not being able to see caleb’s face, his relief was palpable. his gravity evol lifted off of your body, but you still weren’t able to move. a different weight was placed on your back to hold you against the table. when two hands are planted on either side of you, you realize that he had practically collapsed on top of you.

“silly girl,” his head leaned against the back of your’s, nuzzling his nose into the depths of your hair. the cold silver of his apple necklace slid against your warm skin, sending a tingle down your spine. “you caused all this distress for no reason… do you enjoy getting a rise out of me?” caleb chided, but his voice didn’t boast that biting edge from before. his eyes fluttered shut as he took in a deep breath of your scent, attempting to still his rapidly beating heart. 

slowly, reluctantly, caleb stood up to free you from his crushing hold. your panties and dress are put back in place with a gentle touch, and although you wanted to slap his hand away, your head was spinning far too much to properly retaliate. he then turned you around to face him, revealing your flushed cheeks– one redder than the other due to the sheer force he had used when slamming you against the table, yet he didn’t acknowledge it or even look slightly regretful. 

his bionic hand reached up to fix your hair, like he often did. the artificial fingers felt strangely cold on your scalp, and not at all reassuring when combined with the heated ache between your legs. just barely in your line of sight, you caught a glimpse of his throbbing member through his denim. a wet patch of precum had formed at the tip along his upper thigh, saturating the already dark fabric with his sin. the sight of it sends a rush of forbidden excitement through you, but you quickly avert your gaze to hide your budding desire. caleb returned your timid expression with a warm smile, this time it actually reached his eyes. 

“now, we can eat.”

[thaatdigitaldiary]

JADED. 01. | ⌗ 4.1K WORDS. | PAIGE BUECKERS.

╰ the backstory of sareli and paige, how they met—and what got their “love story” started.

➺ content warnings. sexual contents. uconn!paige. fem!oc. fingering. oral. competitive sex. alcohol consumption. nipple play. very little spanish dialogue. AND AS ALWAYS, LIVE REACTS ARE WELCOME!

➺ links. JADED MASTERLIST. | MAIN MASTERLIST.

➺ from ke, to you 📨. i finally got around to writing part one! i’m gonna be completely honest, this whole series will not be back to back. it’s summer and i’m about to be a busy woman, but being consistent is a goal of mine! by all means no update asks please☹️it’s suuuper pressuring and i wanna take my time so you enjoy this as much as i do. i wanted at least one part out for you guys to get the gist of everything, so enjoy!!

STORRS, EARLY 2024

The air in the frat house was thick with the scent of beer, weed, and way too many bodies packed into one space. The party was jumping—one of the girls from a nearby sorority playing her spotify playlist through the speakers, the bass so heavy it rattled the solo cups stacked on every surface.

Sareli was in a good mood, moving through the crowd like she owned it. Her tight leather skirt hugged her curves, the hem riding up her thighs as she danced, every sway of her hips drawing more and more eyes from across the room.

Sareli thrived off of this shit—the energy, the attention, the way people gravitated toward her without even trying. Extroverted didn't even cover it; Sareli was like a spark that kept nights like this alive.

"Yo, Reli! That's yo' fourth! I'm cutting you off!" Kameron screams over the music, as Sareli twirled with a drink in hand--vodka cranberry, the ice clinking against the plastic.

"Kameron, un par de tragos no me haran dano!"

"What that mean again?" Kameron yells across the floor, cupping her hands to make her voice louder.

"A couple drinks won't hurt me, Kameron."

"Full government is crazy." Kameron says, laughing, as she makes her way to the half-assed bar the frat house came up with.

Sareli threw her head back, laughing, mid-spin when her elbow smashed something solid.

The cup tipped, and a cold wave of crimson splashed across a pristine white jacket. Sareli stumbled, catching herself, and whipped around to see who fucked her flow up.

"Man, what the hell?" The voice was sharp, cutting through all the noise.

Paige Bueckers— basketball prodigy, stalky and sharp cheekboned—stood there, glaring down at Sareli. Her blonde hair was pulled into a a ponytail, lacking the braids she wore every single game. It flowed down her back, ends a little bit darker from her previous hair color collaborations.

Her eyes were locked on the wet stain spreading across her jacket. She brushed at it with her hand, smearing the red deeper into the fabric.

"You blind? Or just too faded to watch where you swingin' them elbows?"

Sareli smirked, unbothered, brushing a curl off of her shoulder with a flick of her wrist. "Maybe if you weren't standing inna middle of a function doing jack shit, I wouldn't have spilled anything," Sareli gestured at the mess, then at the chaos around her.

"You can easily just move."

Paige scoffed, stepping closer, her height giving her that small addition she loved to flex. She towered over Sareli, just enough to seem intimidating, her presence all cocky and unshakeable.

"Aw, okay, you got jokes nd' shit? Jacket's worth more than this cheap-ass leather skirt you spillin' shit all over the place in."

"Stick to sippin' sum' slight if you can't handle the real shit."

Sareli laughed, loud and mocking, tipping her head back so her earrings caught the light. "I see those NIL deals got somebody feelin' brand new?" She mocks, waving her now empty cup in Paige's face, the last drops dripping onto the sticky floor.

"And since you ruined my drink, you owe me a refill. Since you got money nd' shit."

Paige rolled her eyes, but a smirk tugged at her lips, that signature arrogance she was known for peeking through.

"Owe you? Ah nah, you're the one who fucked my jacket up." Paige says, her eyes narrowing.

"You should be on your knees thanking me for not makin' you lick this shit off."

She held up the soaked sleeve, shaking it for emphasis, but her tone was lighter now, the edge softening.

The tension hung there for a beat—petty, electric, and kind of hot when they both thought about it. They both cracked at the same time--Paige with a low chuckle, Sareli with a grin that showed she wasn't backing down.

It wasn't that serious.

Paige shrugged off the jacket, tossing it over a chair like it was nothing, leaving her in a fitted black tank that clung to her frame, showing off those toned arms she'd earned from hours on the court.

Sareli caught herself staring, just for a second, but Paige clocked it immediately, arching a brow.

"What? You checkin' me out now, or you mad you can't pull sum' like this off?" Paige's voice was purely hypnotic, dripping with the confidence she carried.

Sareli stepped closer, closing the gap, her own confidence matching Paige's, step for step. "I pull off everything, thank you. You're staring now, been peeped." Sareli tilts her head, letting her eyes linger on Paige's lips before flicking them back up to meet her gaze.

It was as if the air shifted—less bickering, more heat. The music faded into a dull roar as Paige's eyes dropped to Sareli's mouth, then snapped back up, a challenge sparking between them.

"Bet I could shut that smart-ass mouth up real quick," Paige muttered, voice low and rough, like she was daring Sareli to push her.

"Bet you couldn't," Sareli shot back, smirking. "But I'm really tryna' see you attempt to."

FIVE MINUTES LATER, Sareli and Paige made it upstairs, the party a muffled pulse beneath their feet. Paige had Sareli pinned against the door of some random bedroom, their lips crashing with the hunger of someone who hated losing.

Paige tasted like tequila, her tongue staking claim as her hands gripped Sareli's hips pressing harder into the wood.

Sareli kissed her back just as hard, not giving an inch, nipping at her bottom lip hard enough to make Paige growl low in her throat.

"Fuck, you were such a bitch to me," Paige breathed, pulling back just enough to yank Sareli's skirt down. The leather bunched near her thighs, exposing the black lace thong she'd thrown on for the night.

Paige's fingers hooked into the waistband, teasing the edge before shoving it aside with zero patience.

"Let's see how long this pussy lasts before you're beggin' me to slow down."

Sareli laughed, all breathy and defiant, as Paige's fingers slid inside of her—two at once, curling deep and fast. "Shit... two off rip?" Sareli gasped, head tipping back against the door, but she wasn't about to let Paige work her over that easily.

Sareli's hands roamed on Paige's chest, slipping under her tank to find her nipples, rolling them between her fingers until she hissed, her breath catching.

"We makin' this sum' typa' game?" Paige grunted, her pace picking up, thumb brushing Sareli's clit in tight, ruthless circles. She was relentless, that cocky smirk widening as Sareli's hips bucked against her hand.

"Ima' have you screamin' my name in, like, two minutes flat."

"Time me."

"You're a cocky bitch, y'know that?" Sareli managed, voice breaking as Paige hit that spot that made her knees weak.

Sareli wasn't folding yet. She tugged her closer by the neckline of her tank, sucking on her neck hard enough to leave a bruise she'd have to explain later.

"Bet I can make you cum faster—watch me."

Paige laughed, that competitive side slowly darkening. She used her free hand to grip Sareli's jaw and tilt it back herself. "Prove that shit then, beautiful. But you tappin' out first—I can feel it."

Her fingers moved faster, so slick and precise, making Sareli curse under her breath, the heat building too quick to ignore.

Sareli's orgasm hit like a freight train—hard and fast, thighs trembling as she clenched around Paige's fingers.

"Mmph—Fuck!" She yelped, slamming her hand against the door as her body shook. Paige pulled out slow, licking her fingers clean with smug-ass grin, like she'd just dropped thirty points in a blowout.

"What I tell you," she taunted, wiping her hand on her jeans. "One minute fifty-two. Now, you try."

Sareli didn't waste a second. She shoved Paige's back onto the bed, straddling her hips, and popping the button on her jeans—sliding them down just enough to get what she wanted.

Paige watched her, arms behind her head, all cocky until Sareli's fingers slipped inside of her—slow at first, teasing, then picking up speed. She mirrored Paige's earlier move, thumb circling her clit, watching her abs flex as she fought to keep up the nonchalant persona.

"Mm.. shit. Y-you're pretty good," she groaned, but her voice was tight, that bravado cracking. Sareli leaned down, sucking one of Paige's nipples through her tank, teeth grazing just enough to make her arch into Sareli, her hips subtly grinding into her hand.

"Gonna beat your record," Sareli whispered against her skin, curling her fingers deeper. Paige's breath hitched, hands fisting the sheets, and Sareli could tell she was losing it.

"Ah, fuck—shit—fuck, I'm—" Paige didn't finish, her body doing the talking, shuddering as she came undone in under a minute.

Sareli smirked, pulling back to meet her dazed eyes, her chest heaving.

"I'm guessing that means I win?" Sareli said, voice dripping with cockiness.

"Fifty-three seconds, Paige. Step that game up."

Paige laughed, breathless, sitting up to grab Sareli's waist and flip her onto her back in one smooth move.

"Nah, we're going best two outta three."

"And I don't plan on losing this time."

THE ROOM WAS A MESS, clothes half-on, sheets twisted, the faint hum of the party still seeping through the floorboards. Paige hovered over Sareli, her tank shoved up to her collarbone, jeans still clinging to her thighs.

She was all heated, her skin slick with sweat, and that cocky grin was back, and sharper than ever. "Round two, pretty. You finna eat the fuck outta your words, too."

Sareli propped herself on her elbows, still buzzing from her win, her skirt a crumpled heap at her ankles.

"Only thing I'm eating is this ego you got. C'mon."

Paige didn't waste time, sliding her hand between Sareli's thighs, her touch rougher this time, more determined. "You talk a big game, but your legs won't stop shakin', baby," she muttered, her lips brushing Sareli's ear as her fingers pumped inside of her, so, so, deep. Her thumb flicked Sareli's clit with precision, and she cursed, hips jerking despite herself.

"Shut the fuck up," Sareli shot back, but it came out a weak laugh, her breath hitching as Paige pressed harder. Sareli's hands scrambled for leverage, finding Paige's waist, tugging her closer.

Sareli slipped her fingers under Paige's waistband again, matching her pace, determined to keep up.

"You're sweating already, don't choke up on me."

Paige smirked, her free hand pinning Sareli's wrist above her head, that dominance peering through.

"Choke? This just the beginning, baby. You're the one finna tap out—look at this pussy. Fuckin' dripping."

Her voice was gravelly, that mix of arrogance and lust made Sareli's stomach do back flips.

Paige wasn't wrong—Sareli was close, too close, the heat coiling tight in her core. She wasn't going down without some kind of fight.

Sareli twisted her fingers inside of Paige, hitting that spot that made her falter, her grip on Sareli's wrist loosening for a split second.

"Yeah? Then why you moanin', P?" Sareli taunted, voice strained but smug.

It was a race now--the both of them pushing, pulling, chasing that edge. Paige's fingers were relentless, her breath hot against Sareli's neck as she muttered, "Give it up. C'mon, baby... y'know I gotchu'."

Sareli's vision blurred, thighs clamping around Paige's hand as she shattered again, a choked "Shit!" spilling from her lips.

Paige didn't stop, riding Sareli through it, that smirk plastered on her face.

"One minute ten. You're slacking, mama."

Paige pulled her hand free, sucking her fingers clean again, eyes locked on Sareli's like she was daring her to do better.

Sareli shoved her back, chest heaving, and climbed on top, straddling her waist. "My turn."

Her fingers dove back inside of Paige, three this time, stretching her out as she worked her over, thumb grinding against her clit. She bucked against Sareli, a low groan escaping her lips, but she still remained cocky, grabbing Sareli's hips to steady herself.

"Fuck, you're insane," Paige panted, but her smirk was slipping, her abs tightening as Sareli pushed her closer. Sareli leaned down, sucking Paige's nipple hard through the fabric, biting just enough to make her hiss. "Shit... okay, shit—I'm close," she admitted, voice breaking.

"Sabes que te encanta esto, baby," Sareli teased, curling her fingers faster.

"Tell me what it means before I cum." Paige hissed.

"You know you love this."

Paige came undone with a sharp cry, head thrown back, body trembling under Sareli. She timed it in her head—forty-eight seconds.

"Beat you again," Sareli grinned, pulling back to catch her breath.

Paige sat up, hair a mess, eyes dark with that competitive fire still burning.

"Round three," she rasped, flipping Sareli on her stomach before she could argue. She pressed her against her back, her hand slipping between Sareli's legs from behind, fingers sliding in with ease.

"I'm winning this one."

Sareli moaned into the pillow, pushing back against her, but Paige had the upper hand now, her weight keeping Sareli pinned. Her other hand reached around, tweaking Sareli's nipple hard, sending sparks down her spine. "Fuck... Paige, slow down—" Sareli gasped, but Paige's movements didn't falter. Her pace was brutal, and her breath was hot against her ear.

"Nah, take this shit," Paige growled, her thumb finding Sareli's clit again. "Finna show you how to win sum'."

Sareli didn't last—thirty seconds, maybe less, her whole body seizing as she came again, louder this time, face buried in the sheets. Paige laughed, pulling her slender fingers out slow and flopping beside Sareli, the both of them wrecked.

"You wanna call that shit a tie?" Sareli mumbled, still catching her breath.

Paige grinned, wiping the sweat from your forehead. "Well, one—only if you let me see you again—and two, you let me run that shit back."

"Got it."

"Put your number in right quick, me and my friends headin' out soon."

Sareli put her number in and got dressed, watching Paige's muscles flex as she buttoned her jeans back up.

"I'ma be seein' you, yeah?" Paige asks, biting her bottom lip.

"You will be."

And with that she left, closing the door behind herself.

SARELI WALKED DOWN the house's steps, meeting a very sober and confused Kameron.

"Yo, where you been at? I've searched this bougie ass house for an hour." Kameron says, crossing her arms.

"Bathroom line. Long." Sareli blurts out, plastering a fake smile on her face—knowing her best friend could see right through it.

"Your skirt's inside out, Reli."

Sareli looks down, so high off of her current situation to notice the leather fabric touching the inside of her thighs.

"I, uhm—“

"Sareli Vasquez. Don't play me like I'm slow. Who'd you hookup with?" Kameron uncrosses her arms.

"Alright, alright, relax. I bumped into Paige, and it became this whole thing—and boom, we fucked."

"Jesus, Reli. Hooking up with an athlete gotta be top ten worst things you could've ever done." Kameron says chuckling, but something was slightly off about her voice.

"It was... something. Told me she wanted to see me again, too." Sareli adds, a small grin snaking across her face.

"Oh, yeah—t-that's cool shit, Reli." Kameron mutters, her voice a softer tone now. "Was she um... good?"

"Better than good." Sareli brags.

"You ready to go? Party's dead." Sareli asks, not even attempting to fix her skirt, just ready to go home and boast to Paige about how she’d “get her next time”.

"Y-yeah—we can go. Glad you had fun." Kameron laughs dryly, her entire face dropping with disappointment.

Not that Sareli would notice anymore.

Or did she?

╰ ⌗ tags : @pboogerswbb @cherryswisherz @mariahthealchemist @sierrale8ne @janaelalfysblunt @bueckersbitch @lovegalor333 @juspeaks @flipthepaige @omg-imtumbling @lilpaigeyherbo @mrsarnold @wbbgetsmewetter @lupinqs @linebg0 @authentic-girl03 @melpthatsme @makethemhoesmad @ashortyluvsports @paigesbabygirl @d3arapril @slut4uconnwbb @avvwritesstufff @xoxosierralane @vamptizm @pb524830 @uwupaige @naeswrrldd @paigebaby5 @ohmybueckers @azziswrld @noisygemini777 @angryflowerwitch @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @jieysiee @forward1212 @jadasogay

[deathandrenegades]

The L Word

Summary: You and Bucky have an agreement, but you can’t help but to push his buttons.

Word Count: 2297

A/N: Smutttt, all of it, Bucky is dominant and jealous. 

lmaooo it's been 5 years and i've discovered the original link is broke, so here's a reupload.

You stood at the bar, heels completely aching at the pumps stuck to your feet. You sipped your rum and coke, turning back to Sam who stood with you at the bar. He looked insanely handsome, wearing a blue suit instead of a traditional black, and opted out of a tie.

“Wanna dance?” He grinned mischievously, offering you his hand. You shrugged, giggling in response and throwing your drink back before taking his hand and getting on the floor. The avengers were stuck at yet another one of Tony Stark’s fancy parties, too fancy for your liking. Everyone was rich and snobby, something you could never manage to be even if you wanted to. You shook your head at the people circled around Tony like sharks, presumably laughing at a joke they didn’t quite get.

Sam pulled you to him, his hand taking your waist and the other holding your hand up as your two swayed slowly back and forth.

Your eyes scanned the room for Bucky, finally landing on him standing in the corner, suit jacket off, his hand clutching his drink. His own orbs were already on you, burning into you as you swayed with Sam slowly. He brought his drink to his lips, his eyes never leaving your body as Sam picked up the tempo slightly, and slid his hand to the small of your back. Bucky set his drink down briefly to roll up the sleeves of his white shirt, picking his drinking back up again. You leaned up to Sam, your breath fanning over his neck, you were dangerously close, smirking as you continued to watch Bucky. He clutched his drink so hard it looked like it was one squeeze away from shattering. You smirked at that possibility, parting your mouth and sliding your tongue out slightly as if you were going to lick Sams neck.

Sam jumped to the sound of shattered glass, turning around to find out where it came from. Bucky stood there, visibly fuming at you before he bent down to clean up the mess. Sam turned back to you, giving you a quizzical look, you shrugging in response at an attempt to brush him off. 

“You look amazing by the way.” Your back stiffened briefly at his comment, worried you’d taken flirting with Sam slightly too far. He chuckled above you, seeming to have heard your thoughts. “Don’t worry, I know you’re after Barnes.” He murmured into your ear. You lifted your head to look at him. “I’m not going to tell anyone,” He replied, reading the concern and anxiety on your face, “But you’re trying to put on a show, right? Make him jealous?” You gulped, barely swaying with him anymore, debating if you should answer or not. “I’m just saying, I could help with the show.” His mouth crooked up into a smile. You thought for a minute, then shrugged, I mean you had come this far, why not have help?

He dipped you then, one of your legs coming out of the slip of your dress as Sam ran his hands up to your calf, pulling your leg almost around his waist. You wanted to giggle, feeling almost giddy at the feeling of putting on a show, but resisted. Sams mouth ghosted over your neck and collar bones, pulling you up slow to twirl you.

“So has anything happened between the two of you?” He whispered into your ear. So he didn’t know anything. You felt yourself relax, but refused to answer. “I see how it is.” He pulled you against him, chest to chest. “Laugh with me, like I’m funny.” He spoke urgently in your ear suddenly.

“What?”

“You want him jealous or not?” He hissed. You threw your head back like you had just heard the funniest thing, a high pitched laugh escaping you, Sam chuckling beside you you. Once the laughs had settled more he gently cupped your cheek, bringing your face close to him. For a brief second, you almost panicked, not wanting to go that far as to actually kiss Sam, but then he stopped, just inches from your lips.

“Here comes your boy now.” He breathed.

“Mind if I cut in?” Bucky spoke gruffly behind me.

“I don’t know, James,” Sam toyed, “Her and I were having a lovely conversation.” He smirked.

“Well it’s done now.” Bucky growled, gripping your elbow and gruffly pulling you to him, Sam raising an eyebrow at you. You bit your lip, clearly loving Buckys reaction and Sam rolled his eyes in response, turning to head to the bar.

Bucky pulled you to face him, taking your waist and hand, starting a slow steady paced as you danced.

“Something wrong, dear?” You couldn’t resist, his mouth was set into such a hard line you thought he might crack, jaw clearly clenched.

“Why were you all over Sam like that?” He gritted out.

“What’s it matter?” You scoffed. Bucky had made it abundantly clear that though the two of you were sleeping together, not only was no one in the compound to know about it, he didn’t want it to go any further than just sex. No commitments, no feelings, and yes, no strings attached. Whether you agreed to that, or wanted it was out of the question. If Bucky didn’t want anything more than that, what good is the use of you trying to change it, only to get rejected? At least you got to be around him, even if it was just for sex. Sometimes if you got lucky he’d wind up staying the night, exhaustion encompassing him. But he’d always be gone when you woke in the morning, no matter what.

His eyes casted over, unwilling to give you an answer. He dropped his hand, and instead grabbed you by the elbow yet again and steered both of you out of the party without a second glance.

“Where exactly are we going?” You huffed, turning down a hallway. You both made another left, you recognized this hallway as his. Your stomach flopped, almost not wanting to know what would happen behind the closed door of his bedroom. He stopped in front of the door, grabbing the handle and sending you a glare that shook you to your very core, before opening the door. You knew you were in trouble. 

As soon as the door closed, he was on you, your back pushed up against the door, either of his hands on the side of your face. You have no where to go.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?” He purred, his face a mere inch from yours, breath fanning over your cheeks, “What this has been doing to me?” He snarled, fisting a handful of your dress. You let out a tiny squeak as he hiked your dress up further, grabbing your thighs and yanking you up to lock your legs around him, his hands gripping your ass for support. You felt his arousal already, his erection pressing directly against your heated core.

“I already had to jerk off this morning, after watching you in the pool, purposefully wearing a bathing suit two sizes too small.” He panted, his mouth traveled to your ear, now starting to rock his hips against you. You stifled a moan, trying to gain your composure.

“Nearly had to run out of the fucking party twice, thinking about bending you over the bar in this pathetic excuses for a dress.” He promptly shoved himself into you harder as the word dress slithered through his lips. You slammed your head back against the door, a cry escaping your throat, your arms resting on the bulge of his biceps. He groaned in response to your mewls, his hips grinding against you faster, you could feel his cock rubbing directly against the little bundle of nerves, your walls almost begging for something to be in you. You yanked his shirt out of his pants, tugging it over his head so you could marvel at his bare chest and metal arm, his lips parted slightly as he watched you run your hands down his chest and shoulders.

Bucky slid a metal hand between the two of you, the other still tight on your ass as he started to rub you through your panties, a whimper escaping your lips. You already wanted to cum, the burning desire low in your belly. He slid his cold metal fingers underneath, feeling your slick wet folds. You sucked a breath in at the contrast between your hot skin and the cool metal. You brought your lips to his shoulder, sucking a purple bruise in hopes to stifle your moans.

“God look at you,” He breathed, running the back of his two fingers up and down your sex, lingering over your clit barely before he moved back down to spread your juices around. “You’re so fucking wet.” He groaned, sticking a metal digit in you slowly, your light sucks turning into an aggressive bite on his shoulder as you wrapped your arms around him, hands traveling up into his hair and gripping it as if it were your life line. He worked his finger in and out of you slowly, and you yanked on his hair in response to the sudden penetration, though it felt absolutely delicious, your body already acting out in a plea for more. Air was coming to you in sharp inhales now, you knew your release would be quick as he set you on the edge now, not supplying enough stimulation to let you cum.

“Do you want to cum?” He whispered into your ear, your teeth coming off his shoulder. You settled your head back against the door again, both hands still in his hair. You could feel your eyes hooded over as you thought about Bucky inside you, fucking you relentlessly, and you being able to scream out as waves of pleasure rippled through you. “Answer me, baby.” He growled softly, you opened your eyes, not even realizing you had closed them. A sheen layer of sweat beaded on his forehead, his pupils blown on with lust as his eyes rested on your face, traveling to your mouth.

“Yes.” You whispered. You wanted to say more, you wanted to tease him, but that was all you could manage. The heat was growing inside you so intensely, you craved a release, especially from him.

“I don’t know, have you deserved to cum after the shit you pulled earlier?” He snarled, shoving another metal finger inside you and you cried out, biting your lip. His fingers crooked inside you, finally warmed up to your temperature, rubbing your gspot teasingly. You breaths were pants now, nearly gasping for air.

“Please.” You begged. You didn’t care how you looked anymore, and you knew you looked like a weak, pathetic mess to him, but you stopped caring. You just need him to fuck you at this point.

“So fucking greedy, why am I not surprised that you’d beg this early?” He leaned in closer to tickle your neck with his lips, peppering soft kisses up and down before he reached your ear again. Your eyes snapped shut, trying to get your bearings together as his tongue flicked your lobe, then gently bit it. His lips traveled back down to your neck, biting it slowly and a low moan escaped you. You felt him chuckle against your skin.

Your hands traveled from his hair, going directly for his pants as you undid the belt buckle, ripping his pants open and shoving your hand inside to wrap around his large member. Bucky stilled against you, you pumped him in your fist, a mixture of precum and sweat already on his cock.

“Doll,” He growled, clearly pissed you had taken some control of the situation, but you knew as soon as you started touching him he couldn’t resist, and he’d need to fuck you just as badly as you needed him. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I want you.” Your voice small, he groaned into your neck, biting it harshly this time making you gasp.

He brought his other hand to rip your panties, quickly pulling his pants and boxers down farther so his erection could happily spring free. You licked your hand, then went back to pumping him lazily in your hand, leaning in to moan his name softly in his ear, driving him fucking inside. You felt his cock twitch in your hand as his name left your mouth, his hands gripping your hips so hard you’re sure he’d manage to leave bruises.

“Sergeant.” You whispered, a shit eating grin on your face that he couldnt see. He groaned, his chest rumbling, as he finally kissed you so hard he shoved your whole upper body up against the door, his hand replacing yours on his cock and lining himself up briefly before he slammed into you. You had no time to adjust as he set a brutal pace, high pitched cry leaving your throat as he fucked you harder and harder with every thrust, somehow managing to not break the door.

“Fuck.” He grunted as he felt you clamp down around him, your release building rapidly and he knew it, his thrusts getting sloppier as he slid a hand between the two of you, rubbing your sensitive clit. You gripped his shoulders, your nails tearing into him at the sudden contact.

“Cum for me.” Bucky breathed, and that was all it took to send you over the edge, your whole body clenching as your orgasm riddled through you. Bucky’s name echoing through his room in a scream as his pace didn’t falter in the slightest, almost too much to bear.

Bucky grunted, you knew he was close. You slid your hand to grip his bulging bicep, digging your nails in, and let the other hand fall back in his hair, giving it a hard tug. He cried out, his pelvis slapping against you harder, your name falling off his lips before he finally stilled inside you. You panted, covered in sweat. He finally looked up at you, you brushed the hair and sweat from his face, leaning in to press your lips to his in a tender kiss.

“I love you.” You whispered without thinking, pulling away to adore his face. His expression changed, and you realized what you had just let escape your thoughts. Your legs fell from around him as he took a step back from you, barely able to hold yourself up. His eyes never left you as you stood there in front of him with your mouth agape, you wanted to say something, you wanted to assure him you didn’t mean it, but nothing came from you. His face was almost pained, like you had slapped him or betrayed him. You closed your eyes, letting out a shaky breath.

[23swife]

who’d believe? | dean winchester

summary. dean finds you six years after you ‘died’. tags. wc 2.3k, angst, mentions soulless sam. lailas notes. this is for my ‘stuck on you’ by meiko square for @jacklesversebingo + actually got inspired by @little-diable ‘s not a ghost fic. so so beautiful and i think everyone should go read it! ++ for my 500 celebration, so happy i got to it so quickly && the title is the translation of the song title. and most importantly, beta’d by the incredible @copperboom82 who made it much more readable and enjoyable.

You were never really a bar type of person, mostly because of the loud noise and smell, other than that, you liked a good party. But you decided you needed to celebrate getting your dream job, or, okay, whatever, your friend is forcing you to. 

"I'm not taking no for an answer," she said, handed you your outfit and went outside to get the car started, not even giving you time to reject the idea. Though the second you stepped foot in the lively place, you were glad you came.

The drinks and music were exactly what you needed; a nice night out with no responsibilities. And especially no men (at least none like those you work with, you're honestly over them). 

An hour into dancing with your friend, two more strangers join you. When the last song ends and another less 'pop' and more 'rock' one starts, they suggest going out to smoke for a second. Despite not once in your life trying it, you agree. 

You should really work on saying no.

Thankfully you're sensible enough to refuse when they try to hand you one, just standing next to them, linking your arm with your friend's. "Where do you work?" You ask one of the girls. She has shorter red hair that almost reaches her shoulders, black eyeliner and a septum piercing. In other words? Fucking sexy.

"Police." Your eyes widen and you stand up straighter. "Oh, stop it! You're fine."

You laugh but shake your head, "No, no, that's not what I meant, you're just so— cute, I guess. Wouldn't have taken you for the assertive cop type."

"Yeah, well," she shrugs, dismissing the thought. It's obvious she gets it a lot. "Saw the hottest guys today, by the way—"

Her friend interrupts, beautiful brown pin-straight hair, pale skin, a gorgeous smile; "God, he was pretty. And his brother too…”

"Oh yeah. Agent something and Agent whatever, I don't remember, I was too busy looking through the shorter one’s shirt." You all laugh, a sway in your demeanor. You're pretty sure it's the alcohol that's got them saying all this but it's funny either way. 

"Yeah, he was amazing. Like, those green eyes, honestly—" Your smile drops fast. Green eyes had always been somewhat of a trigger for you ever since Dean, especially that specific beautiful shade. Then again honestly everything's been a trigger: hunting, black cars, vintage cars, food, pie— you could go on.

"Oh and the way he walks? The little outward bounce of his leg, so cute!"

You shift, a little uncomfortable. How many guys do you know with bow legs, green eyes and are cops? They're probably not allowed to tell you he's FBI. 

The red-haired girl touches your arm making you jump. "Shit, you okay, honey? You seemed out of it."

"Oh, no, I'm sorry, just reminded me of someone. Old…" Dean. 

There he is. Alive and in the flesh. You don't become a hunter and not hear about the Winchesters, you, on the other hand, fly under the radar. Especially since you try to stay away from any and all hunters.

But you heard nothing of how gorgeous he has grown up.

The girls catch your drift mid-sentence and look back to see what you're staring at. A dumb-struck Dean. "Oh! Agent…" Her friend elbows her stomach and Dean doesn’t peel his eyes off of you to speak.

"Right, yes. Hi, Officer." 

She blushes under the dim light but Dean apologizes before breezing past them and holding your arm roughly to drag you away behind the bar. Your friend makes sure to motion to you if you need help before you let her know she should just get back inside. It’s pretty damn obvious you know the guy.

"Are you fucking serious?"

You let out a shy smile, "Dean, hey, how are you?"

"'How are you?'" He mocks, letting go of your arm aggressively, "'how are you?'"

"Is that not what they say anymore?"

"Are you serious?" He seems to enjoy repeating sentences much more than when you last saw him. "I looked for you, I mourned you." You mourned him too, in a way. 

You and Dean were acquaintances, occasionally hunting together until you stayed at Bobby's place for a week and he came to visit coincidentally. You both started talking more that night, exchanged phone numbers and became somewhat friends. 

Sam left for Stanford and you guys stayed together more frequently. Sam came back and you 'died'. Not on purpose, obviously, but Dean thought you died. You did, for a second, before you were brought back for some twisted, fucked up reason. Not that you knew it but if you did you're sure it would be fucked up.

By the time you woke up Sam and Dean had been long gone and your body had been buried. Didn’t burn your bones like he should’ve, no. He buried you. You're not sure which is worse.

"Look, I don't know what happened—"

"What does that even mean? You magically come back to life; you fucking call me! Ever thought of that?" A thousand times. 

But Sam had finally decided to come back and hunt with Dean, Dean buried you, and so, you'd reasoned he was fine. You knew that if you were Sam, your body would've been preserved in the Impala for months before he'd ever allow himself to do that, to put you six feet under. The fact that he didn’t hold on to you had to mean he was okay.

But neither of you deserve more guilt. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"That's really rich. Real rich comin' from you. Grieved you for goddamn years. Six." Huh, that's a lot longer than you’d have thought. You were sure it would be six minutes. You knew he cared about you, but Deans also a 'what's done is done' kind of man.

"I'm—"

"If you apologize, I'll kill you. Again." You're about to crack a joke but his glare sets you off. Oookay, tough crowd, whatever. 

"I wanted to call, I swear I did," how do you explain to the king of 'I don't deserve good' that you don't deserve him. He'll think it's a cruel joke. "I didn't know if you'd want me to reach out, I thought you were moving on with Sammy, okay? Going on with finding John. Me calling wouldn't have made a difference."

He scoffs, shaking his head. "I went to hell." You bite your bottom lip between your teeth. He sighs, a mix of emotions on his face. "You knew?" Your nod makes him turn around in anger (disappointment? hurt?), kicking the cardboard box as far as it'll go, another plastic one breaks and you flinch at that one. 

In your defense, everyone knows.

"I couldn't do that to you and Sam, you moved on, Dean, I heard about you and Lisa and Ben—"

"Where the hell did you hear that?" Hunters talk. And he knows it. He turns around in an angry haze. "I didn't fuckin' move on, alright? I did what Sam wanted me to do when I didn't have you. Because my goddamn brother was in a cage with Lucifer, and now he's walking around without a soul!" He raises his voice until it gives out and so does his breath. You can't help the way your heart clenches, not even because of the words, but the tired look behind Dean's eyes. 

Subconsciously, you move forward until you can hug him, and like he always used to: Dean throws himself into it, his head in your neck as he breathes you in. "I missed you." He whispers. 

You don't believe how easily he's adjusted to this. If you were in his place you wouldn't hesitate to kill him, thinking he's a demon or a shifter.

He chuckles, his whole body rubbing against you. "Haven't hugged anyone like this in— ever. Was waiting for you." 

He's never been safe, always made everyone else feel protected, you could only hope you built a safe place within yourself for him. You're at least close.

"I missed you too, De. Every single day, I swear."

You don't know what about the sentence sparks anything in him, but it does. He pulls away to smirk and push you against the hard wall. You gasp, doing nothing but turning him on more and giving him an entrance to your mouth. 

He kisses you like he's lost his mind. He has.

His touch is electric as he pulls you closer, the heat of his body searing your skin, the raw intensity of desire saying more than words ever could. The kiss evolves, turning feral, almost carnal. He holds you, firm but tender, and rediscovers your mouth like a starving man. He is, he hasn't tasted you in… ever. 

This is your first kiss with Dean, but the explosive chemistry between you makes the blood scream in your ears. It was never a secret that you and Dean were more than just hunters to each other, and it seems you dying was his last straw. 

"We— Dean, can't here—" 

He agrees. Or he doesn't. He's still kissing you and you're not sure if either of you are breathing. 

Eventually he lets go. "Yeah," he whispers against your lips, moving for another kiss, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth, leaving a peck and panting out, "right." 

"'M sorry." God, why are you apologizing? Why are your bodies so far away?

He shakes his head, moves away (even if it looks like he's struggling to do so), "it's fine, what— you were here with friends? Are you staying?"

"Are you asking me to not stay?" 

He smiles, leans down for another kiss and you decide to say goodbye to your friends now or else you're never getting the chance. 

[myfictionaldreams]

⁀➷ Tangled in Secrets // Azriel x F!Reader

Summary: In the heart of Velaris, you, Rhysand’s sister, are learning how to live again after years in the dark. But in the shadows, something tender — and forbidden — has been blooming. As tension turns to touch, one night threatens to unravel everything you’ve tried to keep hidden.

A/N: I've had this idea for so long and needed a little break from my lovely requests! I love the idea of Rhys' sister & Azriel being together. I hope you enjoy the read!

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, forbidden romance, mutual pining, reference to torture/trauma/kidnapping, size difference/size kink, (Az has a big dick lmao), body worship, oral (f receiving), shadow play, wing play, fingering, rough sex, slight pain kink, aftercare

Words: 4.4 k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The music at Rita’s was louder than usual. Velaris was still celebrating. Weeks had passed since the last successful negotiation with the Winter Court, but the city was riding the wave of peace like a drunken high.

You didn’t care about peace treaties or politics. You cared about freedom. You cared about nights like this, where the shadows of your past didn’t cling quite so tightly to your bones, where your wings didn’t feel like heavy reminders of a war you never got to fight in, where you weren’t just Rhysands’ poor baby sister, the one who had been stolen, tortured and thought to be dead.

Everyone still treated you like that fragile girl—everyone except Azriel.

The Inner Circle had taken over their usual booth in Rita’s, all leather seats and cramped spaces, but not one of them would opt for somewhere else. The drinks were bottomless, the laughter rich, and the conversations casual. The shadows of war felt far away here.

But no matter how many weeks passed, how many times you reminded them you were fine, the same pattern always formed: Rhys hovered, Cassian fretted, Feyre watched you like she was waiting for you to scream. 

And Azriel… Azriel watched you.

From across the room, glass untouched, shadows curling at his boots like smoke. He watched the way your lips curled when Mor whispered something naughty into your ear. He watched the sway of your hips as you danced, the gold dusting your collarbone, the arch of your neck when you tipped your head back and laughed–gods, it had taken you so long to laugh like that again.

You knew why Rhys acted the way he did, why even Amren softened her voice around you. Why Nesta continually glanced over, unreadable. Why Cassial still called you “Kid”, even though you were the same age as your cousin Mor?

They remembered you as a ghost. Because that’s what you had become, stolen all those years ago, taken during the attack on your mother by the Spring court, presumed dead. But unlike her, you hadn’t died. You’d been sent away. A trophy for King Hybern, locked beneath the palace, used for leverage that never came to light.

You spent years in darkness. With only pain as your companion to remind you that death had not welcomed you yet.

And then, when your brother found you, when you had burst free from that cell and Rhys had caught your fragile body, you weren’t a ghost anymore.

But they still treated you like one, except Azriel.

Even now, you felt the heat of his stare from across the bar, like a phantom hand at the small of your back. Watching you twirl and laugh between Mor and Feyre and Nesta, your hands entwined with theirs, hips swaying as the music throbbed through your blood.

You were glowing tonight. You knew it. And he saw it.

Gold dust shimmered over your bare shoulders.  Your dress clung like silk to every curve Hybern hadn’t stolen from you. Your wings were hidden for now, folded into nothing, but the base of them itched when Az stared at you like that.

He stood in full leathers, motionless, the chaos of Rita’s parting around him like waves around a rock. Rhys was to his left, distracted by Feyre now whispering in his ear. Cassian was telling some exaggerated story to Nesta, who looked vaguely murderous. Even Amren was smirking into her glass of blood.

“Someone’s got it bad,” Mor teased in your ear, grinning wickedly as she spun you.

“Which one of them is she talking about?” Nesta deadpanned.

You laughed, twisting away, letting the beat pulse in your bones. Letting your hands trail down your sides, hair sticking to your neck, heat rising from the friction of your body and the heady tension in the air. 

You felt his gaze with every movement. You wanted him to feel you.

“I should be drunker than this,” you muttered as the song changed again, a low, throbbing rhythm with no name.

“You could be,” Feyre offered with a mischievous smile, handing you something pink and fizzy. “Rhys isn’t watching now.”

You took a long sip, just enough to make your lips tingle.

“Still dancing with us?” Mor asked, squeezing your hand reassuringly.

You cast another glance across the room. Azriel hadn’t moved. Not one inch. 

Your body answered before your mind did, hips twisting toward him, eyes narrowing, blood turning molten. And then you had an idea.

You stumbled.

Not hard, but enough to catch Feyre’s arms, laughing lightly as your foot slipped. “Oops,” you say, “Might’ve overdone it with that last drink.”

Mor’s eyes narrowed. “You’re faking.”

“Shh,” you whispered, leaning into her shoulder with an exaggerated put. “Just want to go home and be out of this dress.”

Nesta looked entirely unimpressed. “You’re baiting a bat.”

“I am the bats’ sister,” you reminded her, giggling.

Feyre’s brows arched. “Are you sure–?”

But he was already moving. Azriel crossed the room like a predator, shadows enveloping his frame as he strode past the others, ignoring the table, the drinks, and the conversations.

Straight. To. You.

You didn’t look up until he was there, towering over you, his scent hitting you further. Leather, cold air, and something smoky-sweet you could never name. His hand slid around your waist without hesitation, his body crowding yours, his voice a low rasp.

“She’s done for the night. Say goodnight, everyone.”

“I’m not done,” you mumble half-heartedly, resting your cheek on his chest like a lazy feline. “Just so dizzy.”

“She’s not drunk,” Nesta retorted drily.

But Azriel ignored her. “I’m taking her home.”

“See?” you whispered, brushing your lips over his collarbone as you leaned fully into him. “You always catch me.”

His jaw ticked. His hand was a brand on your waist. And when you looked up, and up, because even in heels he towered over you, you knew this was only the beginning because he wasn’t letting you go.

“Alright, what’s going on here?”

Rhys’s voice cut through the velvet haze of the lounge, soft but laced with the kind of brotherly concern that made the others go quiet. 

You were draped against Azriel’s side now, cheek pressed against his chest like he was your pillow and not a living weapon. His shadows had curled subtly around your waist, invisible to all but you. It felt possessive. Protective.

You blinked up at your brother with your best innocent smile, slurring just a little. “I jus’ danced too much, Rhysie.”

Mor snorted quietly behind her drink.

“She’s drunk,” Azriel said smoothly, voice like silk and smoke, his large hand spread gently along your waist. “Too many of those pink things.”

Rhys’s violet gaze narrowed on you, scanning your face, then flicking to Az. “She’s not drunk-drunk, right? She didn’t shift her wings out midair again, did she?”

“She’s not that drunk,” Azriel replied, calm as ever. “But she should rest. I’ll take her home.”

“I could-”, Feyre started, but Az’s shadows tensed subtly. No one noticed except you.

“No, it’s fine,” Rhys said, looking at Azriel with quiet trust. “You’ll take her to the House of Wind?”

Az nodded once.

Rhys looked down at you again, his features softening with that familiar ache. “You sure you’re okay, little one?”

You pointed, reaching up to pinch his cheek lazily. “M’fine, Rhysie. Just tired. Az’s warm.”

Azriel’s jaw flexed almost imperceptibly. Behind Rhys, Cassian chuckled and whispered something to Nesta, who rolled her eyes.

“Alright,” Rhys said, still watching you like he might change his mind. “Make sure she gets home safe, brother.”

Azriel’s wings unfolded smoothly, cradling your body closer to his chest. You tucked your face in, humming contentedly as if you couldn’t feel the thunderstorm of his heartbeat against your cheek.

“You’ve got her?” Rhys asked once more, softer now.

Azriel didn’t even blink. “Always.”

Rhys gave one last nod, and the moment he turned away, Mor caught your eye and gave you a knowing smirk behind her drink. You bite your lip, hiding your smile against Azriel’s warm throat as he gathers you in his arms, shadows cloaking you both like a secret.

And then, with one girl sweet on his wings, the two of you vanished into the night sky.

The wind was cold, but Azriel’s chest was warm. You nestled against it as he flew, his arm secured under your thighs, the other braced along your back, wings beating steadily through the sky. You could feel the tension in him, not from the weight of you, but from something far heavier.

Desire, restraint, conflict.

Guilt.

He always carried it. He’d carried it from the moment he met you.

You hadn’t even been full-grown yet, barely out of girlhood, wings still clumsy and new. He remembered it clearly, even if he pretended not to, the way you peeked out from behind Rhys that first time, your gaze already too bright, too curious. You’d watched him like a puzzle you wanted to solve.

And he looked away. He always looked away.

Even when you laughed like starlight. Even when your training leathers hugged your hips and you sparred with Cassian until your cheeks were flushed and your chest heaved. Even when your power flared in rare, breathtaking flashes, born of your High Lord’s bloodline. Even when you began to smile at only him

He stayed one step back, always because you were Rhysands’ little sister, because you had been missing, tortured, kept like a shadow under Hybern’s mountain. Because when you came back, graceful but fierce, everyone - especially Rhys - treated you like glass.

And Azriel? Azriel couldn’t look at you without burning from the inside. 

Still, when you pressed your face to his neck mid-flight and whispered his name, “Azriel,” he nearly dropped out of the sky,

He handed on the balcony of the House of Wind with more force than usual, boots cracking lightly against the stone. His hands cradled you, steady and careful, as if your body were breakable crystal instead of carved muscle and magic.

You tilted your head to look up at him, smirking faintly. “You’re tense.”

“You’re not drunk.”

You hummed, unbothered. “Caught me.”

He sighed and finally set you down, but his hands hovered like he didn’t want to let go. Or couldn’t.

You smiled, sharp and knowing. “So why did you play along?”

He didn’t meet your eyes. “Because you wanted me to.”

You stepped toward him. “And maybe because you wanted to touch me.”

That finally earned you a look—a dark, dangerous one.

“I’ve spent centuries not touching you.”

You faltered, just slightly. That confession struck between you like a strike of lightning. He shook his head, wings shifting behind him. “You don’t understand.”

“I do,” you whispered, fingers twitching at your side to reach for him. “You think Rhy would hate you.”

“Wouldn’t he?” his voice was low and rough. “You’re his little sister. And I-”

“You’re his best friend. His brother. And he trusts you. He knows you’d never hurt me.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched. “I wouldn’t.”

“Then stop pretending that wanting me is wrong.” You stepped back before he could answer, backlit by the moon as you walked toward the open space of the terrace. The House was quiet, its walls echoing with your boldness and your hunger. You stood there, framed by night as you slipped off your shoes and turned slowly.

“Dance with me.”

He didn’t move. You lifted your chin. “Please.”

The House responded before he could. Music began, soft and gentle, string and piano blooming into the quiet. The kind of song that demanded closeness. The kind that had always belonged to lovers, not warriors.

Azriel’s eyes closed for a moment. You thought he might turn and vanish into the shadows. But when he opened them, you saw something fractured there. Something deafened. He walked to you in three slow steps.

And these arms were around you.

You melted into him without hesitation, your cheek resting against his chest. His heart was pounding almost as loudly as yours was. His wings shifted behind you as his hands gripped your waist, guiding you into a slow sway.

It wasn’t a soldier’s hold, it was a lover’s, protective and reverent.

You tilted your head back, eyes on his mouth. “You’re still holding back.”

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t.” You bite your lip, slowly, and feel the way his breath caught, his shadows withered and tickled at your heels. “You’ve always wanted me, haven’t you?” He didn’t deny it. He just stared at you, his hands trembling slightly where they helped your hips. “I knew the first time you looked away,” you said. “I’ve spent years waiting for you to stop.”

The music slowed as his hold tightened. And when you rose to your toes, brushing your lips just barely against his. He finally stopped. Stopped pulling away, stopped fighting how he felt. 

Azriel’s shadows surged around you like smoke and silk, coiling at your spine, sliding under your dress. His body pressed flush against yours, towering, hot and desperate. And still, he didn’t kiss you back. Not fully.

He looked like a man teetering at the edge of a cliff, scarred hands clenched, wings trembling, shadows circling like vultures.

You cupped his jaw gently, “Az…”

He inhaled sharply, like your voice burned. His hands on your waist flexed, like he wanted to drag you closer, but still didn’t trust himself.

“I can’t,” he rasped, voice strained and cracked. “You’re-”

“Don’t say it.” You stood on your toes once more, lips rushing his. “I know who I am. And I know who I want.”

He groaned, a low, guttural sound, and suddenly, your back hit the wall of the terrace. Not hard, not rough, but urgent.

His body caged yours completely, towering over you. Wings spread wide and trembling behind him like a predator mid-hunt. His chest heaved, his hair falling over his brow in wild, unkept waves, and his shadows writhed between your legs, around your wrists, your neck, like they couldn’t decide where they wanted to taste you first.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” he growled.

You looked up at him, flushed and breathless. “I hope so.”

His pupils blew wide. “I’ve wanted to run you for centuries.

“Then ruin me, Azriel.”

He snapped. Finally.

One second, he was still. Next, you were in the air. He’d lifted you like nothing. Like your weight didn't matter, just one massive hand around your waist, pinning you to the wall, legs wrapped around his hips as he pressed flush against you.

“Az-”

He kissed you. Devoured you completely. His mouth crashed into yours with a desperation that bordered on violent, hot, slick, claiming. His tongue parted your lips and swallowed your gasp. He growled again when your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, like you wanted to crawl inside his skin.

He let you pull, but he held all the control. His shadows surged behind you, pinning your wings gently to the stone wall, bracing you so his hands could roam freely. One slid up your spine, while another gripped your thigh, yanking it higher around his waist.

“You don’t understand,” he panted between kisses, voice breaking. “I’ve dreamed of this. Every fucking night. And I wake up hating myself.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted that I wasn’t allowed to have.”

You kissed his jaw. His neck. His scarred shoulder. “Then take me anyway.”

His hand came to rest on your face, cradling your jaw so gently that it made your heart ache. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

“You won’t. I can handle more than you think I can.” You bite his lip, teasing.

He snarled, and then his shadows exploded.

They coiled around your waist, pulling you away from the wall, only to wrap you up in them like silk restraints. His winds closed around you, a protective cocoon of night and wind, hiding you from the stars, from the world, from everything that wasn’t him.

“You’re mine,” he growled against your mouth, lifting you effortlessly again. “Do you understand me?”

You whimpered, nodding. “Yours.”

His mouth crashed into yours again, harder this time, hand sliding beneath your thighs to grip your ass as he carried you through the halls of the house like you weighed nothing. One arm around your back. The other is between your legs. His shadows wrapped around your ankles and wrists like a crown.

Your back met the softness of your bed, but your attention was solely on the male in front of you. Azriel couldn’t stop staring.

Not even as he knelt between your spread legs on the massive bed, the House had now been lit with candles. Not even when you reached down and touched his face, a whisper of fingers over his jaw. Not even when you whispered his name, as if it were something past.

“I never thought...” His voice broke, deep and rough as he withheld his emotions. “I’d get to touch you.”

Your hand curled into his black hair. “You’ve always touched me.”

“You know what I mean.”

Yes. You did. The weight of years pressed between you. All the stolen glances, the tension, the desperate little almost-touches. All the time he’d spent holding himself back because you were Rhys’s baby sister and off-limits. But now, Azriel was looking at you like you were the only star in the night sky. He was done pretending, done denying himself.

And when he kissed you again, it was like he breathed you in.

He kissed your lips like he wanted to memorise the shape of them. He kissed down your throat, over your dress, reverent as he went, until he reached your breasts and kissed them through the fabric, your nipples firm and scratching beneath the dress.

You arched into him, and he groaned. That sound was enough to send a deep shiver down your body. 

“I want to taste every part of you,” he almost begged against your clothed abdomen, continuing to kiss your body.

He didn’t undress you, not at first. His shadows peeled back your dress only enough to bare you. A shoulder, your breasts finally spilling free. Then your underwear, soaked already, pulled gently aside as he kissed your hips, your thighs, desperately. His hude hands slide beneath your ass and lifted you like you weighed nothing, bringing your cunt closer to him.

And then he buried his mouth between your legs.

Azriel didn’t eat you out to tease. He did it like he needed to live. He moaned when he tasted you, lapped at you like he was desperate, tongue working slow, steady strokes until your hips bucked into his face.

His hand came down on your thigh, “Let me,” he said, almost a plea.

You whimpered. “I need you.”

“You have me.”

He kept going, longer strokes with his tongue, deeper. Until you’re crying out, grinding relentlessly against his mouth and nose, crying out for more. Until you came with a choked sob, hands in his hair, thighs trembling as your orgasm dragged on and on.

Even after, he didn’t leave you empty. Two ice-cold fingers slid inside you, slow and deep, and your whole body arched. You could feel it then. The stretch. The slight ache of being filled.

“You’re already tight, I don’t know how you’ll take me,” he said against the sensitive area of your inner thigh where he was continuing to kiss and bite.

“I will,” you say breathlessly, looking down your body at him. “Azriel, I want to.”

He pulled back, eyes wild as he undressed, shadows tugging his elathers off his broad chest, his powerful thighs, until he was kneeling there above you, naked and gorgeous.

And then you saw his cock. You gasped.

It was massive. Thick, long, veined and dark, flushed at the head and already slick with precum. It twitched under your gaze.

Azriel groans, hands clenching into the sheets as his wings flared behind him. “I knew I’d hurt you.”

“I want it to hurt.”

He froze, as if he were internally conflicted.

You reached for him. “Azriel, I want to feel everything, I want you to fill me until there’s nothing left but you.”

With a growl, he surged over you. Mouth deouring yours,, cock griding against your soaked pussy. One hand cradled the back of your head with unbelievable gentleness. The other pinned your hip in place/

And when he started to push in, you felt every inch.

The pressure was unbelievable. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your mouth open in a silent moan as he slow, so fucking slowly, workings his thick lengt insude.

“Gods,” he breathed. “You’re–fuck, my love, you’re so tight. So perfect.”

You whimpered, overwhelmed as your thighs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer.

“Does it hurt?” he rasped. You nodded, biting your lip. “Do you want me to stop?”

You shook your head, eyes widening as you looked up at him. He kissed your forehead. “You’re taking me so well.”

He rocked deeper, letting you adjust, your breath coming in shaky gasps as you stretched around him. It burned and throbbed. But it was precisely what you needed.

And when he finally couldn’t inch in any further, your wings snapped open behind you, shimmering with raw pleasure.

Azriels groaned like it broke him. “You like it?” you asked hopefully.

He looked down at where you were joined, a dark flush on his neck, sweat beading at his temple. “I’ll never be the same again.”

Then he started to move. Slow, grinding thrusts, deep enough to make your vision blue. He held you down, kissed your throat, fucked you like he was carving his name into your soul. Every time you clawed at his back or tugged his hair, he snarked and moved harder.

You sobbed his name; he kissed your tears. And when he felt you tighten again, your second orgasm crashing through your body like waves of thunder, he growled into your neck, “That’s it. Cum for me. Let me feel it, my love.”

You shattered urgently, and still, he didn’t stop. He thrust through it, holding your hips steady with his huge hands, shadows crawling up your spine, pressing into your wings like a second mouth. You moaned louder, not thinking or caring who might hear you.

“I can’t stop,” he said, shocked, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re too fucking perfect. You were made for me.”

And then, when you whispered that you wanted it to hurt again, his control finally snapped. Az flipped you onto your stomach. And he retook you, deeper, rougher, worshipping every inch of you until you were sobbing into the sheets, begging for more. Until he, too, finally came inside you with a broken cry and buried himself so that it felt like you might never breathe without him again.

You didn’t remember returning onto your back in the middle of the bed. You only remembered his arms around you. The weight of him, the tremble of your own body, how sore and sensitive you were, how it still somehow wasn’t enough. How you wished you could pull him closer, deeper, keep him inside you forever.

Azriel was still above you, breathing hard, body slick with sweat. Your thighs shook where they clung around his waist, and he was still inside you, buried to the hilt, as if letting go would make this moment break apart.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “You stayed.”

His hand slid gently across your cheek, eyebrows drawing together in concern, “Of course I stayed.”

Your eyes pricked with tears. His mouth was immediately there, kissing your temple and catching every tear that fell. “Don’t cry.”

You let your eyes close, focusing on the warmth of his body, the burn between your thighs. The thrum of his heartbeat was still fast beneath his ribs. But he was already moving, slowly and carefully and lifting off you only just enough to keep from hurting you.

“Wait…”, you whispered, but he was already shushing you gently.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. “Just taking care of you, sweet love.”

His shadows slid across the room. A warm cloth appeared in his hand, summoned by the House. You flushed when he knelt between your legs again, as if he hadn’t just spent the last hour inside you.

“You don’t have to”

“I want to.” So you let him.

He cleaned you carefully, being cautious of your tender body, gentle even as he wiped away his release leaking between your legs. Every pass of the warm cloth made you sigh. His hands were so big, drawing your waist, your hips, your thighs. His shadows curled protectively around you both, brushing your calves in coolness, your wrists, your neck.

When he was done, he vanished the cloth and pulled the sheets up over your body, settling behind you, letting you curl into the heat of his chest. Your body ached. It sang. But slowly, the world crept back in.

“What do we do now?” you asked into the hush. Azriel didn’t speak right away. You turned slightly, and your wings brushed his. “Azriel…”

His arms tightened. “We go back to pretending,” he said quietly. “At least for now.”

You flinched. “Even after–”

He kissed your shoulder, aching. “You think I want to hide this? Hide you? I’ve wanted you since I was barely a grown male.”

“I don’t care if Rhys finds out.”

“I do,” he said with great gentleness. “I care about you being safe and protected. Until we’re ready, we keep this between us. Just a little longer, my love.”

You didn’t like it. You hated that the fear still clung to both of you, that what you had to say goodbye to in the morning had finally happened after so many years. But you knew him. And you knew he was being careful with your heart. With your future. With you.

So you nodded. “Okay.”

His nose pressed to the back of your neck. “Get some sleep, love.”

“You’ll be here when I wake up?”

Silence. Then: “no”.

You still. “But I’ll stay until you fall asleep. I promise.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “You always keep your promises.”

His breath hitched. “Only for you.”

You didn’t fight the heaviness dragging you under. Not with his arms around you. Not with his scent in your lungs, his warmth cradling you from behind. You fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat in your ear.

And when morning came, the bed beside you was cold. But the ache in your body told you it hadn’t been a dream. And the pillow still smells like him.

[mariasont]

We Reap What I Sow - S.R

you fight, you burn, you break apart, and then you pull him back in — again and again, as if love is something that can't exist without wreckage

pairings: s6!spencer reid x reader warnings: reader is a villain (sorry yall), toxic relationship, emotional manipulation & gaslighting, obsession, codependency, unreliable (heavy on this) narrator, angst, toxic sexual dynamics mentioned?, sex and violence closely linked, mentions of rough handlings? (nothing crazy), alcohol use, no clear resolution wc: 2.3k request: here

Your fingers move faster than your conscience, like an invocation. You text without thinking, apologize without meaning it. You're sure if you type hard enough, fast enough, maybe you can summon him from the ether, resurrect him from silence. Silence is worse than anger.

Spencer, please. Send.

Spence, I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t mean it. Send.

Are you seriously ignoring me right now? Send.

Don’t be an asshole. Send

Your drink is half-melted and too sweet now, but you drink it anyway. The bar lights bleed across the counter, flickering in and out like dying fireflies. Your friend is saying something, was saying something, but you weren’t listening. Work gossip, maybe. A guy. You nod when it feels right, laugh when you think you should.

Your phone vibrates — Spencer. No. Just your banking app reminding you how much you’ve spent tonight. 

You down the rest of your drink, tongue flicking out to catch the last traces of whatever the hell this was supposed to taste like before firing off another text. 

I know you’re mad. I just need to talk to you. Please. Send.

“Hello? Earth to psycho girlfriend?”

The bar sways, or that might just be your stomach catching up to the alcohol. Okay. Maybe you’re drunker than you thought. You close your phone, pushing it under your clutch as if that’ll erase the texts you’ve already sent.

“I’m fine.”

Your friend snorts, swirling what’s left of her own drink. “You’re, like, four seconds away from showing up at his apartment.”

“I am not. God. I’m not that desperate.”

“Babe.”

“I’m not,” you insist, crossing your arms. “I’m just… considering all my options.”

“Right. And one of those options isn’t showing up at his apartment?”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Okay, but why is it always on me? Like, why do I have to be the mature one and not do the thing I want to do?”

“Because you’ll regret it?”

You scoff. “Yeah, well. I’ll also regret not doing it.”

“So I think what I’ve gathered is you both enable each other’s worst behaviors?”

You blink at her for a second before smiling. “I mean, we have fun though.”

That's a lie by omission. It’s not fun by normal standards. Not in the way people mean when they say it. It’s just… habitual self-destruction. The way you press your palm against a hot stove, just to see how long you can hold it there. The way you drink on an empty stomach, knowing you’ll feel it sooner, harder, faster.

It’s last summer, a nameless hotel hallway that smelled like bleach, his hand bruising your wrist, voice a slow-burn — you want me to lose my temper? And something inside you thrilled at threat because yes, yes, let’s stop pretending, let’s make this hurt, make me matter enough to break you.

It’s that fight in the car, rain slashing sideways, nails biting into your palms as you threw the words like glass — why don’t you just leave me, then? And his hands slammed the wheel, voice breaking apart when he begged you to shut up.

It’s the night you deleted his number, not because you were done, but because you wanted to see if he’d crawl for you. If he’d go mad wondering where you were, what you were doing, who you were with.

And he did.

It’s tonight, when you let another man lean in too close, let his lips brush your ear, let him say something forgettable, disposable, background noise. You didn’t hear him. You didn’t care. Because it wasn’t about him. It was about Spencer. It’s always about Spencer. About pressing on the bruise until he flinches, making sure he sees.

And Spencer did.

Right before he turned, before he walked away, before you could decide if you wanted to chase after him or let the wound fester.

You’re good at this. You’re an artist. A sculptor of narratives. A surgeon of half-truths.

You don’t lie, not really. You just bend the story with careful hands, carve the angles sharp enough to dismantle, tilt the light until Spencer’s face is shadowed as the villain. Until he is the one who obsesses, who picks and picks until he draws blood. Until he is the one who turns love into madness.

And sometimes, sure. That’s true of him. 

But what you never say, what you never let yourself say, is that you planted the seeds yourself. That you fed them. Watered them. Built a trellis for them to climb. You created the house, laid the foundation, furnished every corner with suspicion and longing, and then stood outside and called it a prison.

And now, tonight, you’re rolling your eyes, laughing too loud, shaking your head as you tell your friend he always does this. You make him sound crazy, childish. Like his anger isn’t justified. Like his absence wasn’t the only thing that ever made sense. 

But deep down, beyond the haze of liquor and the comfortable show of self-righteousness, you know the truth. 

Spencer didn’t lose his mind on his own. You put it in his hands and asked him to break it.

You don’t remember making the choice to leave. Not really. One second, you’re laughing at something dumb, and then, your lips graze your friend’s cheek, a murmured get home safe, and you’re already moving, barely hearing her say your name, barely acknowledging the question in her voice.

Then it’s Spencer’s address, burned into your brain. The driver nods. The city twists and sways outside the window, yellow blurs, red smears, streetlights flickering across your hands. Your eyes close, and for just a second —

Then, oh. You’re there.

You barely hear the door slam behind you. You barely thank the driver. You don’t even think before your feet hit the pavement, before you’re walking up the steps.

And then there’s the door. His door. The one that’s been thrown open with a scowl, slammed shut mid-sentence, locked just long enough to make a point. The one that never stays closed for long. Not when it’s you on the other side. 

You knock, giggling as you wobble, nearly toppling over while yanking off your heels. They hit the ground haphazardly somewhere behind you, forgotten the second they leave your hands.

The knocking turns into pounding, palm smacking against the door between raps of your knuckles. It’s almost funny, the way impatience surges through you like a second heartbeat, the way you know he’s there, standing just beyond the wood, watching, hesitating, chewing over whether to let you in.

The door swings open and you’re already falling. Already tipping forward like your body knew he’d be there to catch you. Your limbs have learned that Spencer Reid is your safety net, your buffer, your inevitable landing.

“Whoops,” you murmur, the alcohol humming pleasantly beneath your tongue, making everything feel slower. “My bad.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t sigh, doesn’t scold, doesn’t react at all. He just steadies you, brief and impersonal, fingers curling at your waist for less than a second before he looks away.

He bends, picks up your heels from where you left them, places them neatly on the entryway table. Cold air fills the space where his hands were. He shuts the door.

“Did you not see my texts?”

Nothing.

“I said sorry.” Sharper now, words clipped, fingers drumming against your arms where they’re folded tight across your chest. “Jesus, Spencer, you’re being —”

Ridiculous.

You almost say it, the word a loaded bullet in the chamber. But then his jaw tightens, his throat works through a swallow and you bite down, tasting blood instead.

“You said sorry?” He spits it back like it burns, like he wants it out of his mouth as fast as possible. “You said sorry, and that’s supposed to mean what, exactly? That I don’t get to be mad? That I don’t get to be upset when you spent the whole night deliberately pissing me off?”

You sway slightly. “Oh, right,” you say, words dripping bitter sarcasm. “Because you never do anything to piss me off, right? You’re so fucking perfect. You don’t overthink, you don’t obsess, you never turn nothing —”

“Tell you what,” he cuts in, voice flat and final. “You’re right. I do overthink. And apparently, I was stupid enough to think you gave a shit about what that does to me.” His gaze sears into you. “But tell me,” he continues, “when have I ever overthought something you did and reached the wrong conclusion?”

God, you know he gets off on this. On delivering those carefully crafted sentences, watching you flinch without raising a finger, precise enough that he never appears anything but calm and rational. 

And he knows you have nowhere to go. Silence damns you just as much as fighting back. He knows you’ll open your mouth anyway. You don’t have any other options.

“Maybe if you didn’t dig into every goddamn thing I do, I wouldn’t have to keep explaining myself.”

Spencer barks out a laugh, the kind that sounds more like an exhale than anything amused. He looks like he might punch the wall. Like he might slam his fist straight through the drywall, let his frustration exist somewhere outside his body. But he doesn’t, just shakes his head, jaw screwed so tight you can practically hear his teeth grind.

“Oh, that’s good,” he mutters, thick with disbelief, bordering on disgust. “That’s actually — wow.” He looks at you then, really looks at you, like he’s seeing you for the first time. Or maybe the last. “You really just said that with a straight face, huh?”

It wasn’t always like this. You used to be good. Really good. The kind of good that made people jealous, the kind where he’d brush a hand over your back in a crowded room, where he’d wait up for you even if it was stupid late because he wanted to hear about your day. 

Then there was that party. The one you dragged him to, the one he didn’t want to go to because he hated loud music and small talk and watching you drink yourself into bad decisions.

You had rolled your eyes at him, called him uptight, and he’d muttered something about how you were just looking for an excuse to start a fight. And maybe you were.

It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. It started over something small, maybe the way you kept refilling your drink, maybe the way he kept checking his watch like he was timing how long he had to tolerate you.

You scoffed, rolled your eyes. “Jesus, Spencer, if you don’t want to be here, just go.”

And he had shrugged. “Maybe I will.”

And that pissed you off. More than it should have. Because you wanted him to fight you on it. You wanted him to care, to stay because of you, not out of obligation. 

So you pushed a little harder. Tipped your drink back, let the alcohol scrape down your throat, and smirked when you said it. “God, you are so boring sometimes.”

That had done it. Spencer, who usually let things slide, who usually held his temper like a clenched fist, finally let something slip through his teeth.

“Yeah?” he had said, just this side of cruel. “At least I don’t get drunk and make an idiot of myself for attention.”

The words hit like a slap, sharper than the sting of vodka on your tongue. You should’ve been mad, should’ve stormed off, should’ve let the hurt take over. But instead, you smiled. Because there it was, finally, a reaction. The thing you’d been pulling at all night was finally splintered at your feet.

And it didn’t stop there. It followed you home, back at your apartment, where the anger snapped into something hotter. The fight spilled into the walls, into hands grabbing too tight, into gasps swallowed by teeth and tongue. You remember the way he shoved you onto the bed, the way you laughed through it, drunk on the fight and feeling, gasping when he pinned you down, when his hands pushed your wrists into the mattress. You don’t remember what you said, only how it ended — with your back arching, his name breaking off in your throat, pleasure slamming into you so hard you thought you almost mistook it for pain.

“Fuck off, Spencer."

You need him to press you into the doorframe until it bites. To swallow the venom straight from your tongue. To lace your skin with fingerprints, because nothing else sinks deep enough to matter. That’s how this works. That’s how you two translate love.

But he doesn’t move.

Just stands there, chest rising fast like he’s been winded, fingers curled, crushing the impulse in his palm, the impulse to fix this the only way you both know how.

“Jesus. You really think this ends your way?”

He’s bluffing. That’s what you tell yourself. That’s what you have to tell yourself.

“You can stand there and act all righteous, but we both know you like it,” you sneer, chin tilting up. “You like chasing me. You like losing your fucking mind over me.”

He stares.

“Get out.”

No shouting. No shoving. No hands in your hair. No bruising grip on your wrist to make you stay — just two flat, empty words and a door that suddenly feels like a death sentence. 

Your fingers close around your shoes and you barely notice how steady they are. How clear everything feels. No alcohol to blame it on now. Just you.

You don’t look at him. Not when you knock your shoulder against his, not when you open the door like you don’t actually care if he stops you. 

You’re halfway down the hallway when you hear him move. 

You turn. He looks at you like he’s already buried you. And you stand there waiting to be exhumed.

The door doesn’t slam. It just closes. Not locked. Not deadbolted.

You walk away.

A week. Two. Three, if you’re feeling patient.

Then you’ll send the first text. You’ll plant the next seed.

And he’ll let it grow.

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