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pathofcomets · 2 months ago

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you're my one and only

fandom: love and deepspace pairing: zayne/reader (2nd POV) summary: You’re so pretty, you’re so good to him, you’re so kind to his needs, you’re so smart, you’re so fucking good at this - you feel so damn fucking good, and his brain is just this on repeat, overwhelmed with how much he loves and needs you. (5k words, rated E.) content warnings: possessive behaviour & ownership, master/pet and dom/sub dynamics, use of vibrators, semi-public sex, dirty talk, spanking, jealous! af zayne

You love it when Zayne gets to show you off: the perfect ironed press of his shirt’s collar, your evening hard work; his lunches, now packed boxes, decorated with funny and cute faces in the rice, rather than the store meals; the ghost of a pink-reddish lipstick at his cheek, when he hurries to work and doesn’t have the time for one last check in the mirror, your affection too difficult to resist; the bracelet at his wrist, a matching one on yours, a detail that truthfully only his nearest friends pick up on, but they do nonetheless; his small, faint smile when you drop him off in front of the hospital doors, refusing to unlock the car until he leans over to harshly press his lips against yours, the giggle and gasps of those witnessing it like a warm balm over your soul.

Your chest swells with pride, at being his and recognised as such. You work hard to please him, give him more reasons to say your name, followed by the lovely, soft description of my lover. He’s been looking after you for so long that it is in his nature, but your caring tendencies are harder to instill, it is something you have to do with real awareness, try with assiduous diligence to consider him at every single, smallest choice you make. It is difficult, but honest work, your life’s true purpose, you think.

Loving Zayne, making the world that tiny bit softer on him, easing his burdens, giving him reasons for joy. You go at it with your usual determination, and sometimes it embarasses him, how much you lack any level of embarrassment in your attempts to delight him.

You love it when Zayne gets to show you off. So he doesn’t ask you, he merely presses the card in your hands once he gets home, looking at your face as you read through, the invite for a big symposium, hundreds of guests, allowing him a plus one. You? You warm up all over, pleased and blushing, just at the thought of everyone seeing you on his arm.

He knows you, he understands that you’d be on your best behaviour, the prettiest you’ve ever been, smart and sociable, but your attention always on him, charming men and women alike, leaving them seething at the knowledge that you are Zayne’s and Zayne’s alone. He owns you, and you want, so desperately, for the world to know exactly how deeply.

In the deep coils of his soul, he wants the same, doesn’t know if he loves you or hates you for indulging him like this, all his darkest, deepest fantasies met with a hitch of your breath and nothing else.

He sends you the shoes first, on the morning of your free day, before you’d go shopping on your own. They’re ambitious heels, taller than you’d normally go for, but it’d bring you almost to his height when wearing them. The dress he drops off at your work, at midday before the start of his shift, when all your colleagues are in, when everyone can ooh and aah at the pick, at the gesture, at how prim and proper and handsome doctor Zayne, your lover, is.

You beam up at him, eyes meeting across the room as he leaves. He might understand, now, a tiny bit, exactly why you like dropping off unannounced at the hospital so much. Only one item of jewelry prepared, offered to you one hurried morning, when you’ve overslept, when you’ve stayed over at his place, much farther away from your workplace. He wants to inconvenience you, wants to see if he’s worth making excuses for, and you pause in front of your shoes, skirt just the tiniest bit askew.

He tugs at the hem as you open the box. The necklace is more a collar, pure silver glinting in the morning light, a thick and heavy band, no other design, quite simple. Zayne is slow, as he grabs it from the box, pulling at the cardboard at the same time, a tiny key nestled under. Your breath quickens, as he fits it around your neck, locks it in place with a key that he slips in his pocket.

Your eyes land on him, not capable of saying anything, just letting this final sign of belonging, ownership, settle in your mind. You want to fuck him, suck him off, show how grateful you are for it, but there’s no time, you think, chancing a glance at his wristwatch.

The same hand comes up, holding harshly to your chin to force your gaze back to him. Zayne merely stares, first at your face, flushed and pleased, then downwards, at the necklace settled around your neck.

He groans, at the back of his throat, dragging you close for a harsh, hungry kiss. You open your mouth immediately, needily, his tongue over yours, and you moan into the kiss. You part for breath, a string of saliva connecting your lips, and you smile at him.

“Thank you,” you whisper, before hurryingly zipping up your boots, leaving before he gets to say anything else.

He goes through the day perfectly aware of the weight of the small key in his pocket. And that night he already waits for you at your place, phone lazily held in his hand as he orders you to undress, right there in the middle of the room, all naked except for his gift.

He hums, the camera shuttering as he takes pictures of you all throughout the night: you against the bedsheets, eyes heavy with the promise of more; his cock down your throat, necklace catching the low light; his hand around your throat too, necklaced and owned twice.

The underwear is the last in the long list of presents and preparations, and Zayne only presents it to you on the day of the event, as you enter his bedroom, just a towel around your body.

He flicks a finger in the air, and you let it fall to the ground. He spends a long time just looking you up and down, so pretty and so naked, his for watching and taking, his full stop, the sign of ownership still beautifully worn around your neck. The panties and bra are laid out on the bed next to him, as he bids you to come closer.

You do, because there’s nothing else in this world you’ll do but listen to him.

He presses a light kiss right at the centre of your chest, where he perfectly reaches from his seated position, an arm carefully coming around your back, finger caressing your back. The gestures are almost reverent, and you shiver, overwhelmed by his love.

“Silly girl needs my help, doesn’t she?” he asks, voice a whisper over your body, and you nod, helpless and needy to please. “Too much of a whore to even remember how to dress?” he hums, lost already in the image of that near future.

“Yes, please,” you say, feeling the pressure building at your core already, but you do not dare to move.

He’s already fully dressed, in a three-piece suit, hair gelled back, the glasses making his sharpness that much more handsome, and you feel, acutely, desperately, how badly you want to match him. You know, he’ll make you the most beautiful woman in the world.

He moves, enough to reach the nightstand drawer, pulling something out of it that you cannot see, nestled in his palm, until the vibrations sound accompany it, the feel of it against your thigh as he moves the vibrator over your core, lightly pressed over your clit.

You whine, hips jutting forward, chasing the feel, as Zayne dips it lower, just checks its push between your lips. But you’re wet already: the image of him, fully dressed while you’re all naked, the smoothness and firmness of his voice, this moment in itself, all of it perfectly suited to make a mess out of you. The vibrator slits inside you, swallowed by your greedy cunt, and Zayne hums his approval, patting softly between your legs as you bite your lips, forcing yourself not to sob at the overwhelm of sensations.

You cannot hear it vibrating inside you, but you can feel its soft hum, and when you look up at him again, your lids are already heavy with lust.

He grabs the underwear next, more lace than anything else, in a light blue, contrasting beautifully with your skin. He has picked it thinking exactly of this moment, of this night, of how beautiful it’ll suit you. He’s careful when he helps you, and your body is entirely limp, his fingers firm as they guide your legs through the holes, pulling the material over your body until it settles around your body. You’re like a doll, and his cock grows harder.

“That ‘kay?” he asks, mouth pressing a kiss at your hip bone, where the panties end, his other hand hitching the vibrator one setting higher.

You jump, a whimper on your lips, forcing yourself to still, breath, calm down, as he changes it back to its lower setting. You nod, dazed, a question in your eyes, and he smiles, pressing another kiss at your other side, letting his tongue peek out just the tiniest bit, for you to feel the warm wetness of his want against you.

“All night?” you ask, as he stands, pushes your arms through the bra, hooks it patiently behind you; a matching set, with the cup cut so low that it barely covers your nipples.

“All night,” he agrees, and you sigh, grounding yourself back to your mind, as he places one kiss at your naked shoulder.

You can’t lose so easily, be such a needy little whore so early, not if you want to please him, not if you want to be seen out in the world by his side.

Zayne moves, manoeuvres you into a seated position on the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight in front of you. He opens your makeup pouch carefully, thoughtfully, as he picks items out of it. One by one, laid in front of you, like instruments are laid for him during surgeries. And it’s with that same clinical analytical patience and attention that he starts working on applying the makeup for you, your lashes fluttering closed and open at each soft order, as he moves from foundations to eyeshadow and to mascara, each step learnt from tens of times he’s watched you do this on the floor in front of his mirror, or at your vanity. His hand doesn’t shake and it doesn’t tremble, the other holding your face by your chin, keeping you still even when the first orgasm washes over you, low keening moaning sounds out of your mouth as his hold tightens, keeping your head still even as your body is trembling with your passion, his hand applying the lip gloss perfectly.

“Zayne,” you say, your voice faint, and aren’t you just adorable, already looking this fucked, this cock hungry, even when you’re only one orgasm in?

You’ll have to do better than that, if you want to survive the night.

“Hm?” he entertains you, as he moves now to grab at the dress.

“Can we not?” you try, licking your lips a started and aborted motion when his eyes sharpen with a warning, your carelessness almost ruining his hard work. “Now, a quick one?”

He raises an eyebrow at you.

“A quick what, girl?”

The dress is a complicated pattern of ribbons, to be tied and tightened around your body, truly an almost impossible feat to even attempt putting it on by yourself. You’d need him by design, and the touch of a rope of ribbon tightened around your chest, pressing over your nipples, has you remember his question.

“Fuck,” you say. “Please, fuck me, Zayne,” you say, even as he’s on the final rope binding around your body, and there’s no way either of you would just put to waste so much time and devotion.

He looks at his wristwatch, in a mimic of what you’ve done to him, and he is always like this, mean and unforgiving. He shakes his head, as if wanting him is just an unwanted thought, and he guides you in front of the full length mirror instead, where you can admire each other without shame.

Both in black, perfectly put together, your dress intricate, the matching material in the pocket of his blazer. Tight around your waist, soft waves of material pooling just above your ankles, elegant and tasteful, utterly attuned to your own preferences. His arm possessively wraps around your waist, pressing you into his side, as he leans close enough to breathe in the smell of you.

“Beautiful”, he whispers against your skin. “Mine,” he adds, fingers tighter over you, vibrator on a higher setting again, and you nod, desperate, toes curling with the onslaught of pleasure.

“Yours,” you agree, body stilling with your second orgasm, and you’re struggling to breath, as Zayne drops on one knee in front of you, helps your feet in your new shoes, the red at their bottom matching that over your lips.

***

It’s a daze to you how you even arrive at the event hall, the vibrator set to the highest setting, Zayne’s hand resting heavily on your thigh, but not further, two more orgasms wretched out of you, having to keep quiet against the overwhelming feeling building inside you, the soreness of your pussy and the needing throb of your clit. You blink away the frustrated tears before they have a chance to mess up your makeup, and Zayne smiles at you as he helps you out of the cab, vibrator now mercifully turned off.

You smile at everyone he introduces to you, but the type of smile you keep for people you work with. You’re attentive and you ask and answer questions with careful attention, never too much to overshare, never too little to allow the conversation to stall. The more of Zayne’s colleagues in the field you pass, the more the admiring gazes settle on him. But he doesn’t miss, also, the way they then move to your hand, where your ring finger remains empty, that an invitation and a welcome, even if he owns you in all other ways. And you, blissfully paying attention to him only, not being aware about how many others want you.

He doesn’t want to be here anymore.

That’s why when you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, he follows a few minutes later. The clasp of fingers on your arm, and the careful tug are not a surprise, and you smile as both of you settle in a nook of the corridor.

“You’re doing so well, pet,” he whispers softly, only his fingertip trailing faintly against your collarbone.

Your entire body shudders, as you’re raked through with an orgasm - you’re so pent up, frustrated, needy for him alone, that just this is enough to send you over the edge. You’re silent, your mouth slightly open, just your chest heaving sharply. You’re so pretty, Zayne wants to ruin you on the spot. You’d like that, fucked in a corner in a hallway where everyone could see you, maybe you’d even deserve it, after you’ve been such a good girl so far. He hums, thinking it through, as his hand dips, fingers maintaining the light pressure, now at the edge of your dress, against your cleavage.

The expanse of skin you are showing is intoxicating, the dip of your boobs making his head spin. He’s been staring, all night long, noticing others looking at what’s his too, and maybe he does have reason to be upset with you after all. You’re his, but you’re so pretty that others can’t stay away. He can’t have that. You’re just a cute, little pup, you don’t know better, but he still has to train you, make you perfectly his, tune every word, action, thought in his direction alone.

The entire world has to disappear, when he’s next to you.

You blink at him, understanding without even needing him to explain, dropping to your knees without any hesitation. People do walk past, but in this side dark corridor, only someone purposefully looking would notice you.

He just stands above you, doesn’t help you at all as you take his member out, already hard, and immediately swallow it in your mouth. He groans, a sound at the back of his throat as your tongue swirls around his tip, and you hum, pleased, around him, starting to bob your head around him.

You’re so pretty, you’re so good to him, you’re so kind to his needs, you’re so smart you’re so fucking good at this - you feel so damn fucking good, and his brain is just this on repeat, overwhelmed with how much he loves and needs you.

“Who taught you this?” he asks, voice just above a whisper, growing frustrated and upset, knowing he won’t last long, not with how he winded himself up, with how well you suck his cock.

Your words are muffled around him, but of course he can make out the answer, you. He’s your first one after all, no? This pretty mouth of yours used for the first time by his fingers, by his dick alone. Your pussy lips stretched only around him, every moan and every tear and every please directed at you alone. You’re his, utterly and fully, always have been, and his rhythm stutters, hips stilling, as he bottoms inside you, ignoring that you’re struggling to breathe, knowing there’s nothing you can do but take it all, no mess allowed in this setting.

You swallow it all, opening your mouth, tongue out to show him.

He grins, already shoving his still hard cock back in his trousers, pressing it against his body with his belt, trying to make it less obvious, and you whimper. He offers a hand, palm up, and you gracefully accept it, swiping a hand against your dress, smoothing out the crinkles. He picks up your purse from the floor, opens it enough to grab a tissue and your lip gloss, retouching up your makeup even in the dark, faint light of this place, being capable of knowing your features simply because they’re yours.

He’s soft and attentive and so caring throughout the dinner, his hand around the back of your chair, as he talks of one thing or another with the people around you. Most of them have their own partners with them, except the older man to your right, who turns to you with a smile, calling you sweetheart to gain your attention.

Zayne’s attention snaps to you, not him. You cut into your meat, unbothered by the pet name, and when he turns back on the vibrator, you moan around the food in your mouth, and it’s a good enough excuse, pretending the soft bite is the best you’ve ever had.

You turn to look at your lover through your lashes, all while nodding along to a story from the older guest, just the hint of a warning in your gaze, and Zayne doesn’t think you want to start playing this game, his patience always stronger, his will always more forceful. If you want to be a brat, he can of course teach you a lesson - but he would have done that regardless, so he turns the vibrator off.

He doesn’t let you wait for dessert, taking your hand in his and dragging you off your chair under the guise of a shared dance, though you disappear in the crowd, and then further, doors tried and tested for locks, before finally, the tiniest cupboard is open, and he slips inside, tugging you after him.

You pant, the pace he kept too hurried and desperate, as he lifts at your dress ruffles, just enough for his hand to settle between your legs, his fingers pushing your underwear aside and sinking into your wet pussy with no resistance. He clasps at the vibrators, throws it in a corner of the small room, and you whimper at suddenly being so empty.

“Zayne,” you gasp, scared and frantic. “What-” you try further, but he fits his fingers inside you, and you moan his name again, loud, because it’s a wider, bigger stretch than what you’ve been used to all night.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says, angry, spitting out the pet name that another man dared use for you, words followed by a hollowed chuckle, no humour in his tone. “Be fuckin’ quiet,” he orders.

You whimper, back arching as you take his harsh finger fucking, four digits plunging in an out of you with such furious speed that he has to hold on to your body, keep you in place. He ignores your clit though, and it feels so fucking good, but it’s just not enough, and your whimpering grows futile, the slicker you go on his knuckles.

“Or should I just let you scream?” he asks, humming, in perfect control. “Have everyone passing by know exactly who you belong to?”

You do that, shout out in pleasure, loud, your eyes closing as your walls clench around his fingers, as your hips roll, the orgasm crashing over you with so much force that it is just Zayne’s arm around your body that keeps you in place. He stills his fingers inside you, making you do all the work in chasing the remnants of your orgasm, and when you blink back into awareness, his eyes are still cold on you.

You whimper, for a totally different reason now.

“Turn around,” he says, palm guiding your still clumsy movements.

And then, his hand presses against your lower back, and you bend over, order not need be spoken, your palms settling against the wall. He is slow and reverent in lifting up your dress, showing more and more of your skin, until there he has it: your glistening cunt, engorged clit and messy juices; the perfect roundness of your ass. He caresses the smooth skin there, and you sigh.

Then the slap lands, harshly, heavily.

“Oh,” you grunt, catching your fall with your elbow; you were unprepared for the ministration, for the angry force of it.

You feel your skin tingling, burning. Zayne follows with another one, humming when you don’t shy away from it. His palm rubs away the sting, almost mindlessly, as he thinks about what to do with you.

“Ten,” he settles on, and you feel a shiver running down your back.

You don’t think you can take that many.

“Why?” you ask, another firm, quick slap already over your ass, for daring to question him, for thinking you have a say in what is going to happen to you. Your desperation, at both trying to escape his punishment, while your body pushes against the touch when he allows the palm to settle over your skin, is so cute, his cock straining painfully in his trousers.

“Sweetheart has ten letters,” he says, voice low and smooth, words strained as if it hurts him to admit, hurts him to remember, and you do deserve this punishment after all, you realise, for making him feel like that over such careless mistake. “Count,” he orders, another slap landing over your now reddened behind.

“Four,” you bite around a moan.

He keeps at it, your voice trembling the higher you go with your counting, your body squirming as you grow wetter and wetter with each heavy land of his palm. It hurts now, the burn so delicious it goes straight between your legs, your cunt dripping all over your inner thighs as you squirm with each slap, until, finally, blessedly:

“Ten,” you sigh, body slumping, pressing your chest against the wall to catch your breath, as Zayne massages the red, angry skin, a touch so tender that your heart aches.

You turn slowly to look at him, catching the reverent, slightly surprised look on his face. He can’t believe, really, that you just let him do this, merely because he’s grown jealous, because he needed a reminder that you’re still his. You know, of course, this wasn’t for you; you only have eyes and brains for him, after all. This is something that he required.

He settles on the floor, tugging your body after him, helping you turn and settling you over him, legs on either side of his waist, cradling you close.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and just the tiniest bit shy when you place a kiss at his temple, tenderly.

You nod, pressing your wet cunt over the front of his pants, where his cock is tenting painfully hard.

“My cute little whore wants more?” he asks, hand moving to pull at your underwear again, so wet and sticky that the material turned heavy. “You think you deserve my cock? My cum inside you?”

And you nod anew, your body now rocking desperately, naked pussy over him, as Zayne stares at where your bodies press against each other, allowing you to get another orgasm out of this. They’re pathetically quick now, your body all wound up, so slick and ready.

“Please,” you whimper, not even done before you press harder, wanting more. “Want you so badly.”

“In here?” he teases, a finger pressing over your clit as you settle your hole over the hardness of his cock. He can feel you, even through his own pants and underwear, that’s how needy you are, leaving wet patches all over him.

It’s game over, you cannot return back in there, so what does it matter to you where?

“In a closet, like a bitch in heat, incapable of holding it in?” he mocks further.

And you nod, still.

“Like a bitch in heat,” you confirm, and your hands move, undo his belt and when he doesn’t complain or restrain you, you pull out his cock.

You gasp, because he’s so hard and thick, it’s always a challenge and pleasure to take him in. But you’re so slick, so needy, so you merely sit on him, his pussy swallowing him whole in one go.

You gasp as you settle your full weight on him, feeling so full and stuffed that you’re close to tears, after so desperately needing it for hours. He merely rests his hands around your waist, thumb rubbing a soothing motion.

“Thank you, thank you,” you blabber, as your hips roll, rubbing your clit against his pelvis bone, and Zayne hums, half in pleasure and half in praise.

You’re such a well-mannered girl.

“Go on,” he allows, encourages, and you start fucking him, rise and fall of your hips making your legs burn, setting a quick pace, too desperate to care that you might pull at your muscle, that you could beg him for help and he’d have done it. “Use me, girl,” he presses, and you sob out his name, using more force with each downward motion.

He hisses, hand moving up to tug at your necklace with a groan, remembering exactly what it signifies, his mouth crashing against yours in a bruising, needy kiss, swallowing your next moan, as your walls clench around him, as you rub your clit against his body, harder and harder, and you come, a trembling, shivering mess above him, as he picks up the movement, hips snapping in and out of you.

“You’re gonna milk me dry,” he says, panting into your neck, his movement grown frantic and hectic, moaning now out of his mouth.

You’re a cheeky, naughty girl because you squeeze your pussy, and there he is: falling over the edge, cum spilling inside you, and you sigh, now truly at home, at long last. Your arms come around him, fingers tangled in his hair as you’re petting him, his lips at your neck, half against your skin and half against the metal.

Your movements are stiff when you get up, and Zayne’s there to shove your underwear back into place, his cum making it stickier, wetter, a self-satisfied smirk as he looks up at you, his perfect little thing, marked, his.

***

The door doesn’t even lock properly behind you before Zayne is on his knees in front of you, helping you take off your shoes. His hands pressing harder against your heel, eliciting a relieved moan. You haven’t complained once, you didn’t try to take them off under the table, you didn’t start huddling even when the red bloomed at the back of your ankle, a blister in the making. Zayne shifts, just enough to press his mouth against the bottom of your foot, light tickling kisses.

He runs the bath, adding a muscle relaxant, the salts that you prefer. And just as he helped you get dressed, he helps you get undressed too, with the same gentleness, and same clinical disinterest, no touch lingering, layer after layer pooling on the floor. He helps you in, the water the perfect temperature for you, and when you settle in, he sits down on the floor next to you, head leaning on his arm on the edge of the tub.

“Pretty pet,” he says, lost in admiring you. “You did so good, you took everything so well.”

Praise that warms you immediately, fully, and you blush when you meet his eyes, nothing but the same touch of love and pleasured gratefulness there either.

“You’re my perfect girl,” he says, rolling the sleeves of his shirt, helping you soap up, fingers dipping harsher where he’s noticed you wincing earlier, against a pain and a knot, as you sigh.

When he’s done rinsing you, he grabs your hand, pressing tender kisses against your palm, your fingers, and then, finally, eventually, a longer lasting one over the knuckle of your ring finger.

“I love you,” he says at last, this an explanation because it can’t be a proposal, not yet.

“I know,” you say, a wicked glint in your eyes, hand moving to hold onto his forearm.

Then, with a forceful tug telling of your battle experience, you drag his body inside the too small tub, water splashing everywhere

#zayne x reader #zayne x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace #love and deepspace fanfiction #lads fanfic #lads fanfiction #li shen

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