#drunk zayne

[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

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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.

[chuluoyi]

zayne — absolute zeal

[astracora]

Dancing on Tables

Characters: LADs x gn!mc (poly lads), Simone, Tara

Warnings: Alcohol mention, Drunk MC

Written: 28th December 2024

Notes: Poly lads group chat. I like to imagine Simone enjoys bothering Xavier cause when it comes to MC he has a lot of reactions, and she finds that funny. I also think Tara is very lovely and mostly innocent, but can casually drop a bomb without meaning to.

Masterlist AO3

Bonus - Tara + Simone group chat

[nosyp]

ok idk why but like... i keep imagining like what if you comment THOSE thirst comments on LADS men's posts. Likeee... Rafayel, Caleb and Sylus would defo yk... hit it, once they like get the comment but Xavier and Zayne is a whoollllee different story.

like... imagine commenting "I'm coming on the screen, catch!" or "flash us" to one of their posts of themselves (like selfie or smt) and they reply to you with a "?".

i'm not saying they don't understand it... it's just they don't get it. Iykyk

[quitesins]

Oh mein gott….

[universal-verringbebe]

As an incentive for my last post, here's my most recent brain rot of the main LI which is food related:

Zayne:

That's husband material right there

He's going to make sure you're taking care of yourself whether you like it or not

He's the type to show up to your apartment with a full course meal, unasked just based on your last hospital report

Best believe you'd have the most delicious balanced meals

And if you question him, he'd tell you it was only for his most important patients

And you're literally the only name on that list

He's the type to watch you eat to make sure you've consumed every last bite

And if there's a component you're not a fan of , he's taking notes and doing his best to think of replacements

Vegetarian? Say less, we're bringing tofu, soy beans, mushrooms, etc to the table

You're allergic to seafood (like me), he's making sure there's only meat or veggies that won't hurt you and you would enjoy eating.

The type to watch you consume things just to see your reaction and catalogue what gives you the most satisfaction

He's willing to put aside his own tastes just for your enjoyment.

RAFAYEL:

Bro just want to spend time with you

He's doesn't care what you do as long as he's by your side

Anything you say you're in the mood for, bet

He's looking up the best restaurants that appeal to your cravings

Imagine you thinking you're going to pay for your meal

You're sick for that, he's actually offended you would ever consider spending a penny

Tf is the point of making the art he does if he's not going to use the money to spend on all your foodie needs

You never have to to worry about eating too much

He just enjoys you enjoying eating and liking new things

But if you're allergic to seafood (like me) he's questioning if he can connect with you with his favorite dishes

Can he let the shellfish go for you?

Might as well give you up to onichinus and wait for your next life

Xavier:

He's along for the ride

The type to keep to himself until you say you want to travel

There's a place you saw in social media that has good food? Say less

He's taking you there even if he doesn't see the appeal

Just so he can see the adorable face you make when you get what you ordered

He compares it to other cuisine he's had in the past and promises to take you to where the dish originates

Might start getting sleepy during the meal which you mistake as the itis but it's just him needing to recharge

He'll say he'll make it up to you with his own cooking

You feel fear.

[starmocha]

GIRLIE YOU NEED TO STOP USING HIM AS A PORTABLE FREEZER 😭😭😭

[fortunekookie07]

The things my muse makes me write sometimes. I swear to blob. @chryssikyu

Here it is. I think it would have been better if I'd been drunk first myself.

Some Drinks, A Bet, and A Game

Zayne groaned, his head was pounding like a drum. He squeezed his eyes shut against the intruding light.

For the first time, he had no bearing of where he was. Nothing looked familiar to him. He wracked his brain, trying to remember where he'd been the night before and the events that occurred. The thing that concerned him the most was how he was going to explain this situation to his fiance.

Movement at his side had him even more panicked, and he stopped breathing before he looked at the figure. Relief flooded him instantly as he finally realized where he was and just who was next to him.

Messy dark hair was sprawled across your pillow, and last night's makeup was smeared on your face. Lipstick long gone. The flowy white dress you'd choosen to wear was twisted all around you, probably from tossing and turning in your sleep. There was a frown on your face, and Zayne was sure your hangover was going to be worse than his when you finally woke up.

Seeing your dress finally brought back memories of the previous night.

Your friends had insisted on taking you out for an after-party, once your engagement dinner was over. According to them, celebrating with friends and family was fine, but now it was their turn, and they had left no room for argument as they dragged the both of you off to a popular bar.

Tara was the first to shove drinks into your hand and then his. Once everyone had a shot, they shouted cheers and tossed it back.

Zayne eyed the clear liquid in the small glass like it was going to be his undoing. That was until you elbowed him in the side and gestured for him to lean down. "They want to celebrate with us. Take the shot!" You whisper yelled into his ear to be heard over the booming music. He sighed and tossed the drink back.

The tequila his the back of his throat with a subtle burn. It wasn't often that he drank, having little tolerance for this type of thing. He rarely drank, and it was about to become very obvious, as the next glass was placed in his hand. A quick glance in your direction, and he tossed back the second drink.

The liquor was already beginning to warm his body, and his cheeks were a light pink. Turning to his petite finace in the hopes of being rescued, he quickly abandoned the thought. You were already gone, having wandered over to the bar to order another round of drinks.

His last sober thought before being handed the third drink is that he is done for.

He couldn't quite recall what exactly had taken place after that third drink. His memory was significantly blurry. "I think we played some sort of game." Zayne said aloud, just as you started to stir.

A loud groan slipped from between your lips as you rolled onto your back. "I am never going to drink so much again." You groan and try to sit up. The room spins, and you have to lay down again.

"Zayneeeee!" You whine rubbing your temples before looking around for him. You find him next to you. An equally miserable expression on his face.

"We are never drinking again." He corrects, reaching over to brush hair out of your face. You turn to look at him more fully. "W-what are you wearing?!" You say in alarm, glancing over at his clothes. "Omg Zayne, are you wearing one of THOSE dresses?!?" Despite the pain in your head, you sit up and throw the blankets back.

Sure enough, it is indeed one of those sleeveless, backless, SHORT dresses. It looks a little small on him. The material stretched over his very muscular physique. They do stretch, but you are quite sure they were never meant to stretch THIS much.

Suddenly, you are overcome in a fit of giggles, and when you throw your head back laughing, you fall off the bed with a dull thud. "Owwwww!" You cry out rubbing your head and butt at the same time. With how hung over you are, it's a miracle you have puked yet.

Rustling on the bed has you looking up when the blankets fall on your stomach. "You don't remember you're responsible for this, do you?" Zayne says, stroking your ankle (that is somehow still on the bed)

"Uhhh, no?" You say questioningly as Zayne passes you his phone. It is unlocked, and there is a picture of you, him, Tara, and some of your other girl friends. Zayne is wearing the dress, looking completely silly and unashamed as well as holding a sign, (that is barely legible) that says in your messy (drunk) handwritting, I lost a bet and my finace made me wear this dress.

"Oh gods, how much did I drink?" You muse aloud, still not moving from the floor. Zayne just snorts and starts moving. Probably going to change into his own clothes.

He keeps clothes in your apartment even though neither of you actually spends much time here. You've more or less moved into his home. You are just riding out the end of your lease before making it official.

"Zayneee, I don't feel so good." You cry placing both arms over your eyes to block out the light.

Your memory comes back to you in pieces and with it a very drunk game of dare. No truths, just dares.

After the fifth drink you've shared with Zayne and your friends, Tara proposes a game of dares and even volunteers to be the first sucker. In no time at all, you've managed to secure a booth, an empty wine bottle, and copious more amounts of alcohol.

The six of you squeeze into the booth, and Tara spins the bottle. It lands on you, and a wide grins stretching across your face. Tara nearly backs down at your catty look before she tosses back another shot to steal her nerves and tells you to do your worst.

You scan the bar quickly and find a suitable target. "It just so happens that most of your Unicorns teammates are also here. "Tara, I dare you to go dance with him." You say gesturing with your head towards the guy that Tara had been having a mutual crush on with for weeks. "But!" She starts to protest, cheeks turning scarlet (an impressive feat, considering how red they already were) "No buts, except yours walking over to dance with your Mr. Hot Stuff!" You say pushing her out of the booth and in his direction.

A few spins later, and you realize you've gathered a bit of a crowd. In the back of your mind, you notice that Tara had failed to return. Another member of your team had only too happily taken her spot. The game has gotten kind of side railed.

One of your friends elbows you and discreetly points in someone's direction. "Look! She says, physically turning your head to see a girl just walking into the bar. She's wearing THAT kind of dress. The turtle neck, sleeves, backless waaaay to short kind. A wicked look enters her eyes, and she wags her brows.

"Oh, Dr. Zayne!" She calls in a sing-song voice, gaining his attention. His face is red, and he is far more relaxed than you've ever seen him in public. "Would you ever let your dear finacee were that kind of dress?" She asks innocently, gesturing to the girl. He only looks for a second. "No." His reply is stiff, and a frown is between his brows. She smiles wickedly.

"No matter how much she looked good in it?" She asks, egging him on. "Absolutely not." He is shaking his head. "Oh, is that so? What if YOU were wearing it first?" She says her grin is devilish. "Why would I wear a dress?!?" He asks. Incredulously, eyebrow raised.

"I dare you to wear it." She says, pressing on. "Wha...?? No!" He argues back. "Fine, then I dare you to let your finacee wear it." She says a winning look on her face.

"I Challenge you!" You say grabbing a deck of cards and dealing them out. "Loser wears the dress!" You exclaim to the cheering of your group as you deal the hand for black jack.

Had you been sober, you would have been so mortified at your behavior, and the fact that you wanted to see your finace wear a very short, very revealing dress. Normally, Zayne was very good at cards. He had the best poker face, and you could never read him. Normally, the pair of you weren't three sheets to the wind and liquored out as you both were.

"Oh gods, you groan finally remembering the card game and how you had very obviously cheated your way to victory, and someone had produced the dress.

The pair of you had shoved Zayne into the bathroom to change clothes, and you'd gotten a piece of poster board and then written your declaration for him to hold.

Then everyone had gathered around and you'd had the bartender take the picture.

"I'll swear of any more than a glass or two." You promised him, as Zayne came back into the room holding a glass of cool water and some painkillers. Thankfully, he was wearing normal clothes. He was now dressed in a dark grey shirt and a pair of dark blue pajama pants.

He set the glass on the bedside table and carefully helped you off the floor and into a sitting position. "Take this." He said, handing you the pills and then the water.

"My friends are evil." You say swallowing the pills

****************************************************

[bolackloamtbyyyshaker9000]

Sylus x Dawnbreaker

(a little story idea)

Imagine a timeline where Sylus and Dawnbreaker meet. At first sight, they'll think they're similar in many ways. One is that they kill/hurt people, and hate each other for that same reason. But as time passes by, they start warming up— and a warning siren keeps telling them that this warmth, that has somehow found them, will be bittersweet. Will that stop the string that's weaving them together? No.

But the warmth doesn't last. Sylus expects—no, he KNOWS that it won't. His corpse was as cold as his evol as he lays in Sylus' arms. Cause of death? You decide, but fate will still be the same. Dawnbreaker will reincarnate without his memories.. as always.

Sylus' goal is to love the man that beholds those eyes that resemble the forest, no matter how long or how many times it takes to sew them back together; their love will always be fresh.

Every new life is a new embroidery in their tapestry made by Fate.

[guthriemrusaf]

All 21+ LADS fans, get kronked and play it, you'll never regret it, figuring out protocore battles while drunk is painful but funny lowkeyyyy

[bakubrattt]

Absolute Zeal, Part 1/3

Zayne x Reader

Dr. Zayne totally gets drunk off of one liqueur-filled chocolate candy. Can he maintain his icy composure around you when things get hot and heavy?

Word Count: 4k

18+ Warning: Explicit content--no minors!--fluff, smut, domestic, romance, Zayne's first time, loss of virginity, under the influence

My Zayne Masterlist🩵AO3 link🩵Ko-Fi

You barely have time to gasp before Zayne’s arms are around you, strong and urgent, guiding you down onto the couch. The world tilts; cushions meet your back and his weight follows, a welcome press that steals your breath. His lips crash onto yours again, and oh—he tastes of dark chocolate and something richer, heady. The faint sweetness lingers on his tongue as it seeks yours, an intoxicating flavor that makes your head swim. Heat blooms through your body at the intensity of his kiss. This isn’t the careful, restrained Zayne you’re used to; this kiss is feverish, almost feral, as if he’s starving and you’re the only thing that can sate him.

A soft groan vibrates from his chest into yours when you tangle your fingers in his hair. His normally immaculate black locks are now mussed between your fingers, silky strands falling over his forehead. Nothing will get between him and you tonight. With his green eyes now bared and burning as he takes a ragged breath, he pins you with a gaze so full of raw hunger it sends a thrill racing down your spine.

“You,” he mutters in a rough, almost dazed whisper, as if he can hardly articulate the storm of desire roiling inside him, “I can’t… I need-…” His voice breaks, and he doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he captures your mouth once more, communicating need in the hot swipe of his tongue and the trembling urgency of his hands on your body.

His hands—normally so steady and precise—roam you in desperate sweeps. One moment his palm is cradling the back of your head, protectively cushioning it against the couch, and the next it’s skimming down your side, fingers digging in just enough to make you arch. Every touch is possessive, claiming, yet underlined with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. You can feel the subtle tremor in his grasp as he grips your hip, as if even he is overwhelmed by how much he wants you. His thumb strokes your hipbone in a fleeting gentle caress, a contrast to the ferocity of his kiss—a silent “are you okay?” amid the frenzy.

You answer by pressing up against him, your body speaking where words fail. A breathy moan escapes you when he bites softly on your lower lip, soothing the nip with his tongue an instant later. Your reaction seems to ignite something in him. Zayne growls low in his throat—a sound of pure want—and suddenly his hands are everywhere at once, sliding up under your shirt to caress the bare skin of your waist, his touch searing-hot against your feverish flesh, then tucking under the fabric higher…Higher. He breaks the kiss, both of you panting, and for a heartbeat you just look at each other.

His forehead rests against yours, black hair falling over his eyes. His breath fans hot across your flushed cheek. In the low light, you can just make out his expression—he looks almost lost in desire, pupils blown wide, cheeks rosy from the effects of the liqueur in the chocolate and the heat between you.

“I can’t hold back,” he confesses in a ragged whisper. There’s a crack in his voice, a vulnerability that he never lets slip, “not tonight…I-…” He swallows hard, and you feel the slight tremble of his body pressed to yours, as if admitting this has shaken him, “ I need you, now,” the words pour out heavy with longing, and before you can respond he’s kissing you again.

This kiss is different—no less hungry, but there’s emotion tangled in it, a kind of reverence. His lips move slower, devouring you deeply, and you taste the sincerity behind his desperation. It’s as if the floodgates have opened; every restrained feeling he’s harbored is spilling over, filling each stroke of his tongue and each soft moan that reverberates against your mouth. Your heart twists at the intensity of it. Zayne—stoic, controlled Zayne—is laying himself bare to you in these fervent kisses, and it’s the most intoxicating thing of all.

Your hands explore of their own accord, desperate to feel more of him. You yank his shirt loose from where it’s hardly tucked, fingers fumbling in your haste. The remaining buttons give way one by one. At the brush of your hand against the hard planes of his stomach, Zayne sighs shakily in pleasure. His muscles tense under your touch—he’s so beautifully warm and solid. You splay your palms against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. It’s racing as fast as yours. He covers your hand with his for a moment, pressing it to his chest, letting you feel how he’s trembling for you. The gesture is brief but intimate—wordlessly showing you what you do to him.

Then, need overtakes him again. Zayne shrugs out of his unbuttoned shirt in one impatient motion, tossing them to the floor. Before you can even drink in the sight of him—his broad shoulders and lean, well-toned torso now revealed—he’s tugging at your clothes. His fingers hook under the hem of your top, and he meets your eyes, asking permission in that split second of hesitation. You answer by sitting up just enough to help yank the garment over your head, arms raised. The cool air kisses your now-bare skin for a heartbeat before Zayne’s mouth follows, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat to your collarbone.

He moans your name against your skin, the sound vibrating through you, “I’ve wanted this…” He murmurs, voice muffled as he nips at your shoulder and then lower, “…Wanted you…” Each word is punctuated by a kiss or graze of teeth, unraveling you further. You whimper his name in return, threading your fingers through his hair to keep him close. Your back arches when his lips find that sensitive spot just above your heart. He lingers there, mouth warm and possessive, as if savoring the wild heartbeat beneath—proof that you’re here, you’re his. A soft gasp escapes you as he suckles along your breast gently, surely leaving a mark. The thought sends a flush of pure desire through you. He’s marking you, claiming you in his own way, and you love it.

Your skin is aflame everywhere he touches. When his hand skims up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher, you feel yourself shudder. Anticipation coils tight in your belly. Every nerve ending you have is focused on where his fingers will go next. Zayne hovers over you, his heavy body caging yours against the plush couch, his knee nudging your legs apart. Your breath catches as his knuckles brush the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He’s watching you now, hazel eyes heavy-lidded and burning with desire, but there’s a tenderness there too.

“Tell me you want this,” he manages, voice strained. Even lost in need, he’s checking on you, that protective streak never fully absent, “tell me you want me…”

In answer, you cup his face between your hands. His skin is hot to the touch, a faint tremor running through his jaw as he struggles for control. You guide his lips back to yours for a slow, soul-deep kiss meant to leave no doubt, “I want you, Zayne,” you whisper against his mouth, the honest truth of it making your voice shake, “I want this…I want you.”

Something in his expression melts at your words—relief, adoration, and an almost fierce joy flicker across his features, “stars, help me,” he whispers to himself, resting his forehead to yours for one precious moment, “I don’t deserve you,” the confession is raw and quiet, barely audible, but before you can protest, he’s claiming your lips again and any reply is lost to his kiss.

Heat builds swift and urgent after that. Garments are shed in a flurry of frantic hands and breathless urgency when you awkwardly kick off one pant leg and he nearly loses his balance yanking it the rest of the way. He catches himself with a hand braced by your head, and you both pause, laughing softly at the sudden clumsiness. His eyes meet yours, and there’s a sparkle of warmth and love in them that makes your chest tight. The brief lighthearted moment feels like an intimate secret between you. Zayne’s lips curl into a candid smile—so handsome and unguarded that you’re sure your heart might burst. He dips down to steal another kiss, this one slow and sweet, a promise amid the urgency.

The next thing you know, he’s pressing you back into the cushions and settling himself further between your thighs. Both of you have shed the last barriers of clothing; the sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours draws a mutual shudder from you and him. He’s so hard against you, his arousal evident and pressing hot at your entrance. The realization of how far this has escalated, how close you both are to crossing that final threshold, sends a pulse of exhilaration and longing through you. Your body responds instinctively—hips tilting up to meet his, legs curling around his waist to pull him in closer.

Zayne’s breath hitches sharply at your boldness. His hand slips under the back of your knee, lifting your leg a little higher around him, opening you to his body. You feel the broad tip of him brushing, seeking, and a jolt of pure need spikes through you. He pauses, just for a heartbeat, his gaze finding yours through the dim light. His face is inches from yours, expression taut with restraint. Even now, he’s giving you one last moment to stop, to be sure. But the answer is already in the way your body clings to him, in the way your eyes plead with him not to stop. You nod ever so slightly, biting your lip in anticipation, and that’s all he needs.

With a low, guttural groan, Zayne pushes into you, filling you in one smooth, unyielding stroke. A cry catches in your throat—part shock, part ecstasy—as he stretches you, overwhelming in the most delicious way. He stills the moment he’s fully joined with you, chest heaving, his arms trembling from the effort of holding himself back.

“Gods…” He chokes out, voice shuddery. His eyes squeeze shut and brows furrow as if the pleasure of being inside you is almost too much.

You’re clutching at his broad shoulders, nails digging into his skin, trying to remember how to breathe. The fullness, the heat of him buried so deeply within, sends sparks dancing behind your eyelids. It’s intense, but your body quickly yields, the initial sting melting into a molten satisfaction.

Zayne notices the wince that crossed your face and immediately brings one hand up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes along your cheekbone, a tender apology, “did I hurt you?” He asks, quiet voice rough with concern underlying the passion.

You manage a smile and shake your head, wrapping your fingers around his wrist in reassurance, “no,” your voice comes out a shaky gasp, “you feel…Amazing,” your words dissolve into a moan as he shifts slightly, the subtle movement within drawing out fresh pleasure.

His gaze stays locked on yours as he begins to move, slowly at first. The gentle roll of his hips coaxes another soft cry from your lips. The slow, torturous drag of his length nearly withdrawing, then oh-so-deep on the thrust, has your eyes fluttering shut in bliss. He sets a steady rhythm, each plunge pushing you both a little closer to the edge you’ve been teetering on all night. The couch creaks softly under you with each fluent motion. Zayne’s control is fraying with every passing second—you see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way his breathing breaks into uneven pants.

“Look at me, Y/n,” he pleads hoarsely, and you force your heavy lids open. His face is hovering above yours, features etched in pleasure and something more profound, “I want to see you…I want to see your eyes when-…!” He can’t even finish the sentence; a deep thrust steals his words and both of you moan in unison.

Still, you obey, keeping your gaze on him. It’s impossibly intimate, locking eyes as your bodies join again and again. You can’t hide anything from each other like this—he can see every flicker of bliss that crosses your face, and you see utter devotion in his. The connection between you goes beyond the physical; it’s as if with each movement, he’s baring his soul, telling you without words how deeply he feels, how completely you have him.

The pace begins to quicken. Zayne’s restraint slips further until he’s driving into you with a fervor that borders on frantic, “so good,” he sighs hotly, “you feel so damn good…” His head drops to the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your shoulder as he struggles to hold on. You cling to him, matching his urgency with your own. The coil of pleasure in your core is tightening with each powerful thrust. Heat licks up your spine; you’re right on the brink, body tensing, nails raking lightly down his dewy back. He groans at the sensation, hips stuttering.

You can feel him throbbing inside your fluttering walls, his body as close to the edge as yours, “Zayne!” You gasp, hardly knowing if you’re warning him or begging.

Hearing his name in that desperate tone seems to snap the last thread of his control. He snakes an arm beneath your lower back and lifts you into him, hitting deeper, and all but snarls, “mine…!”

The word is hot against your ear, full of possessive yet tender ferocity. The sound of it, the feeling of him claiming every inch of you, sends you tumbling over the precipice.

Pleasure crashes through you in a white-hot wave. You arch beneath him, a cry tearing from your throat as you shatter. Your vision blurs, and for a moment you swear you feel your pulse pounding in every part of your body. It’s overwhelming, exquisite—like falling through starlight. Zayne follows you into bliss an instant later. With a broken groan of your name, he thrusts once, twice more, then stills as he’s consumed by his release. You feel him pulse deep inside as he lets go, clutching you to him as if you might slip away. His face is buried in your neck, and you feel the damp heat of his breath and a low moan that vibrates against your skin while he pours himself into you.

For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both still trembling, chests heaving in unison as you gulp in air. His weight upon you is heavy and solid, yet comforting—he makes no move to pull away, and you don’t want him to. You just drift together in the afterglow, hearts pounding and bodies entwined. You can feel the wild hammering of his heart against your own ribcage, gradually slowing, matching pace with yours. The only sounds in the room are your mingled breaths and the faint chirping of crickets in the background of night. It’s as if the entire universe has narrowed to this couch, this moment, the two of you.

Eventually, Zayne shifts, gently rolling to the side and pulling you with him so that you’re lying face-to-face on the couch cushions. He’s careful not to disengage completely, holding you so close that your leg remains over him and you can still feel the heat of him against your core. In the dim light, his gaze roams over your face, as if memorizing every detail. He looks a little awed, a little uncertain, and profoundly tender. With a shaky hand, he brushes a damp strand of hair away from your forehead. His fingertips trail down to your cheek, caressing softly.

”Are you alright?” He asks, voice quiet and earnest.

You answer by nuzzling into his palm and placing a gentle kiss in its center, “I’m just great,” you whisper, and you mean it. Your body feels deliciously spent, and your heart…Your heart feels so full you think it might overflow.

Zayne exhales a breath you hadn’t realized he was holding. Relief floods his features. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, his lips warm and affectionate against your skin.

”I’m sorry…” He begins in a hushed murmur, “I didn’t mean for things to get so out of control. I-…I’ve never-…” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and you see that vulnerability again, laid bare in the furrow of his brow and the soft curve of his mouth. This brilliant, controlled man looks almost young with uncertainty, afraid he’s crossed a line or hurt you.

Your heart squeezes at the sight, and you quickly shake your head, bringing your hand up to stroke his cheek reassuringly.

“Don’t apologize,” you whisper, “please. I wanted this… I want you. It’s been a while now, hasn’t it?” The admission spills out, and saying it aloud feels liberating. A weight lifts from your chest.

His eyes search yours, and whatever he finds there makes his expression soften with wonder. He turns his head to press a kiss into your palm still resting on his cheek, “yes…You have me,” he answers quietly, solemn and earnest, “you’ve always had me.”

The simple honesty of those words makes your breath catch. There, in his unguarded gaze, is the truth—he’s yours. He has been for far longer than tonight. Perhaps he never had the courage to say it outright, or maybe he thought he could keep his feelings controlled, but tonight stripped all pretenses away.

Your eyes burn with emotion as you realize how deeply this moment has shifted something between you. There’s no more hiding, no more pretending that your relationship is just flirtations or friendship. Zayne’s walls have crumbled, and you’ve shown him your heart in return. What lies between you now is raw and real, and immeasurably precious.

He draws you closer, guiding your head to tuck under his chin as he wraps a protective arm around you. You curl into his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart against your ear. His hand skates slowly up and down your back in a soothing motion. Both of you sink into a comfortable silence, just holding each other in the low glow of the cabin. The frenzy of moments ago has faded into a deep, humming contentment. You feel safe—more than that, you feel cherished. Every so often, you feel his lips press to the crown of your head, a silent promise that he’s here, that you’re okay. And each time, you smile against his skin, tightening your arm around his waist.

Finally, in that quiet, you find your voice—soft, a little teasing, but filled with truth: “So…Remind me to be careful with the chocolates next time,” you murmur, a faint laugh in your tone.

You tilt your face up to see his reaction. Zayne huffs a warm breath of laughter, cheeks tinging pink at the memory of how one little treat led to all this. He groans in embarrassment, burying his face in his free hand for a second, “I can’t believe it only took one,” he mutters, clearly referring to the liqueur chocolate that knocked down his defenses. Then he peeks at you between his fingers, a faint, self-conscious smile on his lips, “surely, I must be the cheapest date in the galaxy.”

You giggle, joy bubbling up easily now, and slide your hand from his chest to loop around his neck, “I don’t know,” you purr playfully, “I think it was the sweetest gift I’ve ever gotten…”

He raises an eyebrow at that, “what, getting your uptight primary care physician drunk off candy? That’s the sweetest gift?” he challenges, voice laced with gentle sarcasm before softening even more into a whisper, “though I suppose…I consider myself much more than just your doctor and friend at this point.”

More. The word hangs in the air between you for a moment. It sends a flutter through you. Rather than answer, you capture his mouth in a slow, loving kiss. It’s a brief, soft press of lips, but it conveys everything: happiness, affection, the promise that you wouldn’t change a thing about tonight.

When you part, Zayne sighs contentedly and presses his forehead to yours. His hazel-green eyes gaze into yours with such warmth it makes your chest ache.

“You are the best thing to ever happen to me,” he says quietly, the vulnerability in his tone matching the earnestness in his eyes, “I hope you know that.”

Tears nearly prick at the corners of your eyes at his heartfelt words, “likewise,” you whisper, stroking a thumb along his strong jaw, “and for what it’s worth…I like seeing you like this. The real you. No walls,” you smile, a little impishly, “even if it takes a little bit of alcohol  to bring it out.”

He chuckles, a deep, content sound that you feel rumble in his chest, “you might be the only person alive who’s witnessed me losing control,” he muses, then his voice goes softer, “and the only person I’d ever want to,” the gentle sincerity of that confession wraps around you like a blanket.

You shift, adjusting so you can both lie comfortably on the couch. He helps you maneuver until you’re nestled against his side, half-draped across him. He reaches down to grab the throw blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over your entwined bodies. Ever thoughtful, even in his languid, sated state, he tucks it around your shoulders to keep you warm. You reward his sweetness with a tender kiss on his jaw, then snuggle into the crook of his neck. His arm pulls you tighter against him, and a content sigh escapes both of you in unison, drawing out a soft laugh.

In the quiet aftermath, you both simply exist together. Your fingers lazily trace patterns on his chest, occasionally circling a faint scar near his collarbone . Each little movement is done with a kind of reverence, as if both of you are afraid the other might vanish if you don’t keep touching. There’s an unspoken understanding passing between you: everything is different now. The dynamic of your relationship has shifted profoundly in the span of an evening. And as you lie here entwined, you can feel that weight—the significance of crossing that threshold—settling comfortably in your hearts.

No one else in the cosmos knows this side of Zayne: this unguarded, passionate, loving man who holds you as if you are the most precious thing in the universe. And no one else knows the depths of what you two share now. It’s a secret written in sweat-slicked skin and whispered words, in the gentle way he strokes your hair as your eyelids grow heavy. Outside the window, you catch a glimpse of distant stars shimmering in the void of deep space, silent witnesses to your union. In their faint light, you tilt your head up once more, drawn to the face of the man beside you. He’s already looking down at you, eyes soft and a little sleepy, a small, contented smile playing on his lips.

You reach up and touch his face, thumb grazing over his lower lip. He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm, then closes his eyes, nuzzling into your touch. In this quiet moment, with your bodies tangled and hearts laid bare, you feel closer to him than ever. Loved. Safe. Home.

Whatever challenges await you both beyond this moment—out in the vast expanse of space or in the duties of tomorrow—tonight you have this. Zayne’s arms around you, his heartbeat under your hand, and a love that you can finally feel in the open. As he holds you close, the two of you gradually drift into a light, peaceful rest, the silence filled with unspoken promises. In the hush of that late hour, you know with absolute certainty that neither of you will ever be the same, and that this bond between you has only grown stronger, forged in passion and vulnerability. And just before sleep claims you, you feel Zayne’s lips brush your temple and his whisper tickle your ear.

“Mine,” he breathes, the word now a gentle vow.

You smile, eyes closing, your hand finding his and giving a soft, reassuring squeeze, “yours,” you murmur back.

Wrapped in each other’s arms, you both surrender to the quiet intimacy of the moment. In the silent aftermath of your lovemaking—heartbeats and soft breaths entwined—you sense the profound shift in your relationship, a new gravity binding you together. Whatever walls existed between you have been burned away by the heat of this night. What remains is something deeper and truer: two souls irrevocably intertwined, glowing with the afterlight of shared passion and the dawn of a love long hidden finally laid bare.

[chuluoyi]

zayne is such a fussy drunk 😭

[fayfaygoes]

I remembered how freaking Pouty he looks when you poke his back😭

Cutie patootie tootie matootie lemme smooch you mwahmwahmwahhh

[zaynes-left-chesticle]

We have the usual snarky/rational Sylus, attempt-to slide-in-your-DM Xai, protective/caring Zayne, a clearly jealous Tara...

And then theres Rafayel, 4 glasses of wine in trying to flex on these m'fkrs 🤣

[purrassicjet]

I really want to know what's happening back at the Kei Lumenura Camp. We know that something's happening to Lydia's gem, but what's happening to Jawbone? Did the full moon change for everybody, and so is Jawbone rampaging as well?

[143babygirl143]

Baby, I want you, na na

Daddy, I want you, na na

Two verse from Beyonce's Drunk in love😍🙈