#zeals content

[zeal-kitten]

I tried to microdose some.weed to help me.clean but it wasn't micro enough and now I'm just in my paw pad stockings and tail plug and microbikini edging w a vibrator... oopsie~

[zealfruity]

Watching LOTR for the first time and yeah this fucks.

[zeal-kitten]

Need to be railed hard... used like I'm just a cocksleeve and nothing more, no attention paid to how many times I've come or the way my legs shake.

[arathejedi394]

yikes,,, i'm so butthurt,,, it's like this fictional character is illegal to reference unless you're worshipping him. he's not real. i use him in everything bc he's fictionally steve rogers the fictional character's fictional best friend.

also nobody mentioned,,, sambucky??? i've never tagged a post sambucky? maybe i did that one time when I wrote a sam/steve/bucky fic. but that was like two years ago?

anyway i will continue tagging sam wilson in anything I write him in. bc that's how writing works. when you include a character you tag them. ok? calm down. I'm not being serious here. this is all for shits and giggles. also I will continue using sam wilson as a character in my mcu fics. bc he's a fictional character. that should be included in fictional mcu settings bc he's important. bc he deserves more screentime. his arc is as important to the mcu as steve's; captain America was created by jewish immigrants and all the content related to that story delivers important messages to the readers. it also provides a forum where I can write bucky barnes calling steve rogers a faggot to reclaim that slur while sam wilson observes.

also nobody asked you? nobody asked you to comment?

[harlotistic]

tw. fem pov, incest, intox, dub-con

thinking of drunk older brother!zayne trying to sleep it off after his first time ever drinking because he is a lightweight loser and his younger sister!reader tries to help him so he wouldn't have a hangover and wake up all sweaty and uncomfy. but the care and touchiness made him all horny and whiny and sensitive to the point of almost tears 😵‍💫 "this is wrong...it shouldn't...feel good." as his hands and hormones work against him and pulls her closer, fingers grazing the curve of her ass.

[artmek]

More silly Magus x Lucca doodles because I'm having a massive brain rot

[b4kuch1n]

good luck w the testing and a happy early new year!!

thank you it's already happened when this was sent but we all did get one free point for the listening section bc the audio fucked up and we didn't get to hear the part with the last question's answer. but I will now think this is luck borrowed from the future when this ask was sent

[zeal-kitten]

I've been sexting and calling with a friend I like to hook up with while we've been apart, and the other day they had me finger my mouth while I masturbated on call. They're certainly not small, so sometimes I struggle to keep them in my mouth... but we're working to fix that <3 and I think it would be really hot if, next time we met, they test my progress and I just melt on their fingers 😵‍💫

I am heavily considering making this a real hypno trigger and thinking about how exactly it could work, and my current choice is that the longer I held something in my mouth (when in a safe/sexual situation) the more aroused I got. Feel the pleasure and need build and build, lick and suck on their dick better and better, so desperate to get them off so I can touch myself... or maybe humping my hand as I pleasure them, moaning against their length, spit and pre dripping down my chin as my brain leaks away between my legs by the second.

ngl kinda wanna be like given oral triggers... Being forced to become suggestible and mindless everytime someone puts fingers in my mouth, becoming an obedient drooling mess mfngnfmfmgngn 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 pleaaase~

😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

[fisheito]

i want to consume more nukani content but must try VERY hard ,,.not to look at nukani tag in whatever socmed is happening rn ... tiny spoileies.

[iamsweden]

I think replaying Chrono Trigger will fix me.

[pearlymel]

Absolute Zeal

Sum. It was finally your turn to take care of your boyfriend, until everything twists around and you both end up a mess.

Warnings. NSFW, smut, fem reader, whiney zayne yes, unprotected sex, rough sex kinda, fluff. 2.2k words.

Notes. my exams are not stopping me (yet) from releasing yet another feral zayne.

Your boyfriend was absolutely out of it.

It wasn't long before Zayne noticed the effects of the chocolate, a slow warmth coursing through his veins, a slight sluggishness creeping into his movements.

He grinned lazily at you as you helped him outside, a slight wobble to his step. You were struggling, sure. But you kept up the tough act.

The cool air outside seemed to help clear his head a bit, but he was still far from sober, "my hero," he said, his voice still slightly slurred, "taking me home in my... slightly tipsy state. You're too kind.”

“Mhm, careful as you get in.” you instruct and Zayne obliges as he stumbled into the taxi, slumping against the back seat, trying to steady himself.

His gaze remained fixed on you as you climbed into the taxi after him. His eyes roamed over your face, “thank you," he murmured, "for taking care of me tonight.”

A hand smoothens to his cheek, up to his hair to comb it with your fingers before you tilt your head to peck his cheek, your hand encouraging him to rest on your shoulder.

He closed his eyes, a contented sigh escaping him, feeling safe and cared for in your presence.

…

“wake up, honey.” you whisper into Zayne's ear to wake him up from his light slumber. His eyes blinking slowly to get back to his senses.

He leaned against you heavily, allowing you to guide him out of the taxi, a quiet murmur of thanks escaping him.

The taxi driver watched the whole interaction silently after you payed him. ah, the young. "I miss my wife." He sighed to himself before driving off.

Meanwhile, you were pitifully watching Zayne entering the wrong passcode to his own home.

His fingers fumbled against the keypad as he tried to input his passcode, his normally steady hands betraying his current inebriated state. He let out a frustrated grunt, his brows furrowing in concentration as he tried again.

"Just... need to get this thing right..."

"Let the person who actually remembers the passcode of your home to enter it." you successfully entered the passcode, the lock clicking open with a satisfying sound.

Zayne let himself be led onto the plush couch by you after taking off his coat for more movement, a deep sigh escaping him as though he were sinking into heaven itself.

He let his eyes close briefly, revelling in the comfort of the soft cushions. He cracked one eye open lazily, a soft chuckle escaping him as he watched you fuss over his coat, gently removing it and draping it on the back of a nearby chair.

And with a gentle tug, he pulled you down onto the couch with him, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close.

You frown, “i should go get the hangover medicine—”

But his arm tightened around your waist in protest, pulling you closer to him before you could move. "No need," he shook his head, his voice huskier now. "Stay with me," he whispered, his voice low, filled with a yearning that went beyond simple physical attraction.

"After i get the medicine, hm? You'll regret it later," though he seemed too insistent. You couldn't budge, even when he was drunk, his strength was impressive.

Zayne groaned softly, his grip on you unrelenting. He rested his head on your shoulder, his face nuzzling against your neck, "later,"

"how much more?" you ask, your fingers tracing his jawline to sort of soothe him.

He drew in a slow, steady breath, his body relaxing against you. "Just a moment more like this."

Zayne leaned into your touch, his head slightly tilting as though seeking more of your caress. His arm around your waist remained securely wrapped, holding you close, holding you like you were a precious treasure, something to be cherished.

You continue caressing his skin, moving down to his messed up buttons and tie, making him flutter his eyes shut.

Despite the alcohol, a part of him was still very much aware, very much receptive to your touch. The way you undressed him, unbuttoning his shirt to help him breathe better, felt like a gentle, loving caress.

This is no good. “On a second thought, I'll just shower," he said, attempting to smooth out his disheveled hair. "A shower will help clear my head.” Zayne stood up after taking his arms away from your body, a bit unsteady on his feet, but adamant to make it to the shower on his own. He staggered slightly, leaning against the nearest wall for support.

…

You head to Zayne's study room in the meantime to explore it a bit out of curiosity while the shower is running in the background. Your fingertips brushed over the snowman displayed on the desk neatly which makes your lips curve.

It was not long after until you hear him in the living room, opening his laptop to answer an urgent call. Listening to him speak a few words. Even in this state, Dr Zayne is working hard.

Once the call ends, you show yourself from your hiding spot, “Even Dr Zayne's showers are hurried.” you comment in amusement.

Zayne's lips quirked into a wry smile as he acknowledged your observation. "In my profession, efficiency is key," he replied, “but," he added, his tone softening slightly as he drew closer, "I can assure you, I wasn't rushing for anyone else but you." He reached out to tenderly cup your cheek, his touch gentle but firm.

“It seems that.. The shower did not clear your head.”

"I suppose," he murmured, "you're quite intoxicating even without the alcohol.”

Zayne's next sudden advance caught you by surprise.

The unexpected aggression of pulling your arm towards him made you gasp. But as his lips pressed hard against yours, a surprised sound escaping your lips before you clung to him tightly, your arms wrapping around his neck as you returned the kiss, matching his hunger with your own.

Your fingers tangled in his hair while his hands cupped your cheeks, pushing you back until you were stumbling against his desk where he caught you in time to prevent you from completely losing your balance.

His glasses steamed slightly with each gasping breath. He looked down at you once your lips part, his eyes darkening until your fingers nudged at his glasses which tipped them over slightly, yet Zayne impatiently brushed aside your hand's attempt to fix his glasses and instead took his glasses off in one swift motion.

Hot.

His lips sought yours once more, his kiss hungrier, more urgent than before as he pushed you back against his desk. The sound of books and papers scattering echoed and falling with a loud thud that you couldn't seem to care about for now.

His lips traced a path down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin there, and your chew slightly on your lower lip. His teeth nip along your collarbone, his tongue soothing the slight sting, then repeating the action again and again.

This won't do.

"… You're drunk," you bluntly state, trying to stand from the desk to walk towards the drawer, "I'm getting the hangover medicine—"

His hands darted out to grab your wrists, gently yet firmly, preventing you from moving any further, “please." His grip on your wrists remained steady, his thumbs stroking the insides of your wrists as he leaned against your chest as if you just rejected him.

“I never let myself touch alcohol,” he breathed heavily, and that's when you recognize the slight snowflakes surrounding you both.

“But for you, I broke that rule. Because of you, everything is spiraling out of control...”

…

Zayne kicked open his bedroom door, the force of it slamming against the wall and bouncing back slightly. Without breaking the heated kiss, he carried you to his king-sized bed, the plush comforter and silken sheets welcoming as he lays you down gently.

His hands were almost shaking when he pulled your top off and tossed it carelessly to the floor. His fingertips traced the swell of your breasts, the delicate curves, before cupping them gently.

He dipped his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat before he's almost whimpering while rubbing his cheek against your cleavage, the warmth seeping through your skin and it's impossibly hard to stop the soft moans when his fingertips brush mindlessly along your nipples.

You were both almost a panting mess when his hands slid down to your hips, gripping them tightly as he ground his own against yours. Even through the fabric of his pants, you could feel the evidence of his arousal, the hard length of him pressing and rubbing against your clothed cunt with such hurry.

"Wrap your legs around me," he commanded, his voice low, almost raspy before he's kissing you messily, all tongue and teeth clashing together combined with his quiet whines when he continues rutting into you.

His body shifts, an arm extending towards the drawer but you stop himself from taking anything out, grabbing his hand and intertwining your fingers together instead.

He feels dizzy, and his hand squeezes yours before his other hand reaches for a pillow to place underneath your hips.

comfort comes first before he starts pounding into you.

Everything was gone. your panties, his belt and boxers all discarded away from his sight while he whispers your name as he grips his shaft to push his already leaking tip into your cunt to take whole.

“O-oh zayne—” A long, drawn-out moan spilled from your lips as Zayne filled you completely, stretching you around his hard, throbbing length. Your back arched off the bed, pressing your chest flush against his own, fingers digging into the muscular expanse of his back.

He was feral. He began to move, pulling nearly all the way out before slamming back in, setting a rough, fast paced.

The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall with each thrust, and your eyes roll all the way back as whines combined with his heavy breaths and whimpers fill the air.

“A-ah, fuck, honey—” was all you managed to spill out before he's thrusting into you harder when he felt every clench and flutter around his aching cock, the velvet heat driving him to new heights of ecstasy.

“Zayne, zayne, zayne!” you chant in repeat breathlessly, his lips tries to connect with yours when he also feels his impending release drawing too close.

“Y-your zayne is here—” he practically breathes out as he manages to peck your lips, “Mmhn c-coming—” Zayne tries to muffle his whines against your skin when his hips jerked erratically as he emptied himself inside you, wave after wave of searing hot seed spilling into you.

The feeling of Zayne's thick, pulsing cock throbbing and twitching within you made you cum instantly. Your walls clamped down around him like a vice as you rode out your shared climax, hips continuing to rock slowly into you before coming to a halt.

For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the sound of your shared breaths, the rustle of sheets, the soft thump of his heart against yours.

…

You woke up in Zayne's bed, wrapped in his arms, a soft, contented sigh escaping you as you shifted slightly, feeling his warmth against your back.

The sunlight streamed in through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. As you turned to face him, you see zayne breathe peacefully, and it brings a faint smile to your face.

He looked younger, almost boyish in sleep, his lashes casting delicate shadows on his cheeks.

His eyelashes are really long. you think, fingertips brushing over his eyelids delicately.

Zayne's eyelids soon fluttered at the light touch of your fingers, and a low, appreciative hum escaped him. He leaned into your touch, seeking more of your warmth and comfort.

Slowly, his eyes opened, a sleepy, warm look in them as he regarded you with a slow, drowsy smile. "Good morning, love,"

[zealfruity]

On this valentine’s day, I love clones.

[flicker-system]

Alters:

Sarah: host, 17-21, human, lesbian, acespec, she/they Color: yellow

Izen: caretaker, protector, "28", incubus (demon), pansexual, he/him. Likes: cooking, violin, Måneskin. Color: red

Zeal: sexual protector + self care, 23, human, queer, they/he/ze Color: Pink

Ngai: primary protector, "24", elf/demon, bisexual, he/him. Likes: nature, frogs, crafts, Epic the Musical. Color: green

Anyone can interact, except for people under 16, exclusionists (anti-endo), and pro-censorship. Terfs and anti-queer fuck right off. I'll block if I don't like you.

We don't tag trigger warnings. Some original posts have "general tw" on them.

[spokenforyou]

zayne x fem reader

ABSOLUTE ZEAL

synopsis: zayne ends up drunk and can’t keep his hands off you. notes: a continuation of Absolute Zeal ! hopefully it’s good enough for you guys. i specialize in sylus writings so it’s a bit weird writing for the other boys haha warnings: unprotected, creampie, vulgarity, nsfw, marks/biting, swearing, f receiving, wc: 1.7k

[minors don’t interact… by choosing to interact with this content, you are consenting to view something that is not appropriate and nsfw despite warnings!]

“Because of you, everything is spiraling out of control… How can you pretend you’re not affected?”

Zayne clutches your arms before quickly lifting you and pressing you against the glass. His lips lock on yours messily.

The chocolate you gave him earlier took over his senses with ease. One liquor filled chocolate was enough to push him to do what he’s always wanted. Have you.

He pulls you off the glass and carries you over to the desk he had you against earlier.

“Zayne… The desk, really?” You giggle and his eyes slam shut before he shakes his head.

“I don’t think I can wait…” Zayne mutters before his lips attack to your neck, leaving subtle bite marks.

“Zayne, I’m not doing anything when you're drunk.” You sigh and let out a quiet whimper as he bites down hard at your words.

“I’m sobering up. One chocolate wasn’t enough to keep me drunk…” He pulls away and looks at you.

“I promise.” Zayne adds before kissing you, his hands sliding up your sides as he situates himself between your spread legs.

“I can’t resist you…” His lips drag down your jaw and his hands slide under your shirt.

“Zayne…” you whine and he kneels down, his hands pushing up your shirt, hands grazing your stomach as his lips do the same.

He presses feather kisses to your soft stomach and kisses your thighs before he stands, pulling off your shirt slowly and tossing his off as well.

“I’ve been so scared of this… Maybe all I needed was a push.” Zayne whispers before pulling your hips off the desk.

His hands move to undo your belt and your shorts in a swift motion. They fall to your feet and he drools at the sight of you in your bra and panties. A black matching set, his favorite color.

A deep groan leaves his lips and his pants tighten, constricting him.

“Gotta take these off…” He mumbles and takes off his pants just as fast as he did yours.

Your eyes widen when you see the bulge in his boxers, the black lace making him harder.

Zayne gets back onto his knees and his eyes wander hungrily over your form. He bites your hips and pulls on the elastic of your panties, stretching it out around his fingers.

“How can you act so unaffected?” He mumbles against your thighs before pulling back up. He eyes you and you blush.

“I am affected… Just keeping myself under control.” You whisper and run a finger along his chest, his body tensing as he holds back a groan.

He leans forwards and undoes your bra one handed, and keeps his eyes on your breasts. God, did he love looking at you.

“Fuck…” Zayne licks his lips before moving in to your peaks. Lips instantly latching onto one while his hand massages the other.

The moans leaving your mouth are almost sinful, and he hasn’t even started.

“Zayne, please…” Your words fuel his fire and he bites down on your nipple, tugging at it before switching to the other.

He leaves obvious hickeys and kisses down your stomach to your panties once again.

“Can I?” His eyes shoot to yours as he looks up at you and you nod.

His hands move to palm himself a couple times and he groans as he licks a stripe up your panties.

Hands quickly yanking them off, he moans at the sights of your slick folds. He kisses your slit sloppily and you whine. How easily he turned you on…

His eyes clouded with a hunger for you, watching your body writhe as he continues to kiss along your skin. Your body jerks against him and he can’t help but smile.

Zayne grips on to your thighs as his kisses become more sloppy, he gets drunk on the feeling of you.

Then, without warning, he pulls your legs over his shoulders and pulls you up to the edge of his desk, his tongue going where you need it most.

His lips suck on your clit while his tongue explores you. Your hand goes to his black hair and tugs at it.

His pretty moans vibrate through your body. You’ve never heard something more beautiful. Zayne practically devours you and can feel his cock pulsing, begging for relief, but he ignores it for you.

He’s not rough with you, but he’s definitely hungry. Every part of you feels like electricity against his tongue and lips.

You’re almost overwhelmed by his presence and you’re close to the edge so soon. He can tell that you’re getting close so he’s working with a purpose, letting his tongue circle the spot you need him most before switching to kitten licks.

Zayne slides his fingers along your wetness before slipping two in, stretching you immediately.

“Zayne…” You moan his name and he nods as he pumps them. Your walls clench and he leans down to kiss you, silencing your moans.

He curves his fingers just right and you immediately finish. Your essence coats his fingers and you both moan together as he gets you through your high.

Slowly withdrawing his fingers, he smiles and brings them to your lips.

“Pretty…” He slides them between your lips and you suck your own cum off his fingers.

He watches you taste yourself and can’t help but let out a low moan as you run your tongue along his fingers, and it sounds like he nearly comes undone at the sight.

Your lust filled eyes look up at him and his knees nearly give out. He leans down and pulls down his boxers, the wet fabric bothering him.

Zayne strokes himself a few times and rubs tour sides.

“Can you turn around for me?” He mumbles and you quickly slide off the desk to lean over it.

Zayne stands between your legs once more, bringing you to meet him.

“Here?” You look back at him, his eyes fluttering as the tip of his cock teases you. Sliding it along your slit, gathering the wetness that pools there.

“I can always take you to my bedroom.” He smiles softly and runs a hand along your back, tracing your spine.

“Mmm, maybe not. Don’t think I can wait.” You giggle and he chuckles along with you.

“Ready?” Zayne whispers and kisses your back while he waits for confirmation.

“Mmm…” You nod and he pulls back enough to align himself with you.

He stands behind you and pulls your hips into him, letting you feel how hard he is and making you clench around nothing. You can feel how big he is, and it makes you whine in need.

“Shh pretty girl… I’ll give you what you need.”

Zayne can feel your anticipation as you wiggle your hips to try to get him to do something, so he gives you a sharp slap on the thigh.

You wince and snap your head back at him.

“What was that for?!” You glare and he smirks.

“Patience is a virtue.” His eyes darken, and he suddenly pushes into you, nearly taking your breath away at the stretch.

He pushes all the way in and bottoms out with a groan; you moan with him, and he sets a pace that’s slow and steady.

“Fuck…” The words that left his mouth let you know that at that moment he lost all his composure. He’s drunk off you. Maybe it wasn’t the chocolate…

He starts slowly, but then quickly picks up the pace. All you can hear is the sounds of his hips against yours, the desk creaking as it takes the weight of you two, and your soft moans as you try to keep yourself quiet.

Zayne grabs your hair to pull your head back. His sudden boldness shocking you, “Is anyone here, princess?”

You blink a few times and shake your head, “No… No one’s here.”

He pulls on your hair harder so you’re looking up at him. “Then let me hear those pretty sounds. I want to hear exactly how much you like it...”

His words sound more like a command and you obey, letting louder moans spill out of your mouth.

Zayne moans with you and moves his fingers down to rub your clit in time with his thrusts. “Good…” he says between breaths. “Make a mess for me.”

Your stomach flips and tightens, his tip hitting that special spot perfectly, and his fingers toying with your clit. It’s all enough to throw you over the edge.

“Zayne, I can’t hold it…” You look back at him and take notice of his flushed face, hair sticking to his forehead. He can feel your walls clenching and it only makes him harder, close to release as well.

“Do it.” He says in a harsh whisper. “Make a mess all over me… Let me feel you.”

You hear the desperation and a whine in his voice. A few thrusts, and he undid you a second time.

Zayne can feel you flutter around him and a low growl erupts from his chest.

“Oh fu-“ He tries to catch himself but it’s too late, the pressure is too much and he comes with you. He fills your womb while his groans fill the room.

You grip the desk as he fucks you through both of your orgasms, slowly but surely. His hips stuttered until he was completely empty, and let the desk take both of your weight as he leaned down to press his cheek against your shoulder.

“I… I can’t feel my legs,” He said with a shaky laugh, still trying to catch his breath.

You laugh with him, and he gets off you, pulling out of you. You can feel your thighs, and his desk, are wet. Including the papers on his desk, unfortunately.

“I’n gonna have to drink more if this is the result.” Zayne says with a chuckle and you giggle as you stand. His hands immediately dart out to help you and you smile at him.

“You okay?” He asks, and his voice is back to that caring doctor tone that he’s known for.

“Yeah, just a bit tired Doc…” You smile warmly at him and he picks you up bridal style in a blink of an eye.

“Let’s sleep, I’m tired too…” He carries you to his room, sitting you on the bed, he quickly grabs a shirt from his drawer.

“Here, it’ll keep you warm.” Zayne hands it to you, and you slide it on. He nods at the sight before sliding on a pair of boxers himself.

You get comfortable under the covers and he turns off the table's side lamp before snuggling close to you.

You mumble and hear subtle breathing from him. He’s asleep…

“Sweet dreams, my dear, big snowman.”

[ilianasbruce]

“A friend of Bruce.”

word count: 4,900

summary: Bruce had never felt territorial about a word.

warnings: full +18 content with a plot. minors do not interact, please.

notes: hello, hello!! ♡ i’m back with another thought about Bruce; uh, he is such a lover and whore boy simultaneously in my head!! and he is a user of ‘good girl’ since i had read it with my own eyes on the 11th issue of Batman: The Brave and the Bold (for educational purposes onlyyy,), so happy reading!!! ♡♡

It was such a bad idea.

One fucking awful idea for dragging you into this. He should’ve seen it coming, should’ve thought that you were off-limits when it came to her. Gotham could take his body and mind, but you were untouchable. He would fight his fists until his skin was discolored with a stinging sense under his gloves or he’d be dislocating his shoulder after hitting himself on some building’s wall for chasing Catwoman for a burglary the third time in the week — as he made sure to be the protector that Gotham needed, as he nightly exchanged himself with her. But you? You were his and he should’ve prohibited you for her.

He should’ve let your offerings be a murmur in the air around the cave. He should’ve ignored your loveliest eyes that were yearning to let you help him; deny your sweetest, worried spirit tailing behind him until you got your hands around his waist to press your cheek on his upper back with “Please, baby, let me help.”. He should’ve but damn it, how could he when you were so sweet?

You, unaware of your vision in him, were just his beloved girl, uneasy about his dual life every single night as he left you until he came back right into your arms in one piece. You would think about him for the hours he left you in your shared bed, between the sheets that smelled like him, or in the cave on his seat. You’d talk to him some nights on the comms when he was available to see where he was heading. Some nights when the city was quiet, he’d come back early — safe and relieved with a small smile on his cowl-covered face. You were in love with him heavily, the kind of fondness that made him the only one of yours just for everything. Your Bruce, your devoted Dark Knight, and the love of your life forevermore.

But for Bruce, it was more deeper than yours. Your love was too mighty for both of you, there was no denying that. But Bruce’s love? God, it was more intricate than your sweet devotion. He loved you wholly, with his mind and body, with his heart and hands. Bruce ached for you in a way that was too much for him to comprehend. It was unbearable and much, but he couldn't orbit without you. Since the first time he laid his eyes on you, you were a phenomenon in his mind — always in the back of his mind and always making him spiral into you obsessively. You reminded him of a doll ballerina in the vintage, dark-wooded box, starting to waltz through the melody as soon as he curved the key in the reading room of Manor when he was seven. The kind of stare he’d blink through his dark, thick lashes at you with zeal and longing as he turned the key over and over again, for hours just to see you. You were just as unaware of his gaze as that ballerina, happily existing with your waltz with your sweet soul in his life while he was holding that box dearly to himself, so lovesick and always eager for another curve of the key between his fingers.

You were his sweet love, his sole Sun.

If you’d utter a word to him, no matter what, he was always mindful of you. You were letting him see another view of the world — another window. And that’s why it was simple for him to be lured by you. He couldn't discard your eagerness to assist, your vision, when you were embracing him with your pure intentions of support for Batman about his Gotham. Oh, he could never get enough of you, couldn't he?

“I’ll be good,” you murmured to his shirt as you were holding him tightly, your gorgeous face pressed on his back. “I promise.”

Oh, he should’ve sent you to Manor. Fuck, he should’ve.

So, he wouldn't be sitting right next to you, with his masterly disguised form of yours, two waiting for one of his snitches in the eastside bar of Gotham. Bruce, for the information, would usually turn himself to strangers to learn intel about the cases he worked on and the city. He had been doing it for years, learned from the best in his younger years, Avery Oblonsky. A touch of his deft fingers on there and here resulted in creating a few new identities, one of them named ‘Matches Malone’. A man who would usually wander through the cheaper bars in the name of a mere conversation and beer. But you knew better.

“Stop staring at me.” he muttered as he sipped his beer, his eyes on the door.

“But you look so adorable with that mustache.” you said with a lovely smile of yours, your eyes glinting under the low bar lights. He gave you a brief glance and turned to the door that he had been staring at for twenty minutes.

It was a terrible idea to bring you here. Of course, he had played with your exterior, too. He would rather have broken ribs to see the lowest of Gotham witness his wife wandering with an ‘outlaw’ in the God knows what corner of East Gotham. He altered your gorgeous features with great concentration without exceeding the limit. His skilled fingers traced your soft skin to remake you as he thought, wondering about whoever created you like this must’ve taken their time on you to give all those features he adored so much with his keen eyes. You were still adorable after his work, blinking up at him with your precious smile and pink wig. You had begged him to let you wear that, promising that you’d be quiet. He should’ve stopped that right there but… never mind.

He spent one hour on your pink bob, fixing it to really look like your own hair. You were beaming like the Sun itself after he wiped the tint from his fingers, looking at your new form in the mirror with awe at his mastery. A few kisses and whispers of ‘I love you’s were his payment. He was too tipsy from you to mind the awfulness of the thought in the cave to discard the idea, — that you’d accompany him for the sake of his city. Now, with a straight mind, he realized how foolish to let Gotham indulge in you as much as he did.

You were wandering your eyes in the bar intrigued, quietly sitting as you had promised him. He caught your gaze in a few seconds, you giving him a sweet smile in the dim light and warmth. You were just so…

“Matches, man!”

You two were interrupted, no, you were startled by the eerie, loud outsider who sat opposite you. Your startled eyes found the man in his thirties as your hand found Bruce's under the table. He squeezed your hand in reassurance for your stunned expression.

“Hello, Christoph.”

Christoph, or ‘Ziggy Chris’ as he let you call himself was a funny man. Despite being in the criminal life, he was likable. He made you laugh with amiable intentions and Bruce was not having it. He did not know what riled him up, Chris’ awe of you or your contented conversation with a criminal. Or maybe it was also because Chris was busy with you for Bruce to energize him for intel.

“You know, candy girl, Matches is a really good fella out here.”

And that fucking pet name because of that fucking pink wig. Your pink bob reminded Chris pink, wrapped candies and now, Bruce was forced to witness some lowlife call his wife with endearments. You were listening to Chris as if he were delivering a psalm, ridiculously curious about some damned criminal. God, he should’ve known.

“Yes, he is such a great friend of mine.”

Bruce couldn't help his immediate glance at your side profile for your choice of words. Friend? A mere friend? Truthfully, it was not a big deal. It was a normal thing. But Bruce had been stuck in the conversation between you and Chris for fifty-three minutes without getting a look from Chris. When he had tried to speak, it was Chris who was interrupting him ‘Man, I’ll let you finish but listen to this,” and “I’ve been there, candy girl, I’ve..” or your concentrated eyes on Chris had been irritating him for the last one hour.

And now you were calling him a friend? A fucking friend? The word itself, the mere definition behind it boiled his blood with fume. You could've said my boyfriend, but no, you went with a friend. (It was much better as you had said but he was irrational about you at that moment). He stared at your outline for a few seconds with simple vexation and turned his eyes to Christoph. Chris saw his friend Matches’ eyes on you and he made a joke about how you offended him. Your innocent eyes found your undercover husband’s face but he was already dissecting Chris with a tense jaw. There was no blame on you, it shouldn’t be a problem and why Bruce was gritting with the word of ‘friend’ was a mystery. A mere word, nothing more. Not that it meant something anyways.

Oh, he’d show you a ‘friend’ if he had the chance at the moment but he was supposed to get intel, and the bathroom of the bar was overly unsanitary for your soft skin and jean skirt. The thought was tempting, though, too tempting that his hand found your thigh under the hem of your skirt without casting a glance at you.

“Okay, okay. Let me ask this, man, I’ve heard that Penguin has a new interest.”

Bruce finally took the wheel for granted in his fake New York accent and directed it to any point he wanted for information. You stayed quiet, listening to him with your curious, pretty eyes from then on. He eventually cast a few glances at you, drinking in your flushed cheeks and pink hair in the low bar light. His palm stayed on your soft thigh, not crossing any limit with his deft fingers to the point he wanted to dive. He’d have that time later anyway.

One hour later, Bruce had what he wanted after leaving that damned bar of eastside. The intel was valuable for the case he’d been tracking for two weeks. Oswald Cobblepot and his Iceberg Lounge, something that Batman had to look into closely. But before that, he had a thing to take care of.

The walk to the car was silent but slightly rushed. Your hand was in Bruce’s, as he pulled you with a nonchalant look and silence through the streets. The sky was already dark, and it’d probably be raining in ten minutes before you reach the car. You thought he was rushing because of Batman, but no. You did find out about that later.

“Was that useful?” you asked him as you turned the corner where your car was, hand in hand. He exhaled quietly and muttered a ‘yes’. He was pissed off, you could see that. But you thought he was pissed off at you, not the dreading minutes of listening to Chris about his made-up adventures to impress you and that, sticky and smoky air filled bar.

“Are you angry at me?”

The words hung in the air as you had already reached the car. He gave you nothing other than opening the door for you, making sure you get inside fully before closing the door. When he was inside and starting the engine of his sports car, he did not utter a word, either. You just accepted his silence and pressed your head to the window as he drove. During the car ride to Manor, you two were silent. But Bruce had made a few calls to Lucius about the items for a voice recorder chip and Alfred about the Batsuit. You had accepted the thought of him being irritated with you.

When his car entered the cave and found its usual spot in there, you quietly left the car. Alfred was waiting for both of you with his usual tea tray and your favorite homemade cookies he had made for you. He had an amused look on his face as he saw you two as you approached him.

“I hope your peculiar couple bonding went well, Madam?”

“I guess so, it was fun.” you answered with a smile at Alfred and a bite of his splendid cookies. Of course, it was fun. You weren't the one who was strained. You were happily sitting right next to your beloved Bruce in your pink wig and thigh-length jean skirt, adorably looking at him as he was pumping the words out of Chris’ mouth as if he were a magician in your eyes (well, he was when it came to manipulating the words when he needed to). He did not understand why you were there to provide some ‘help’, but whatever your innocent existence was not a help to him as you promised. So, yes — it was fun.

Bruce was concentrated on the Batcomputer for something you did not heed at the moment. But you realized he was into his case so you decided to leave the cave to give him space. You took your way to the bathroom, trying to get rid of your ‘alteration’.

It was almost fifteen minutes that you were in the shower after taking off your wig and clothes. You almost did not notice him when he entered the bathroom. You just randomly shut off the water for the shampoo and he was there, taking off his own disguise. He saw your surprised eyes in the reflection in the mirror and went on with his action. It took him a quick time to get rid of his disguise and slip into the shower with you. He closed the glass door while keeping his eyes on yours.

“Hi,” you said quietly as he overstepped into your space. He had his hands on either side of your ribs to cage you with the wall and himself, confusing you with his sudden motive. His baby blue eyes were looking into your eyes with slightly creased brows (giving him a frown) and a concentrated gaze. Like he was disappointed with something but he couldn't spell it yet. You felt heavy under his gaze in those seconds, your eyes looking up at him with a doe-like gaze as your head was pressed up to the intricate tiles of your bathroom. He glanced at your lips briefly then turned his unfulfilled gaze to yours.

He neared his face against yours, making you press your forehead against his with closed eyes next. You thought he just missed you as he always did when he joined you in the shower. You thought he’d be kissing you sweetly and slowly like he always did. But to your surprise, as soon as you nuzzled your nose to his, he crashed his lips against yours. That caught you off guard, your hands moved to his waist to balance yourself against him.

You couldn't understand his discomfort at the moment that why he was giving you a rough time suddenly. His hand went to let the water flow over you two since you had turned off before he joined you. The slightly cold water turned into the hot one in the next seconds when he bit your lower lip. Your brows creased slightly at the feeling while he kept kissing you wholly. It was a struggle for you to breathe under the hot water over you and his roughness, thus your hands went to his shoulders to break his kisses. But to your surprise, he led your hands around his neck, pressing his chest against your bare one, not giving you permission in that position.

His one hand that on the side of your ribs moved to your hips, and the other found the back of your thigh to press you to him. When you were breathless for his lips, he let both of you have some air but quickly regained his kisses as soon as he had air. You felt his leg between your thighs, using his hand under your thigh to put you in a position where his thigh was pressed against your cunt. You let a moan to his mouth and he broke the kiss with half-lidded eyes. You did not have time to whisper his name on his lips before he kissed you briefly.

When he started to kiss your jaw, then your neck you finally had an opportunity to breathe as much as you could under the pressure of the water and him with the fog-covered glasses. Your blurry eyes were on him as he half-sucked and half-bit your skin of your neck while your hands were around his neck. You let your eyes close, a breathy moan escaping your kiss-stained lips against the foggy air around you as he pressed his thigh between your soft thighs where you were getting wet.

“B-Bruce,” you muttered when he was sucked off the valley of your breasts, with little bites afterwards to leave stains. He had no intention of listening to your soft sounds about his name, making you arch and press yourself against him more at the moment.

You felt the pressure of his thigh lessen, but in the next seconds, his fingers replaced it. You moaned when he dove his middle digits into you while his teeth sank into your throat. He started to move his fingers in a steady but just a little faster pace, not giving you any chance to relish in the feeling. He fingerfucked every sweet spot of yours with his deft, calloused fingers, making you let out soft sounds of your pleasure to the dense air between you two. He stole your sounds while he started to kiss you again and again, playing with the pressure of his own sweetness and roughness.

But this time, he let out to break his kisses and have a sufficient amount of air for your lungs. He was watching you with his hazy, half-lidded eyes as his face was closer in the distance that your lips were brushing his when he was earning every moan. It felt suffocating for you at some point, his fingers, his pressed body, and the hot water over your skin but it also felt good. You were too full to think about anything at the moment, just Bruce and his two fingers.

He knew how to make you come undone, hitting one spot over and over again to arch yourself against him. You just remember the overfilling sense and the immediate combustion of your euphoria, him letting you fall your head in the curve of his neck. It felt surprisingly so good, making you scratch your nails on his back shoulder while your face was pressed on his neck. You couldn’t have enough time to come to yourself when you felt his fingers’ drawal and his cock to replace them.

He just cursed under his breath — you thought so, as he slid into your sensitive cunt effortlessly. He had stretched you perfectly so that it let him have his time in delight.

“Fuck,” he muttered to your spot below your ear, as your scorching walls wrapped him sweetly. Your first orgasm had created an ideal lube for him, easily, fully fitting into you with great pleasure and you with sweet moans. When he was buried in your pussy, he kissed the same spot below your ear with the words of “Wrap your legs around me, baby. Gonna be a long ride.”

Yet, his hands found the back of your thighs to help you wrap your legs around his waist. You unhid your pretty face from his neck, pressing back to the tiles with tight eyes when he hit the first thrust into you deliciously. He started to fuck you with slow but gentle thrusts.

“Mmm..” you couldn’t help but let your sounds fill the hazy air around you, as he hit every good spot nicely. Your legs were tightly wrapped around him as much as you could, since he was increasing the force of his hips every minute. The time in the shower passed very intensely but briskly for you. It was there, him fucking you too good with his curses and kisses on your lips; but it was blurry for you. It was likely because of the scorching atmosphere — both his body and the water pressure, dizzying you. So, when Bruce fucked you another round for your second orgasm, you came again in his arms. You were breathing in pleasure against his lips as he half-watched you with his own hazy eyes, half-kissing you.

When you came, he came in the next few mintues, too. But not inside of you — he was tensing his jaw at the feeling and calculation, pulling out at the moment when his seed was about to fill you up. You whimpered at the feeling of sudden pulling out and the sensation after it while he came between your thighs. You both were breathless, gasping for air. You thought he’d shut down the water and let you have a good extended amount of time to come to your senses. But, no. He shut down the water to carry you to your bedroom.

Your scorching skin felt the mild air of your somber bedroom in his arms as he carried you to bed. It felt refreshing after the shower atmosphere. When your head hit your pillow, he was already on top of you. You looked up at his features in the dull room from the glint of the bathroom light that came to your bedroom through the door. He was just watching you, too. You let him kiss you again and again, stealing your breath to relieve what was bothering him. You knew him well enough to know he had something on his tongue. Your fingers found his hair as he devoured you, kissing and biting your sweet lips as he wanted. You lazily played with his wet locks, trying to ease his tension. But you met with his grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head on your pillow with one hand.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” you asked him after his breathless kisses. Your first guess was that you weren't promising right next to him, did something to piss him off. But in reality, it was just his frustration. You whispered another ‘baby’ to his lips when he kissed you. But your words were answered with his mocking tone.

“Am I your baby now, huh?” he muttered in a tone that shook your dizziness. Your brows were creased slightly with confusion but he furrowed them by entering you again. You let out soft moans against his face as he nestled back in where he was owned. Your viscous walls welcomed him utterly again, as if it was where he belonged (he did). His free hand went to your hips to align them to his liking, to angle them in a way that you could feel him buried inside you as much as you could.

You were gazing up at him full but dazed, your cheeks warm and lips marked by him. As much as he was pissed off, he was still sweet when it came to you. Your vision in his eyes made him sigh in love and kiss your lips gently, him simultaneously started to hit your spots as he thrust into you cunt. You were sensitive after your two rounds of orgasm, thus he was slow in his pace unless you wanted him faster.

Bruce’s lips found your jaw and then your neck as he fucked you slowly, just as he preferred at the moment. You were mewling or softly moaning against the darkness, your legs shaking on either side of his waist on the mattress. You couldn't wrap them this time, couldn't find the strength. Bruce was busy biting the places he marked in the shower, marking them for a prolonged time. He was having his immaculate time, just where he wanted to be — inside you with your pussy wrapped around him flawlessly that he was letting his groans out a few times already, before the patrol. He was slow to his liking, relishing in the tightness of you.

“Your friend, yeah?” he muttered in your ear while you were dizzy with his thickness between your thighs. “Yeah?” he taunted you more, his tongue licking the skin of your throat next. You merely sighed in pleasure at his sneer, couldn't think fully at the moment.

“I didn’t — fuck, I didn’t know friends fuck each other just as I do.”

“B-Bruce..”

You couldn't handle the slowness of his hips and his taunting. Your creased brow, half-lidded gorgeous eyes were watching him as he was fucking you just as he wanted. He came back to your face with sweat and wetness on his temple, looking down at you with furrowed brows as he rolled his hips into your tightness.

“I’m gonna erase that word from your tongue,” he muttered to your lips, his handsome face hovering over yours. You just closed your eyes helplessly, slightly turning your face to the other side due to reflexes. You felt his kisses on your cheek, your jaw as he started to speed up his pace more. It was already overwhelming for you and the pressure of his tightened grip around your wrists over your head made the pooling around your stomach more prominent. Bruce could feel the ache of your body about orgasm and that’s why he played with his pace to prolong it. You let out disappointed sounds, mentally writing somewhere in your brain to avenge his injustice moves.

He was watching you like a man starved — in love, aching to say ‘that’s what I felt when you said that’, but he knew better. He then shifted his angles again to relish the feeling of your viscous walls around his cock. He gladly fucked every second, every moan out of you slowly, leaving you marked his lips on your cheek and pussy with his thickness. He was just bare inside of you, no condom tonight, just the yearning to come right inside of you, filling you with his seed. He wished he could still fuck you and fill you as much as he wanted, until his seed was overdripping between your folds, marking every inch of yours but he couldn't. You two were too young and inexperienced for a possible baby.

The thought was unbearable at the back of his mind always, when he was ready to dive into you but always forcing himself to pull on a condom. He’d sometimes — on very rare occasions — come inside you without protection, still aware of your monthly cycle rounds.

He knew you were sensitive and after a good amount of thrill, he rocked his hips with the pace you liked. He moved as you wanted him, kissing and whispering sweet nothings to your ear as you were breathless under him. “Is that good, baby?” he muttered to you temptingly.

“Mhm..”

“Use your words like a big girl.”

Oh, that husband of yours. Just knew how to taunt and seduce you simultaneously.

“B-Bruce,” your words dripped with your sweetness and dizziness, making him groan in your ear. He hit your sweet spot, then kissed your lips before muttering to you a “That’s my good girl.”. He set up his pace to your liking, finally letting you finish. God, it felt amazing — your pent-up, overwhelmed muscles ached in the perfect way when you orgasmed for the third and last time in the night. And it was much better than the two.

Before getting you to the finish point, he intertwined your fingers over your head, ushering you with his focused eyes and murmur of “Come on, baby, I got you.”. When you came, he relished in the scene of your sweet glow in euphoria, your sighs of pleasure, and his name on your tongue. You just remember the feeling so satisfying, so full and sweet. He really made sure to give you what you needed.

He came right after you, pushing himself to the point. But it was simple for him since he was thriving with the feeling of your warmth and cunt around his cock, your obscene vision just for his eyes. He had to thrust a few more times and he was there — just suppressed like you.

You two caught your breath after being tangled up with each other. Your faces were so close to each other and warm with color. Bruce pressed countless kisses on your face, specifically on your cheeks and your eyelids along with your lips after catching his breath quicker than you. He nuzzled your face, just satisfied and buried inside you loosely. You were too exhausted, both from the water and him, as your eyelids were heavy from the feeling of his warmth. He brushed his lips with quiet sighs against your skin, murming sweet nothings along with them.

“My good girl,” he nuzzled his nose to your warm cheek, keeping it there. “My,” a soft kiss there, “sweet girl.” as if he was reminding the words to himself and Gotham. You were drowsy with your serene sighs, your attention fading from him, from the feeling of him intertwined with you or his fingers fiddling with yours above your head. He was a lovefool in the warm bed of yours, letting his buried words slip through his lips during his pillow talk.

He noticed your eagerness to sleep — he notices everything about you, kissed you until sleep lured you — just as you did more than a few times when he came from patrol, weary but still energized. You’d kiss him until he was surprisingly sleepy from your loving. Mostly, he was at peace so he could sleep.

You did not feel his last kiss on your temple before he slipped off you gently and carefully without disturbing you. He buried you under the quilts and got his robe to switch off the bathroom light, then took the way of the cave for his alter ego. He hoped you did understand what he had thought about the word of ‘friends’ now, unless you wanted to prove otherwise.

thank you so much for reading!! ♡

[shaiyasstuff]

pretend | zayne

synopsis : In a tale of academic burnout, fried chicken, and poor impulse control, chaos incarnate—that’s you—somehow convinces your emotionally constipated med-student best friend to drink half a beer—which, shockingly, nearly kills him. Queue: slow realization that maybe, just maybe, you’ve both been idiots in love this whole time. content : fluff, drunk zayne, i wrote this with absolute zeal in mind, college!au

“Yes!” you exclaim, throwing your hands in the air like you just won an Oscar for Most Sleep-Deprived Human Alive.

Across the table, Zayne lifts a brow and smirks—annoyingly composed for someone who just witnessed you spiral through caffeine-fueled thesis chaos.

“I’m finally done,” you announce dramatically, like you just ended a war. “Let’s go out tonight. I need meat on sticks and bad decisions.”

Zayne closes his book with a soft thud, taking off his glasses in that maddeningly slow, deliberate way—like he knows exactly what he’s doing to your blood pressure.

“I pity the skewers who will die by your hand tonight,” he deadpans.

You snort. “I pity you, who’ll have to witness me demolish a six-pack like a college frat bro on a redemption arc.”

It wasn’t a dig. It was a fact.

Zayne doesn’t drink—ever.

You’re convinced his blood is 80% black coffee and quiet judgment.

So, naturally, you’d assigned him the title of Sir Zayne, Protector of Drunk Y/N, a role he never officially accepted but continues to perform with the patience of a long-suffering saint and the sighs of a man who has seen too much.

Honestly? If that’s not love, you don’t know what is.

But you and Zayne never crossed the line.

Not because he didn’t want to—at least, you hoped that was the case—but because you never let it happen.

Courtesy of your own sparkling cocktail of overthinking, self-doubt, and the lingering fear of ruining something good.

Zayne was tall, handsome, smart—the kind of man who made professors nod in approval and grandmothers sigh wistfully.

And you? You were the chaotic best friend with a penchant for questionable snack combos and emotional repression.

You’d watched him grow up beside you, shedding his shy, bookish shell to become the quietly confident man sitting across from you now.

The same man who still gave you his hoodie when you complained about the cold and remembered your coffee order down to the sugar granules.

And sure, you said you loved each other. Threw it around between jokes and “don’t die today” texts.

But it was always buffered by a safe, platonic bubble wrap. You never dared to mean it the way your heart did—aching and wistful, quietly begging for something more.

Because admitting it out loud?

That would change everything.

And some things felt too fragile to risk breaking.

“I’m gonna take one very relaxing shower and meet you there, cool?” you say, slinging your backpack over your shoulder like the protagonist of a teen drama walking off into the sunset—except sweatier and more sleep-deprived.

Zayne gives you a look, all cool and composed as usual. “Don’t make me wait again.”

You gasp, offended. “It was one time!”

But he’s already walking off like he just won that round—he probably did, and you’re left chasing after him, muttering something about false accusations and revisionist history.

Back at your dorm, you kick the door shut with your foot, strip off the layers of thesis-fueled misery, and step into the shower.

The hot water hits your skin, and for the first time in weeks, your shoulders unclench.

Your body, a battlefield of all-nighters, instant noodles, and bad posture, finally starts to forgive you.

Maybe tonight wouldn’t just be about beer and skewers.

Maybe, just maybe, you’d let yourself hope for something more.

You step out into the cool night air, tugging your hoodie sleeves over your hands and rubbing them together like a gremlin summoning warmth.

The city hums quietly around you—streetlights flickering, distant honks, the occasional bark of a dog that clearly has beef with the moon.

It doesn’t take long to reach the barbecue stall, that familiar greasy heaven you and Zayne have treated like your unofficial therapy spot for years.

And there he is, already seated inside, calm and collected like he hadn’t just been abandoned seventeen minutes ago. Your favorite order of fried chicken sits next to him, still warm.

Because of course it does.

You beam, tapping him on the shoulder before plopping down beside him. “Was I late?”

He doesn’t even look at you. “By 17 minutes, yes.”

You snort, already digging into the chicken like a woman possessed. “Big deal,” you mutter through a mouthful of food, completely unapologetic.

Zayne simply shakes his head, the corners of his lips twitching in the ghost of a smile.

You were chaos, and somehow, he always made room for it.

“So, what are your grand post-thesis plans, Doctor Zayne?” you ask, popping open a can with a dramatic pshhht that echoes like a battle cry into the night.

Zayne glances at you, then at the can in your hand like it personally offended his morals. “Hopefully not babysitting a tipsy gremlin.”

You raise your can in mock salute. “Too late. You signed up for this the day you let me copy your homework in seventh grade.”

He exhales through his nose, which is Zayne-speak for you’re unbearable, but I’ve made peace with it. “I’m thinking of applying for that research position at the hospital. Maybe specialize in cardiac surgery.”

You pause mid-sip, impressed. “Heart guy, huh? Makes sense. You’ve already stolen mine.”

He gives you a slow, pointed look.

You grin. “Kidding. Kind of.”

He doesn’t reply, just leans back and sips his coffee—the man’s choice of poison—and you wonder, just for a second, if maybe your heart wasn’t the only one on the table tonight.

Who were you kidding? Of course it isn’t.

If there was anything Zayne was good at—aside from saving lives, surviving on black coffee, and giving you judgmental looks—it was being honest. Blunt, even.

The guy didn’t know how to sugarcoat if his life depended on it.

So if he felt anything beyond friendship, he would’ve said something… right?

He wouldn’t just sit across from you night after night, remembering your order, walking you home, and quietly watching over you like some emotionally constipated guardian angel—unless it really was just friendship.

Right?

You shove another piece of chicken into your mouth, suddenly feeling very attacked by your own thoughts.

Maybe you were reading too much into it.

Maybe the long stares and rare half-smiles meant nothing.

Maybe he looked at everyone like that.

…Or maybe he didn’t.

But knowing Zayne?

If he wanted something more, he would’ve told you.

And that’s the part that hurts the most.

You finish your chicken in record time, like a seasoned warrior who’s trained her whole life for this exact moment.

Zayne watches you with the mild horror of someone witnessing a natural disaster unfold in slow motion.

“With all that grease you eat,” he scoffs, sipping his drink with far too much elegance, “it’s a wonder you’re still so thin.”

You wipe your mouth with a napkin and flash him a smug, greasy-lipped grin. “Courtesy of late-night study marathons and crippling stress. Better than any diet plan.”

He shakes his head, muttering something about clogged arteries and self-destruction, but the corners of his mouth twitch in that way that tells you he’s more amused than annoyed.

You lean back, arms stretched, feeling the food coma start to settle in. The air between you buzzes with something unspoken—comfortable, familiar, and maybe just a little tragic.

Like always.

You take a long sip from your beer can, eyes narrowing playfully at him over the rim. “You know, you should really start seeing someone.”

Zayne doesn’t even blink. He just turns his head, gives you that pointed, deadpan look—the one that says I’m humoring you, but only barely. “I am perfectly fine, single.”

You snort. “Yeah, perfectly fine sitting alone in your apartment reading medical journals and judging me for my life choices.”

He raises a brow. “Someone has to.”

You laugh, nudging his leg under the table. “Seriously, though. You’re handsome, smart, stable. Tragic levels of emotionally unavailable, but that’s practically a dating app requirement these days.”

Zayne doesn’t respond right away. Just takes a calm sip of his coffee, gaze lingering on you a second too long.

“Maybe I’m just waiting for the right kind of chaos,” he murmurs.

And just like that, you forget how to breathe.

You quickly look away, composing yourself with the grace of someone pretending not to be internally combusting.

The heat crawling up your neck? Yeah, definitely the alcohol. Totally not because of that look or that line.

You take another sip, stalling. “Seriously? I always thought you’d go for the quiet, put-together type. You know, the kind who alphabetizes her spice rack and drinks herbal tea.”

Zayne hums, eyes still on you. “I already have enough order in my life. Why would I want more of that?”

You blink, caught off guard. “So… chaos is the goal?”

He tilts his head slightly, a rare glint of mischief in his gaze. “Not chaos. Just… someone who makes life feel a little less dull. Someone who challenges me. Keeps me on my toes.”

You let out a breathy laugh, unsure if it’s the beer, the tension, or just him.

“Sounds exhausting,” you mutter.

He smiles. “Not if it’s the right person.”

And suddenly, you’re not so sure you can blame the warmth in your chest on the alcohol anymore.

You push all your thoughts aside—shove them into that dark mental closet labeled Feelings: Do Not Open.

With a practiced grin, you raise your can in mock toast. “Well, be sure to send me an invitation to the wedding,” you quip, voice light, smile lighter.

For someone who lives and breathes chaos, you’ve gotten remarkably good at pretending things don’t get to you.

Zayne just smirks, as if he sees right through the performance. And then—without a word—he reaches for a can of beer.

Pop.

The sound cuts through the air like a record scratch. You freeze, staring at him like he just broke the laws of physics.

“Wait, are you—what—you’re drinking?”

He shrugs, raising the can to his lips. “It’s just one.”

You gape. “You’ve lectured me for years about alcohol rotting brains.”

He glances at you, his voice calm. “Maybe I just needed a reason.”

And this time, it’s not just your cheeks that feel warm. It’s everything.

You cough, almost choking on your drink. “Are you sure?”

Zayne glances at the can in his hand, then back at you with that maddeningly unreadable expression. “What, afraid I’ll lose my sense of control?”

You blink. “Yes! That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Who are you and what have you done with ‘water-only’ Zayne?”

He takes a slow sip, completely unfazed. “It’s just beer.”

“You say that like I didn’t once watch you refuse soda because it had too many bubbles.”

He shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Or maybe you’re trying to impress someone.”

He doesn’t answer. Just leans back in his seat, eyes still on you—calm, unreadable, dangerous in the way that makes your heart skip.

And now you’re the one who needs another drink.

Soon enough, Zayne learns the harsh truth of his choices.

Because not even halfway through the can, the damage is done—his face flushed a deep, telltale red, his breath coming in shallow little huffs like he’s just walked through a wind tunnel.

You glance over at him mid-sip, eyebrows shooting up.

“…You good?”

“I’m fine,” he says, voice stiff and defensive—classic Zayne—but he’s blinking too much, his back too straight, like he’s focusing really, really hard on staying upright.

You stare. “You’ve had half a can.”

He shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the collar of his shirt as if the night air suddenly turned tropical. “I didn’t eat much today,” he mutters, clearly struggling to save face. “Also, the ground feels… uneven.”

You nearly snort beer up your nose. “The ground is fine. You are uneven.”

His glare is valiant, but his ears are glowing, and he’s gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing tethering him to Earth.

“I told you this would happen,” you say, half-concerned, half-delighted. “You’re like a lightweight legend.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his flushed face. “Remind me never to do this again.”

You lean your cheek into your palm, grinning. “Remind me to never let you not do this again.”

He exhales sharply—half sigh, half chuckle—and despite the mess he’s in, there’s still that look in his eyes.

Soft. Open. A little reckless.

And God help you, it suits him.

The night carries on, as nights with you usually do—spiraling steadily into chaos.

One of your many bad decisions includes convincing Zayne to finish the rest of that cursed can. He protests, of course—weakly, half-heartedly, with the conviction of a man who already knows he’s lost.

“I really shouldn’t—”

“Just a little more,” you grin, shoving it toward him like it’s a dare and not a crime against his entire system.

He sighs, long and resigned, then tips the can back with the tragic acceptance of someone walking into a trap they dug themselves.

Moments later, he’s slumped over the table, forehead resting on his arm, a soft groan escaping him. “I think I’m dying.”

You? You’re no help.

You’re already tipsy, which means your moral compass has long since clocked out. You’re doubled over with laughter, wheezing uncontrollably at the sight of composed, stoic, impossible-to-rattle Zayne looking one sip away from meeting God.

“You look like a Victorian lady with the vapors,” you cackle.

“I hate you,” he mumbles into the table.

“This is love,” you giggle, nearly falling off your stool.

And despite the headache he’ll definitely have tomorrow, he doesn’t argue. Not really.

After a few more cans—questionable choices all around—you find yourself leaning back in your seat, finishing the last of your skewers with drunken determination.

The stall’s almost empty now, the night stretching quiet and still around you, save for the low hum of streetlights and the occasional car passing by.

Zayne, meanwhile, is completely knocked out beside you.

Head lolled to the side, glasses tucked away somewhere, lips parted slightly as he breathes slow and deep.

His usually sharp features are softened, flushed, and peaceful in a way that makes your chest squeeze a little too tightly.

If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looked cute like this.

But you do know better, so you just shake your head and smirk at the very real mess you helped create.

Tossing the empty skewer stick aside, you slide off your seat with a wobble, then crouch beside him.

You nudge his shoulder gently. “Come on, let’s go,” you whisper, voice low, a little fond, a little guilty.

He doesn’t budge.

Just lets out a tiny groan, eyelids fluttering like he’s having an incredibly dramatic dream about betrayal and liver damage.

You sigh, laughing under your breath. “This is what I get for enabling you, huh?”

Still, you loop an arm under his and begin to help him up—because even if he’s heavier than you remember and absolutely no help at all, he’s still your idiot to carry home.

And for once, he lets you.

You somehow manage to haul him upright—well, half-upright—his arm slung over your shoulders as he leans most of his weight on you.

He mumbles something incoherent against your hair, something that sounds like “never again” but could also be “chicken skewers are evil.” Hard to tell.

His dorm’s way too far, and in his current state, he’d probably collapse somewhere tragic and inconvenient—like the middle of the sidewalk or a bush with questionable origins.

So, you make the executive decision.

“My place it is,” you mutter, shifting his weight and starting the slow, awkward shuffle back toward your dorm.

He stumbles once or twice, groaning like a disgruntled old man, and you stifle a laugh.

“This is karma,” you tell him, breathless from both the effort and the ridiculousness of it all. “For every time you judged my life choices.”

He doesn’t respond, just leans more heavily into you—like he knows you’ll carry him anyway.

And you do.

Step by step, wordlessly and willingly, until your dorm door finally clicks open and you ease him inside, one breath, one stubborn heartbeat at a time.

You finally manage to plop him down onto your bed with the grace of someone who’s done this exact thing zero times and is running purely on muscle memory and spite.

Zayne flops back like a ragdoll, one arm splayed dramatically over his eyes, as if the sheer emotional weight of the night has bested him.

You shake your head, chest heaving, cheeks still warm from your own drinks. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

Crossing the room, you grab your water bottle—your trusty, slightly dented savior—and take several deep gulps yourself before crouching at the edge of the bed.

Then, without thinking twice, you press it gently to his lips.

“Here,” you say, voice softer now. “It’ll help you feel better.”

Zayne makes a vague, pitiful noise. But he drinks, eyes still closed, brows faintly scrunched like he’s never tasted water before in his life.

You hold it steady, watching him carefully, your expression torn between amused and quietly tender.

It’s such a stupid, intimate moment.

And somehow, it feels like more than it should.

To your horror, he downs the entire bottle. Every last drop.

“Hey—hey! That’s mine!” you protest, trying to pry it from his hands, but Zayne holds it like a lifeline, drinking until it gives a dramatic little hollow gulp at the end.

He sets it down with an exaggerated sigh, flopping back against your pillows like he just climbed a mountain.

“You have legs,” you grumble, snatching the empty bottle. “The water dispenser is literally down the hall.”

“It’s too far,” he mumbles, eyes closed again. “Your bed is nice. I’m dying. Let me die hydrated.”

You roll your eyes, turning to set the bottle aside—and then pause when you feel the weight shift beside you.

Zayne suddenly sits up.

You glance over and freeze. He’s staring at you.

Not blinking. Not swaying. Just… staring.

A little too intently. A little too seriously.

“…What?” you squeak, completely thrown.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just keeps looking at you like you’ve said something outrageous.

Or like he just realized something important.

And suddenly, the room feels a little too quiet.

A little too close.

He stares into your eyes, and for a moment, everything else fades—the buzz of alcohol, the low hum of the city outside, even the dull ache in your limbs.

Then, slowly, his hands reach out and grasp your arms—not rough, not urgent, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. Before you can say a word, he pulls himself to his feet, swaying just slightly, and starts walking.

Pushing you back with each quiet, deliberate step.

You move without thinking, heart hammering in your chest as your knees bump into the edge of your desk.

You’re trapped between the wood at your back and the look in his eyes—sharp, unreadable, burning through the haze of the night.

“Zayne…” you breathe, voice barely above a whisper, unsure if you’re warning him or yourself.

He doesn’t answer. He just stands there, too close, the heat of him bleeding into your skin, his hands still lingering on your arms like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

And in that moment, you swear the entire world narrows to the space between you.

And whether it’s the alcohol or the truth breaking free—

You can’t tell the difference anymore.

“Uhm… are you okay?” you ask, your voice uncertain, breath catching in your throat as you stare up at him.

Zayne shakes his head, just once. “No.”

You blink, concern flaring. “What’s wro—”

But you don’t get to finish.

He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat, hands moving to cradle your face as his lips crash against yours.

It’s not soft. Not hesitant.

It’s hungry.

Like he’s been holding it back for far too long. Like something inside him finally snapped loose.

Your back presses harder against the desk as he leans in, kissing you like he’s afraid this moment will slip away if he doesn’t take all of it now.

And for a second—just a second—you forget everything else.

The drinks. The laughter. The years of pretending.

All that exists is the heat of his mouth on yours and the staggering, undeniable truth of it.

His lips crash into yours before you can even finish your sentence—urgent, messy, filled with too much longing and too little clarity. It catches you off guard, your breath stolen, your thoughts scattering like the loose papers on your desk.

At first, you freeze.

Then your hands move to his chest, trying to push him back. “Zayne—wait—”

But he’s already pulling you closer, an arm slipping around your waist, the other sweeping across your desk in one rushed, careless motion—books, pens, everything clattering to the floor.

He grabs your hips and lifts you effortlessly, placing you on the desk like it’s instinct, like he’s done this a thousand times in his head.

“Zayne, stop!” you protest, voice sharp now, your palms pressed firmly against him.

And just like that, he halts—everything in him going still.

His breath is ragged, face flushed, eyes wide with a dawning realization as he looks at you—really looks.

Silence stretches between you.

Then he slowly steps back, as if waking from something he didn’t mean to fall into.

“…I’m sorry,” he says, voice low, shaken. “I shouldn’t have—”

You don’t answer right away. You’re still catching your breath, still feeling the echo of what just happened.

Because part of you is furious.

And part of you is trembling.

And somewhere, buried beneath it all, part of you wanted it.

But not like this.

Not drunk.

Not blurred.

And certainly not like something he’ll regret in the morning.

You try to steady the shaking in your voice, the racing in your chest, and force out a laugh—thin, awkward, strained.

“See?” you say, trying to make light of it, to patch over the tension like you always do. “This is exactly why you should get a girlfriend. Someone to… I don’t know, handle all that bottled-up intensity.”

But he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away.

Instead, his gaze sharpens—sober, unwavering, cutting right through your joke like it never existed.

“I don’t want one,” he says.

Simple. Final.

The room falls quiet again. The words hang in the air, heavier than you expect.

Your smile fades a little, the humor faltering on your lips. “Then what do you want?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

But his eyes never leave yours.

And that silence says more than words ever could.

“I want you,” he says quietly, each word deliberate, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

His eyes stay locked on yours as he takes a step closer.

“Only you.”

Your breath catches—completely, helplessly.

There’s no teasing in his tone, no drunken slur, no hesitation.

Just the raw, unfiltered truth of it. It lands in your chest like a drop of ink in water, spreading fast and uncontrollably.

You should say something. Anything.

But your voice is gone, swallowed by the weight of his words and the way he’s looking at you now—like you’re the only thing in the world worth reaching for.

You’d spent so long convincing yourself that he didn’t feel this. That he couldn’t.

But now?

He’s standing in front of you like he’s known all along.

And like he’s finally tired of pretending he doesn’t.

You open your mouth, stammering, grasping for something logical to say—anything to bring the air back into your lungs, to slow your racing heart.

“Zayne, you’re—this is just the alcohol talking, you don’t mean—”

But he cuts you off, his voice low and steady.

“I’m done pretending.”

The words hit you like a sudden shift in gravity.

There’s no hesitation in him now.

No trace of the usual restraint he always wore like armor. He’s standing there—bare, honest, and dangerously close.

You search his face for some sign of doubt, some crack you can cling to. But there’s nothing.

Just the truth laid out between you, heavy and real.

And your heart doesn’t know whether to run or leap.

“I don’t want this to happen just because you’re drunk,” you whisper, barely able to look at him.

It comes out softer than you mean it to—fragile, almost trembling—because beneath all the banter, beneath all the years of pretending, you’ve always been afraid of this exact moment.

Of wanting it too much and it not being real.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens—his gaze steady, clear, unwavering.

“I’m not drunk enough to forget this,” he says quietly. “And definitely not drunk enough to lie.”

You look at him, really look at him, and for the first time, you don’t see the walls he always kept between you. They’re gone. Just like that.

What’s left is him.

And the truth you’d both been trying so hard not to touch.

His hand reaches up, fingers brushing against your skin as he gently tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. His touch is careful—soft in a way that makes your chest ache.

“It’s hard to see you trying to push me away,” he says, voice low and raw. “All the time.”

Your eyes widen, guilt and surprise rushing in at once. “I just thought…”

He leans in closer, his breath warm against your lips, eyes searching yours like he’s waiting for you to see what he’s been trying to show you all along.

“No more thinking,” he murmurs.

Then he kisses you again—but this time, it’s slow.

Careful. Like he’s trying to tell you everything he couldn’t say with words.

And when he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far. His forehead rests against yours, the space between you now completely, irreversibly gone.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “about earlier.”

A pause.

“But I’m not sorry for this.”

And just like that, you close your eyes and let it all fall away—the fear, the doubt, the need to overthink every moment.

Because for once, the truth is simple.

He’s here.

He chose you.

And despite everything you tried to convince yourself, despite all the ways you kept your heart guarded—you want him too.

You exhale, slow and shaky, forehead still pressed to his, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like an anchor.

No more pretending.

No more running.

You let yourself fall—not blindly, but willingly. Into him.

Into this.

Into whatever comes next.

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