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You hated parties. They were loud, overstimulating, and there were too many strangers. So when Gideon invited you and Caleb to a party he was having you were hesitant to say the least. You thought having your boyfriend there, your emotional support Caleb, you would be fine; especially once you had a little bit of alcohol in your system. But alas, the universe has a different plan for tonight.

You're three cups of something deep, probably some vodka and a splash of juice, and glued to the side of the wall which were vibrating with how loud the music was, the hum of people yelling over the music certainly wasn't helping. Caleb was god knows where, the second you guys got to the party Gideon whisked him away to go take shots with him and some of the guys they went to college with. Your finger drums a consistent beat against your red plastic cup, your eyes scan the room for any sign of him. Sure, you could go and talk to people, mingle a bit but… Something in your stomach lurches at the thought of doing that.

You take another small sip. You pull out your phone check to the time. “You're Colonel Xia's girlfriend right?" Someone shouts to your left. He looked about the same age as Caleb. “Ah! Yeah! Yeah I am." Your voice wobbles, slightly startled. “Man, he is one lucky guy. I was assigned to his fleet shortly after he took over." The man extends his hand offering his name, that you definitely don't catch. Instead you politely smile, shaking his hand and yelling your name back over the music.

He starts going on and on about fleet stuff, with the amount of liquor in your body you really can't make heads or tails of it, you just politely nod. He wasn't a bad guy or anything, you just clearly were uncomfortable and didn't want to be there. When you feel a hand wrap around your waist, you nearly jump ten feet in the air. “Woah woah! Pips, it's me." Caleb's voice is soft in your ear. Your whole body immediately relaxes into his touch. “Oh Colonel! Good to see you off duty." The man you're talking to acknowledges his superior. “Good to see you too, if you don't mind I'm gonna steal her away for a bit." Caleb smiles at the man. You are always in awe of how charming and charismatic Caleb is naturally. He makes it look effortless.

The man nods, and Caleb grabs your wrist taking you to a free spot farther down the wall. His body blocks your view of the crowd, his cologne flooding your senses calming your nervous system down exponentially. " You okay pretty girl?” He asks, his hands cupping your cheeks intentionally making you maintain eye contact with him. Regardless you down cast your eyes. " I'm fine.” You answer, not wanting to ruin this night for him.

He rarely gets time off, let alone gets to spend it with his friends. His eyebrows furrow. " No you aren't.” He sighs, pulling you against his chest before wrapping his arms around you. " Pips, I've known you, your whole life. I know when you're lying to me.” He kisses the top of your head. " Let me ask you again. Are you okay?” He repeats gently. You shake your head no into his chest. "Not really, it's loud and I'm a little tipsy and… I'm sorry Caleb." Your eyes gloss over slightly, tears threatening to spill over.

He pulls you back a bit so he can look at you. “Aw you sweet girl, don't apologize. You've never really been big on this stuff. I'm proud of you for even tagging along with me. Even Gideon was singing praises about you being here tonight… I mean I did shove him for talking about my girlfriend like that, but semantics.” You giggle slightly.

Caleb kisses your forehead. " Do you wanna get the hell out of here?" He asks, grinning at you. “Are you sure? I know you don't get to do this often…" You mumble. He smiles, shaking his head. “I already got to hang out with Gideon for a while, besides my girlfriend is clearly overstimulated and trying to be brave for me. That's my job Pips, how dare you steal my thunder." He squeezes you slightly. You lean up kissing him gently. “Let's go home." He grabs your hand again, leading you through the sea of people out the door. “Oh also, if I see you talking to another man at a party again I won't be so kind next time, I can promise you that. " You roll your eyes, a dumb smile on your face. If you're being honest, you wouldn't have it any other way.

You can find my master list here

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Aghhh thank u for being my he a rth so Zayne !!!! I'm so in love he's so steady i want to be let in to the corners of his mind and study him like a bug T-T

This was so short and sweet and lovely. Chilly babies poor things! Zayne Fluff such a breath of fresh air thank u lovely for writing!~ im glad i finally got to reading this one :3

Love your writing! Thank you for taking requests.

I would absolutely adore fluff promp 6 with Zayne and female MC. Imaging them at maybe Dr Noah’s place in Snowcrest? Or anywhere where you prefer it :)

Thank you so much, lovely!! I'm still getting used to writing for Zayne, but I hope this is to your liking 💙 and I apologize for the long wait

Late night warmth

Zayne x female reader

Prompt: it’s freezing cold and they can’t figure out how to turn on the heat; they’ll just have to share the bed to stay warm then

Content: tooth-rotting fluff, mutual pining, cuddling

Dr. Noah’s house is quiet this late at night. Snowcrest’s frigid winds push softly against the windows, but inside, everything is still. The wooden floorboards creak as you pad down the hall, half-asleep, rubbing your arms to ward off the cold.

The thermostat near the kitchen hasn’t responded to anything you tried. Dr. Noah warned you the heating system could be stubborn this time of year, but you hadn’t expected it to be this bad.

You could go back to your room and try huddling up in the blankets. But there’s another, more tempting solution. When you glance down the dark hallway, you catch the faint glow of warm light beneath the other guest bedroom’s door. The one Zayne is staying in.

He’s still awake, it seems.

Waddling over to the door, you knock gently and whisper, “Zayne?”

A pause. Then, “Yeah.”

You crack the door open. He’s sitting upright in bed with the duvet tucked around his shoulders a bit comically and a datapad resting on his lap. The blue glow from the screen highlights the tiredness in his eyes. But there’s also a hint of amusement in them; he doesn’t look surprised to see you.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks quietly.

“Not in that room,” you say, stepping in and closing the door behind you. “It’s freezing in there.”

He hums in understanding—although you both ignore the fact that your excuse doesn’t make much sense since it’s freezing everywhere in this house.

You see him shift slightly beneath the covers, a subtle motion. As if he’s making space for you.

You glance down at the bed, then back at him. “Is your bed warm?”

He meets your eyes for a beat. To anyone else, they’d only see that calm, unreadable expression of his. But you notice the glint of playful teasing behind his wire-frame glasses.

“A little,” he says. “Blankets help.”

You stand there for another second. Then you cross the room.

Zayne doesn't say anything when you slide under the covers beside him. He just lies down beside you and adjusts the quilted duvet to tug it up over your shoulders. The bed is warmer than the one in the room you were given. Or maybe it’s your imagination.

Maybe it’s the way your skin always goes a bit too clammy whenever you’re near Zayne. And being in the same bed as him only heightens your yearning for him. The air feels thick with his calming scent—something clean yet faintly herbal like peppermint or eucalyptus.

You lie stiffly at first, trying to give him space by sticking to the extreme end of the bed. But the air beyond the blanket’s edge is cold, and you don’t want to accidentally slip out into the frosty air.

Zayne doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out, fingers grazing your wrist under the sheets. It’s the softest touch, almost uncertain. Somehow, his fingers feel even colder than the air outside. But his touch makes your skin sweat.

You turn your head toward him.

“Are you still cold?” you ask.

You expected to borrow his warmth, but instead, something about him draws the heat from you—like he needs it more than you do. For once, you want to be the warmth that eases into his chest. Maybe all the heat he makes you feel with a simple look or the graze of his fingertips can finally serve a bigger purpose.

He nods, barely perceptible in the dim light. “A bit.”

You shift, turning onto your side to face him properly. “C’mere,” you whisper, a little less confident than you want to sound.

There’s a pause. Then he inches closer, slow and deliberate, until you can feel the chill of his body against yours. Your legs brush. His hand settles lightly at your waist, no pressure behind it, like he’s testing the space between you.

You reach up and touch his cheek, brushing his hair back from his forehead. His skin is cool. But he melts under your touch—the perfect complement to how you always burn for him. You watch, enraptured, as his eyelashes flutter in what seems like bliss.

“You couldn’t sleep because of the cold either, could you?” you ask with a chuckle. “You should’ve come to my room.”

He exhales softly, something between a laugh and a hitched breath. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“You never bother me.”

Your voice is quiet, but you mean it. You’re close enough now to feel the soft rhythm of his breathing against your chest. His body gradually relaxes as the warmth spreads between you—a slow, calm settling, like snow drifting to earth.

“Thank you,” he murmurs after a moment. “For being my hearth.”

You feel his fingers tighten slightly against your side, a quiet acknowledgment of how much your presence means to him—more than just the warmth you can provide.

His words and touch fan the flames beneath your skin, and you press a light kiss to his forehead in reply. Eventually, his breathing evens out. The house is wrapped in silence again as your stoic doctor curls closer to you in his sleep.

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dividers by me (please do not repost)

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A bond everlasting

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So cute!!! So excited for cat dog caleb

"You're the one who insisted we play kitty cards after hours. Why am I the one they cursed?" Reaching up, Caleb fiddles with the tan cat ears poking from the top of his head. The twitch away from his touch, moving with a mind of their own.

"It's probably because you kept making me lose. The kitties pitied me. I guess they wanted to give me a helping hand with my revenge."

Harmless, adorable, and just inconvenient enough to annoy him. Cursing Caleb with cat ears and a tail was the universe's perfect gift of karma. You didn't even have to lift a finger.

"Pfft." Snorting, Caleb flicks his tail in your direction. The furry tip lightly grazes the underside of your nose, tickling your soft skin.

"How did I make you lose? Do you know how many times I watched you swipe an extra card out of the deck when it was my turn? Besides, those kitties only felt bad for you because they can't tell when you're crying crocodile tears."

His tail swishes back and forth in your face, tickling you all over. Out of all the ways those kitties could have punished him, this wasn't that bad. Seeing the way your eyes lit up when you first caught sight of his fluffy ears had already made it worth it. Pestering you with his tail whenever you tease him was just a small bonus.

"Hmph." After a few attempts, nearly moving faster than you can keep up with, you manage to catch Caleb's wriggling tail in both of your hands. You study the dark brown lines circling around the nub.

"Still, I wonder why the kitties made you a leopard," you muse aloud, brushing his fur. Leopards were adaptable, powerful, territorial, all traits you associate with Caleb. But there was one thing bugging you.

"Leopards don't mate for life."

"Huh?"

"Leopards don't mate for life," you repeat, clutching his tail tighter now. It's no longer trying to squirm out of your grasp, laying docile in your palms.

"Leopards only mate during heat. Then they stick to theirself until their next heat. They're solitary and never settle down." The longer you go on, the more you pout.

"So why are you a leopard, Caleb?"

"... Really? That's the thing about leopards that you singled out?" Sighing through his nose, takes your cheek between his finger and thumb. He jostles your cheek, jiggling your face affectionately.

"Just because I have a leopard print on my tail doesn't mean I would ever move on from you. I'm the same Caleb as before. Don't make weird assumptions about me like that, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

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Oh this is actually delicious. I love the confusion, the realization, the tentative internal concession that yes, he wants more of this as if the kink was ☆unlocked☆ he's perfect

Caleb & Dacryphilia

Caleb hates to see you cry. It doesn’t matter what it’s about: a sad movie, a bad day, or (Astra forbid) him. Any tears you shed are rain on his best day. Little crimes against his sanity that drip so horrifically down your perfect cheeks.

So it’s peculiar— the most odd, unfathomable thing— that your tears send the most wretched, twist in his gut. He’s got you flat on the floor, laying on your tummy and fucking you harshly from behind.

He likes fucking you sweetly. Some of his favorite nights are the ones where the two of you are silly with it. When he can make you giggle and feel the rhythm of it from inside you.

But tonight is a special night. He can still taste the tang of the lemon candy on his tongue, coupled with the twist of your slick that he’d spent far too long dining on until you begged - pleaded - with him to stop.

From one position to another. Furniture is nothing but an obstacle in his way. This is not his first choice— fucking you from behind, but god does it get you to make the most unhinged noises. Pants and whines that punch out of your hoarse throat in time with his harsh thrusts.

So, he doesn’t notice at first, when the tears start to leak from your eyes. Overstimulated, overloaded to the point that you’re weeping.

The tickle of something down his skin. Across the flesh of his left forearm that he has hooked around you neck, bending your back with in a mean headlock- a gentle, loving headlock. One where you can feel his love for you as the blood to your brain get's cut off.

He slows his ravenous thrusts, slows down to examine this bizarre feeling. Are you drooling? You've done that before, and you have whined like a some wounded animal when he'd licked it up. Anything from you is perfection, and he'd taste it happily.

Wet. His arm is wet. Little crystalline tears that leans trails down your cheeks. They curve around your face and to your jaw like a caress, and- in the most inexplicable turn of events, Caleb's hips jut forward. His mind isn't connected anymore to his body. Cock jolting, arousal spiking. Something broken inside him is feeding on the visual stimuli of your tears, and while his heart wrenches in worry, he's fucking you harder.

More. He needs to see them more.

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Intern zyane 🥹🥹

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I know it's easy to headcanon that Zayne is insanely private about his love life to the point where no one even knows he has a girlfriend

But

Canon Zayne is extremely open about his love life

To the point where almost everything he posts on social media is about MC

I could keep going but tumblr caps mobile uploads at 10

but seriously, just go through his posts. It's all about you

Man's not hiding anything

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I, unfortunately, had a thought.

I'm very sorry

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caleb is black mc coded idk

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some bunny Xavier

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Outfits/Accessories I'd put my fav LIs in:

Rafayel:

Caleb:

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Back on my edging sylus bullshit.

Sylus is not a weak man.

He's sat through agonizing interrogations without breaking a sweat, survived eons of pain and misery without crumbling, broken his own bones out of pure spite in order to survive.

Anyone who knows him knows that there simply no breaking the leader of Onychinus.

Well, that changes tonight.

You're behind him, his back to your soft, supple chest as you reach around him, leisurely stroking his length.

The first few minutes were easy, his breathing had barely even changed as your hand moved up and down his shaft. He'd even taunted you.

"I'm getting bored, sweetie. Surely you can do better than this, hm?"

But now you were almost two hours in, and his resolve was crumbling.

"Sweetie- hah—" His eyes squeezed shut as his peak was ripped away from him once more. Droplets of sweat rolling down his flushed chest as he heaved, hands fisting into the sheets so tight he feared the silk might rip.

"Breathe, Sy. You're doing so good." You crooned against his ear, making his entire body shudder as a choked whine escaped him. You let out a soft laugh, squeezing the base of his swollen, needy prick. His hips bucking up into your touch to chase the friction.

That's the thing, you were breaking him, but you were doing it so fucking sweetly that he wanted more, he wanted more of your sweet praises, more of your sweet kisses, more of your sweet touches.

Sweet sweet sweet sweet-

"Sweet mother of god-!" He hissed, damn near whining as your hand started moving again, the friction making his sensitive cock feel like it was on fire.

"Ffffuck- fuck, oh my fucking god, baby-!"

He threw his head back against your shoulder, no longer having the energy to muffle his sounds as breathy pants and needy moans escaped him. His legs shaking violently as the knot in his lower stomach continued to build and build-

"Shit, shit, fuck, baby please let me cum- I just wanna cum-!"

He didn't care how whiney he sounded, he couldn't. Not when you were looking down at him with that sexy fucking smile like you just won the damn lottery.

"Hmm, I dunno." You hummed thoughtfully, like you weren't being so fucking cruel by edging him like this. "I don't really think you've earned it." You grinned evilly.

"No- no, baby cmon, I'll buy you anything you w-want- o-oh God. M-make your favorite every night, let you ride my cock till I cry just– fuck!"

His attempts at negation were cut off when you pressed your thumb against his slit, a sharp keen escaping him as his head fell back, eyes rolling back in his skull at the delicious pressure.

Sylus bit his lip, hoping to muffle the outright pathetic whimpers and moans escaping as he looked up at you with large, glossy eyes.

"I'll let you cum," You started, which was almost enough to make him finish right there. "But only if you keep your eyes on me, okay? No looking away."

He cheeks flushed, but he nodded regardless, breath coming out shakily as you started moving your hand again. Slowly at first, then gradually speeding up as he got more and more desperate.

Despite how badly he wanted to screw his eyes shut and bask in the feeling of your hands on him, he kept his eyes locked on yours, even when your free hand began to tug and pinch his poor, sensitive chest.

His eyes became glazzier and glazzier, his mouth falling open as his body started to tremble.

"C-close-" He managed to rasp out, your touch wiping his usually brilliant mind of any coherent thought.

"Mm, good boy.." you purred, nuzzling your nose against his and tugging at his lower lip with your teeth, the action threatening to make his eyes roll back.

Those simple words and the soft, adoring look in your eyes pushed him over. His mouth opening but no sound coming out as his body trembled violently through his orgasm, eyes completely glazing over as you milked his poor cock dry.

After several long, agonizingly pleasurable seconds, he went boneless in your hold, gasping like he'd just run a marathon, entire body wrecked and shaking.

Yes, there was no breaking Sylus.

At least until now.

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Human Mephisto?

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I wonder if Zayne continuously ices his toothaches instead of going to the dentist to get them treated because he just doesn't like admitting he needs help with his health

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The cat boys!!! Does this mean they're coming back? 🥺🥺 Infold please I miss the cat boys chibis

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Dr’s Orders 18+

⋆⁺₊❅。

You (f reader) are ovulating, but you can't bring yourself to request what you really need… Dr. Zayne has a treatment plan for that... luckily! ● ≈4,025 words ughggh ● probably needs proofreading ● adult!!! ● mdni!!!

Tags and cw: ovulation!: the plot device, zayne, dr zayne cures you of your horny disease kinda, piv, oral (f receiving), mostly sex no plot, in the hospital of all places!, creampie, multiple rounds, fingering, established relationship implied, self indulgent smut— you know the drill

a/n: this SUCKED to write omg omg im freee you can probably tell my sauce was running out... this mostly SUCKED to write bc I am on my period a week and a half early (???) & I have 1 endometriosis (,: this is also my first time writing zayne which i hope gets better bc he's my pretty lil baby, I need him [redacted].

Go bunnie.

▪︎ next up:

☆caleb's very late birthday fic

☆extended leave pt six

☆hubby!zayne drabble

vibrator series pt 3 and pt 4

⋆⁺₊❅。

⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。

Zayne isn’t blind.

He sees the way your legs cross tighter than usual, the way your hand lingers too long on the hem of your sleeve, picking at threads like you're trying not to crawl out of your skin.

You’d stared at the closed door to his office ten times today. Every time you almost knocked, your throat had closed up. Your fingers fiddle with the edge of your sleeve again, tugging it just a little too hard until it bunches in your palm. The scent of antiseptic clings to the air, mixing with your own faint perfume, and it makes your stomach twist like a knot you can’t undo.

You'll just sit in his office and wait for him to get off as always.

And... when you see him, you're all off.

Zayne however… he knows exactly what day it is. Five days post-period. Right on schedule. He does the math in his head because, well, of course he does. He’s a surgeon. He keeps track of things.

He doesn’t mention it, not aloud. He just watches you try to wrestle yourself into stillness like you're trying to outwit your own body. He can feel it in the air—how needy you are, how tightly wound. You think you're subtle, but Zayne knows tension better than most. He lives in it and operates through it. And you're practically vibrating with it. The sterile, slightly cold office smells faintly of antiseptic and leather. Outside, the dull hum of hospital noises lingers beyond the closed door.

You won’t ask him. Not directly. Maybe you think you’re being polite. Maybe you're afraid he’ll be embarrassed. But he’s not the one squirming in a rolling chair in his office, trying to fight biology and failing.

Still, you don’t ask. You want to ask, but your voice feels small, unsure. You’ve always tried not to be a bother, this relationship is only recently sexual... but now, not asking feels like self-denial. But you can't.

So he shifts his strategy. If you won't ask him, shouldn't he ask you for a favor? That'd work wouldn't it?

He’s quiet for too long. Not in the usual way. In the way that makes your stomach twist. He’s calculating something, staring at your lips like they hold some equation he hasn’t quite solved. You feel it before he speaks—something shifting in him. Something about to snap loose? He flushes as he turns to you, words falling out like dominos.

“I need to finger you.”

His words hang in the air, clinical but sudden... like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. His jaw's tightening briefly, a twitch of the muscle betraying the calm he’s trying to maintain. His eyes flicker down to your lips like he’s memorizing their shape… a calculation paused mid-equation.

You blink. “What?”

Your heart hammers a little faster. You want to protest, but your throat feels dry and thick, and your body answers before your brain can catch up. There's heat pooling low and insistent.

Zayne clears his throat lightly, deadpan as ever. “Desperately. I'm, ah—struggling. It’s been difficult to focus. All I can think about is the sound you make when you come. So.” He tilts his head slightly. “This is for medical reasons. Mine. Urgent.”

You're trying to make sense of this, he's usually so much more put together than this… you're so horny you don't want to deny him but… You’ve never heard him stumble like this—not even when talking you through surgical risks or listing medications. Zayne is precision incarnate. So when his voice falters, it knocks the air out of you.

“I mean… if you want, I could give you—”

“No.” He cuts you off, eyes narrowing slightly. The room seems to shrink around you. The hum of the fluorescent light overhead blurs into a steady drone as your pulse hammers in your ears. His steady gaze pins you in place, and your breath catches.

“I’m not joking. The only thing that's going to help me is your thighs on my shoulders and my fingers inside you. Repeatedly. I need to make you come, and I need to taste you while I do it. That’s the only thing that’s going to help.”

You stare at him, throat dry. “You... need... that.”

“Yes,” he says, perfectly serious. “Badly. Like, clinically.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“You’re—” you try to say something clever, but it falls flat against the heat surging in your gut.

“I’m what?” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Depraved? Professional? Pathetic?”

You whisper, “Perfect.”

Zayne exhales once through his nose, the closest he gets to smiling when he’s trying not to lose composure. There’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth, and his hand comes up—Hesitant and precise, it brushes your cheek.

“So it’s alright, then?” he says, voice softer now. “If I... lose control. Just a little… With you...”

You nod before he even finishes the sentence.

And just like that, your quiet, unbearable need—masked in silence and polite restraint—crashes into his own. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—pain, longing, something deeper. For a moment, neither of you move. Then, slow and deliberate, his fingers curl around your wrist, pulling you closer. The sharp tang of antiseptic mingles with the warm, powdery scent of his cologne, a strange but intoxicating combination that makes your breath hitch.

His lips press into yours soft and patient, and with the easy state you're in, you're already letting out a soft whimper when he kisses you with such gentleness... touches you with such wanting. You're caving into him as he pulls back, begging silently for more of his lips and the powdery scent of his cologne.

He sinks to his knees, not because you asked, but because he did. Thank God.

You’re still blinking down at him, standing with your breath shallowed, as if waiting for him to laugh and walk out. But he doesn’t. He just reaches—fingers confident, deliberate—and taps once against your knee.

“Up,” he says softly. “Come on. Be good for me. Legs over the exam table.”

You obey because you always do. But also because the way he looks at you—precise, studied, patient—makes disobedience feel impossible. Punishable, even. You scoot back on the padded surface, letting your legs fall apart, and you swear his pupils dilate just slightly.

The paper beneath your thighs crinkles loudly—embarrassingly—like it dislikes what you’re doing. The scent of antiseptic cuts through the heat in your blood. Even your shirt feels too tight, too rough. The overhead lights hum, too bright, too sterile. You feel exposed and examined. Everything feels like too much… except him.

He hums. It’s not amusement, not quite. It’s approval.

“Perfect positioning. Should’ve let me do this days ago. You’re—” He clicks his tongue once. “Edging into clinical negligence, keeping me from a treatment this vital.”

His hands are warm. Sterile. Methodical. He touches you like he’s mapping nerve endings. His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, spreading you further. He studies you like you’re a case study, a problem he already knows how to solve but enjoys solving again anyway.

You're shaking. “And this… is... for you?” You mutter, a whisper of disbelief mixed with pleasure.

“Yes. Yes, and I want you to know,” he murmurs as he leans in, “that I’m not improvising. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Thoroughly.”

Then he licks. Just once—slow, flat-tongued, exploratory. You jerk. He doesn’t flinch. Just shifts closer.

“Mhm,” he murmurs clinically, like he’s tasting for acidity in a dish. “As suspected.”

Another swipe. This time more pressure, more purpose. His hands keep you open, one sliding up to rest gently over your abdomen, steadying you. He moans low in his throat—not theatrical, not showy. A slip of sound, as if he forgot he could be heard.

“You’re already so sensitive,” he mutters, kissing you now, more deliberately. “This’ll take a while. Let me work. I will get everything I need from you soon enough.”

His tongue moves in slow, studied patterns. Up. Down. Spiral. Pause. A flick. A suck. He’s collecting data—what makes you twitch, what makes you sigh, what makes you gasp and grab at the table’s edges. Every time you make a sound, he shifts technique slightly. Filing it away. Adjusting. Repeating.

He doesn’t speak much. When he does, it’s all under his breath—clinical, praising, a little condescending, always devoted.

“There you go. That’s it.”

“More of that, Yes?”

“Don’t hold your breath so much. Let it happen.”

When you finally whimper out a guttural, cracked open sound, he looks up. His lips and chin glisten as he simply says, “Good. That’s one.”

As if you’re just getting started. (Because you are.) He doesn’t let up. Not even close.

He pushes in slow, deliberate. Controlled. Like he’s watching a monitor for vitals, measuring every reaction, every tremor in your body.

You gasp, nails curling against the padded table. He groans softly—a man adjusting to pressure, to heat, to you.

“God,” you whisper, already clenching. “I needed this. I—fuck, Zayne, I needed this so bad—”

“I can tell,” he murmurs, calm as ever, even as his hips settle flush against yours. “Should’ve said something sooner.”

You moan, full of frustration and want and something dangerously close to tears.

“I couldn’t. I didn’t wanna be—” You break off, panting. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

He stills inside you. Eyes sharp. Lips parted. And then he exhales—long and quiet, like he’s biting back some deeper emotion. Maybe regret. Maybe guilt.

“You’re not a bother,” he says, low. “You never are.”

His hips roll just slightly, testing, coaxing, sending heat racing up your spine.

“If anything...” His hand slides up your side, over your ribs, soothing, grounding. “I should’ve made time for this earlier. This…” he thrusts a little deeper, “...this seems like an urgent need.”

You whimper under him. “Zayne, I—fuck, I want—”

“What do you want?”

Your face burns. Your voice shakes. But you can’t keep it in anymore.

“I want you… you to breed me... please.”

The silence after is thick.

He’s still.

Something unravels in his expression then. It’s not just arousal—it’s longing. A wish he hadn’t let himself form until you gave it voice, like he almost wants your regret. But he nods, like that need—raw, hormonal, messy—isn’t foreign to him. Like it’s the same one clawing up his own spine.

Then, slowly—gently—he fucks into you harder. Once. Twice.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “That’s what this is about...”

You’re babbling now, eyes glassy, breath hitching.

“I—I want it. I want to feel full, I want you to come inside, I want to know it’s yours—even if it’s stupid, even if it’s just my body wanting—I don’t care, I need it, please—”

Zayne brushes a hand over your cheek, thumb catching your tears before they can fall.

“It’s not stupid.”

His voice is calm. Assured. Loving in a way that makes your chest ache.

“You’re ovulating. Your hormones are spiking. Your body’s wired for this. And you’re safe with me.”

He leans over you, mouth brushing your ear.

“Anything you ever need,” he murmurs, voice rough now, strained with emotion and restraint, “you can ask me for it. Anything.”

He pulls almost all the way out, then pushes in deep—slow, worshipping.

“Especially this.”

You cry out for him again, voice cracking, and he just keeps moving, steady and full, fucking you like it’s a promise. His body warm, his voice steady, his heart loud in your ear.

“You feel so good… you wanna be bred, my love?” he whispers. “I’ll give you everything. Fill you up so deep your body won’t know anything else but mine. I like being the only one… who can fix this… problem for you.”

That's spins you undone, and when you come again—hard, sobbing his name, clenching around him like your body’s trying to keep him inside—he follows: gasping once, then going silent as he spills into you, deep and long, trembling.

Helping.

Fixing the problem.

He stays inside you for a while. Long enough that the tremble in your thighs evens out, that the ache in your belly softens from frantic to full. His hand is on your hip, steady, his breath slowing against your neck. You feel him soften inside you, but he doesn’t move to pull out, he just wraps his hand around your thigh, thumb tracing light circles. It’s as if he is still measuring your pulse through your skin.

You’re dazed. Fucked open and flushed and barely remembering where you are. He presses a kiss just below your ear. Quiet and close.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, one hand stroking your thigh like he’s grounding both of you. “Let me know if you’re dizzy. I got you.”

You nod, finally feeling like you can think with more than that warm beat between your thighs.

“…Fixed it,” he murmurs after a moment.

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “That was your treatment plan?”

“Highly effective,” he says, deadpan. “Minimal side effects. Patient satisfaction… presumed high.”

You hum and blink up at him, lips still parted. He’s looking at you, really looking, and not in the way doctors are trained to. There’s nothing detached about it now.

Then, with that surgeon’s steadiness, he pulls out slowly—so careful it makes you ache all over again—and reaches for the drawer on the wall behind you. Pulls out a warm towel like this is just another cleanup post-op.

You twitch when he touches you. Sensitive. Spent. He murmurs a soft apology, even as his hands stay precise, wiping you clean with unhurried tenderness.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you whisper.

He glances at you. “You didn’t ask. So I had to improvise.”

You smile faintly. “You’re not mad I didn’t say anything?”

He tosses the towel aside. “I’m not mad.”

Then, more softly:

“However…I just wish you trusted me to help you. Even with this. Especially with this.”

His hand brushes your thigh again, this time more to comfort than assess. “You never have to handle it alone.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly thick.

“I didn’t know how,” you say.

“I’ll teach you,” Zayne murmurs. “Next time, say what you need. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you. Maybe not of everything but… what I can.”

You nod, quiet.

Then he leans in again, pressing a final kiss to your collarbone. A prescription written into the touch of your skin.

And beneath it all, his voice—calm, knowing, clinical as ever:

“This appointment is incomplete, but before I continue, let's plan? Follow-up appointment… same time next cycle?”

He’s hardening again, the heat of him pressing against you, but his lips stay impossibly soft where they meet your skin. His fingers glide over you with such careful tenderness it almost aches, like he’s afraid to break something fragile inside you. His breath stutters in his throat, and when he finally looks up at you, his eyes are full of something quiet, something desperate.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice low and steady, his fingers curling around yours as if to anchor your body to him.

You swallow, heart pounding in your chest, the moment making your voice shaky. “Please… don’t stop. Not yet. Let me have this—let me have you—while you’re here, before you go back to work... before the surgeries take you away again.”

He nods slowly, swallowing hard, as if hearing that pulls something out of him. You’re full of his cum, in his office, and yet still... you want more.

“I want to care for you,” he says softly, almost like a prayer. “Let me take care of you—let me make you feel okay…”

Your breath catches, your eyes stinging. There's something in his voice—something soft, like you're worshipped. It undoes you. You nod, too overcome to speak, and he leans in to kiss you again, slower this time. A worshipful kind of kiss, one that tells you that he means it. All of it.

His hand slides between your legs, gentle, deliberate. He murmurs something you don’t catch against your cheek, and then his fingers are inside you—slow, coaxing, curling just right—and the stretch pulls a gasp from your throat.

“You’re still so wet,” he whispers, half in awe. “Still so full of my seed… and you want more?”

You whimper, your head tipping back against the couch. The way he touches you now feels different—like it’s not just about pleasure anymore, but about memory. Preservation.

“I don’t wanna forget how you feel,” he says, thumb brushing over your clit in slow, hypnotic circles. Your hips twitch under his hand, overwhelmed by the desire he builds in you. It's all too much—his voice, his touch, the heat of his body wrapped around yours—but you don’t want him to stop. God, you never want him to stop.

“I won’t let you,” you breathe. “I’ll remember for both of us.”

His mouth is on you again, but not your lips this time—his head drops lower, kissing a trail down your sternum, your stomach, until he’s kneeling between your legs.

“I want to taste you,” he says, voice rough with need. “Let me show you how good you are. How much I want you…You're doing me a favor really…”

He slips his fingers deeper, slow, deliberate, curling gently as he watches your breath hitch. You’re trembling under his touch, the way you’re spread out like a secret made just for him. His mouth moves close, breath hot against your skin.

“You’re the softest, sweetest flower,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with something between awe and need. “And I’m the luckiest man, right here, right now.”

His fingers flex inside you, teasing the spots that make you catch your breath and squeeze your thighs tight. Even after he’s already filled you once, the way he strokes and presses—there’s no doubt his desire is just as alive as yours, hungry and aching. He’s hard beneath you, the heat pressing close as he lets you feel it, a teasing promise of everything he wants.

“I told you it was for me,” he breathes, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “But really... this? It’s for both of us.” His hips shift, grinding slowly against you, the movement sending a new wave of fire through your body.

He leans down, mouth tracing a slow, burning path from your collarbone to your shoulder, lips parting just to whisper, “You make me need you. God, you make me need you so bad.”

His hands tighten around your hips as he pulls you just a little closer, filling the space between you with a quiet, fierce hunger. His fingers don’t stop, circling, curling, coaxing your body to respond again and again.

“Keep still for me,” he commands softly, voice rough like he’s holding back something fierce. “You’re mine right now. Every sigh, every shiver... it’s mine to take… I will be… your medicine…”

You’re gasping by the time he lowers his head again, mouth capturing yours in a deep, consuming kiss, and the taste of him—wanting, claiming—makes you lose the last grip you had on control.

His body is all fire and weight pressing down on you, filling the spaces inside you you didn’t even know were empty until now.

“More,” he whispers between kisses. “Always more.”

And you’re his, completely. The ache inside you answered at last.

His rhythm builds, fingers still buried deep while his other hand cradles your face—thumb brushing slow circles across your cheek, grounding you in the chaos he’s coaxing from your body. Every stroke inside you is purposeful, practiced, but full of reverence, like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out.

“Look at me,” he says, not quite a whisper, not quite a command. Just enough to send heat licking down your spine. “I want to see you when you come undone.”

And you do—eyes wide and glassy, lashes fluttering as your breath stutters. The sight of you like this makes him groan, low and hoarse, hips jerking just slightly, betraying how close he is to the edge too, even though he hasn’t taken you fully again yet.

His fingers still, just enough to make you whimper. He presses a kiss to your jaw, then your mouth, as if that could quiet the ache.

“I could live here,” he murmurs into your lips. “Right here, inside you, around you... forever.”

Then he shifts, slow and careful, pulling his fingers free with a wet sound that makes your whole body tighten. He holds your gaze as he brings those same fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them with a filthy sort of tenderness, eyes half-lidded, like tasting you is sacred.

“You, my dear, officially drive me undeniably insane,” he says, voice wrecked with want. “And I don’t wanna be sane again. Not so soon...”

When he finally sinks into you, it’s with a desperate groan that breaks right through you—thick and deep, every inch stretching you open like a promise. The burn is beautiful, the pressure perfect, and your body arches to meet him like it was made to.

He doesn’t rush. He moves—slow, rolling thrusts that keep you trembling, pinned under him and worshiped at once. His forehead presses to yours, sweat-slick and trembling, and for a moment he just stays there—buried inside you, eyes fluttering shut as your pulse thrums between you.

“You feel like heaven,” he breathes, and then again, “Mine.” Like he needs you to hear it more than once.

And when he starts to move in earnest, it’s with the kind of slow devastation that leaves nothing untouched. Every stroke drags a sound from your throat, every grind of his hips makes your legs shake. He’s whispering again, praise and filth mixing on his tongue:

“So tight for me. So fucking good, after this you'll learn to ask, okay? I could stay like this all night. Just you. Just us. I'll spend every break just like this, or with a mind filled with it.”

And maybe that’s exactly what you want too—him, again and again, until the world fades and all that’s left is the rhythm of his body in yours and the fire he keeps stoking, endless and aching.

He moves again, deeper this time, more sure. Not fast—not yet. But he rocks into you with the patience of a man obsessed with detail, addicted to the small shifts of your body around him, attuned to every gasp and flutter.

Your eyes roll back as you clench down, and he groans—sharp and breathless, the only crack in his otherwise impenetrable restraint.

“Fuck—tight,” he mutters, head bowing slightly. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me feel it. That’s what I need.”

There’s nothing clinical in his voice now. It’s reverent. Hungry.

His hands are everywhere—on your hip, your thigh, pressed over your chest like he wants to memorize the stutter of your heart. You’ve never seen him like this—undone and focused, devoted. Not just having sex with you, but learning you, like you’re anatomy he wants to master, muscle and nerve and heat.

Your orgasm builds again—second? third? You’ve lost count—rising fast like a tidal wave you can’t hold back.

Zayne notices. Of course he does.

“You’re close.” It’s not a question. “Let it happen. You’re safe. You’re good. You’re mine to take care of.”

That breaks you.

You cry out, raw and sharp, body arching under him as you fall apart with a helpless sob. He takes all of it—every pulse and tremor—and doesn’t stop moving, like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

He presses his forehead to yours as you shake, still holding you, still inside.

You barely have breath to whisper it: “You really needed this?”

He laughs softly—warm, breathless, wrecked. “No... yes but,” he kisses your knuckles as he admits. “But you did.”

He kisses you—slow, deep, filled with a sweetness that makes your chest ache.

Then he adds, quiet and unshakable: “But I wanted to be the one who gave it to you.”

You blink up at him, throat tight.

“Was that... alright with you?” he asks softly. “Dr’s orders... and all.”

You smile, dazed. “Might need a follow-up appointment.”

His smirk—barely there, tired, pleased—makes your heart flutter.

“I’ll clear my schedule.” ⋆⁺₊❅。

MASTERLIST WITH ALL MY FICS

🐇my bunnies: ((comment or reblog with a 🐇 emoji to get added to the taglist for everything I write)): @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple

☃️snowflakes: ((just comment or reblog with a ☃️ emoji of you only want the Zayne fics only taglist)):

[deepspacebunnieblue]

This is so scrumptious oh my lord. He *is* just like this i fear

note: maybe i’ll format this later, but @asiatic-apple did this to me, so….I HAVE TO GET IT OUT!!!! i complained about how hot it was today and…JUST LOOK WHAT SHE SAID!!!! how could i ever be normal about this?!?!?! THIS IS WITH CHUBBY READER IN MIND, TOO!!!!!!!! so yes, this is quick, maybe sloppy, likely bad, and not proofread. BUT I DON’T CARE!!!!

you were sweating. everywhere.

and no amount of taking off another article of clothing was going to fix the discomfort as you sat on the couch and tried your best not to make any unnecessary movements.

it would be your luck that the damn ac conked out in the middle of the night yesterday. and you wouldn’t have anything be repaired until tomorrow.

how were you going to survive?

you’ve never perspired this much in your life. your boyfriend on the other hand? he somehow thought your suffering was hilarious despite his white tank top that clung to his skin from all the sweating he was doing himself. he broke out into a laughing fit after he got off the phone with your unreliable landlord to see you sitting in complete silence in the living room—not a phone in hand, tv off—not understanding how much your mind was begging for a smidgen of breeze to have mercy on you and just come through the window.

“you’re making me hotter,” you whisper like this is the end.

he’s laughing so hard that it makes you want to smile, but that requires effort. and effort makes your skin secrete one of the things you hate most.

“pips, baby, i know it’s hot. but c’monnnn. where’s that smile i love?”

“gone.”

“you want me to make it all better?” he pouts playfully. you know what his freaky ass means and if you weren’t feeling so sticky, you would’ve jumped on him already.

“caleb…” you warn. “do not come near me. it’s too damn hot.”

“that’s what makes it better, don’t you think?”

slowly you turn your head to see him with a raised and amused eyebrow. “my under boob and all my creases are sweating. none of this is enjoyable.”

“hm.” he bites his lower lip and tilts his head slightly to the right. “can i see? you know, just to make sure.”

“you—” he just looks at you like he hasn’t said anything ridiculous. “oh you’re nasty.”

“i’m confused. do you not know how good you look right now?”

“babe, your hair is literally sticking to your forehead. i don’t even know how you have the energy to even think sex right now.”

his eyes trail down your tits and his cock stirs at the sight of your nipples straining agains your light blue tank top. the moment he licks his lips, your eyes narrow. you know this man too well to not know what he’s contemplating.

“if you were looking at what i was looking at, you’d have the energy to do a lot.”

“stop…” you chuckle at first, but then when he peels his shirt off, your eyes widen. you can see his dick twitch in his boxers and while it immediately makes you wet, the thought of trying to cool down after the fact is far too dreadful. but fuck…he was hot. (get it.)

“caleb, at least let me shower! wait—!”

he’s down on his knees so fast with your legs spread wide that you can’t even figure out how he did it. he’s like an animal, pressing his nose deep into your pussy that’s unfortunately covered by your shorts.

he can see the outline of your sweat, can smell the natural scent that is you, and it’s driving him insane.

he quickly tugs your shorts down, pressing his face back into your panties and letting his perfect nose get snuggled by the warm embrace of your pussy lips.

“c—caleb! stop, that’s—shit…mm…” you whimper. you come back to your senses as best as you can. “please just let me shower!”

but you don’t try too hard to push him back, though. not when he starts licking on the sticky skin of your inner thighs.

“you want me to stop?” he teases, licking a stripe down the middle.

“you want to wash away this perfection?” he takes a deep inhale between your legs, gripping your thighs tightly. “i don’t think so, pips. you taste too good for this to go to waste.”

he savors everything and he’s never been so ready to fuck you. your hand tangles in his damp strands while your hips buck when he bites you like he’s ready to take a chunk.

“let me take you to bed,” her coos, standing and bending down enough to lick the sweat that falls down the side of your neck.

“we’re already filthy. let me cool you off after, yeah?”

like the man starved that he is, he swipes you off the couch and carries you to the bedroom. he hungrily kisses your lips as you wrap your legs around him, your body burning when you feel his dick press into you.

“i’ll take care of us. i promise.”