#and teasing and banter

[starcurtain]

More Phaidei Fics I Want to Read

1. Obligatory "fish out of water" fic (mostly AU because the timeline would probably not match canon, but we do what we want here!), taking place after Mydei and the Kremnoans first make it to Okhema. Okhema is already harsh on outsiders, let alone on a conquering "barbarian" tribe infamous for bringing strife to so many other city states. Mydei doesn't know the local customs at all, and while he doesn't care the slightest about how these pathetic Okhemans see him, the trouble he keeps getting into is affecting the reputations of innocent Kremnoans too. He's got to find a way to blend in, at least enough to stop costing his fellows any chance of finding paid work... Too bad the only person who is willing (and has time) to help is Phainon (who isn't native to Okhema either but done a much better job of learning to get along with the locals). The guy thinks he's the Titans' gift to Amphoreus just because he beat Mydei in a duel once. It was only once! And why does it matter whether we eat standing up or lying down? What are you laughing at, Savior Complex?! Or, tl;dr: The culture clash comedy one where Phainon and Mydei teach each other entirely opposing sets of manners, and come to learn a lot more about one another in the process.

2. Also obligatory omegaverse where Mydei is an omega born with a unique constitution: he's built like an alpha, snarls like an alpha, and dominates his opponents like an alpha. He even smells like an alpha, especially when he's in heat, so the only people who ever figured out his secondary gender were his doctor and his parents, all of whom are dead now. The whole world thinks Mydei is an alpha, and his reputation as an indomitable warrior prince pretty much hinges on people continuing to believe that. The problem is, Mydei wouldn't actually mind getting to live an omega's life, at least the part about finding a mate and starting a family. Only, who in the world would want him for a mate? Any alpha hunting for an actual omega would never think to look in Mydei's direction, betas would just be confused, and even those few alphas who are attracted to other alphas would only end up disappointed after discovering Mydei isn't one. He's nobody's ideal partner, and he'd mostly made peace with that--until Phainon. Until that upstart alpha from the middle of nowhere knocked Mydei down in a brutal spar and then pulled him up with the gentlest hand, and suddenly it mattered that no one would ever want Mydei. It mattered a lot. (Of course, the long and short of it is that Mydei is the man of Phainon's dreams, and after a series of setbacks and miscommunications and lots of silly angst, they'll find their way to a happy ending.)

3. After discovering Mydei's weakness for sweets and cute things like pink pomegranate juice, Phainon decides to engage in a bit of light-hearted teasing: He starts sending Mydei exceedingly adorable gifts and fancy candies under the guise of a "secret admirer." The joke is on Phainon, however, when it turns out Mydei finds the gifts quite charming and is determined to discover the identity of the mysterious gift giver. A reasonable person would quickly give up on the joke to avoid getting caught, but Phainon has always been weak to chasing thrills--and maybe this whole thing about being Mydei's "secret admirer" isn't too far off after all... (The real joke is that Mydei, realizing immediately who the gifts were from, invented an entire "hunting my admirer down" story just for the fun of watching Phainon squirm--and, well, because keeping the whole thing going, being showered with attention by his rival, doesn't feel too bad at all.)

4. The opposite fic: The one where Mydei's completely mismatched online personality accidentally catfishes Phainon and causes some very silly drama. Mydei's (anonymous) teletweet account is full of cutesy chimera kitten memes, aesthetic pictures of food, heart emojis, and overly punctuated (with exclamation points) recaps of shopping trips in Okhema's market... Can anyone blame Phainon for thinking this is the account of a cute girl who is refreshingly earnest about her love for chubby seals and pink milk tea? But as Phainon becomes closer and closer to "Fig Stew" online, things get more and more complicated--because he's also been getting closer and closer to his real world companion Mydeimos lately. Both Fig and Mydei are wonderful, and Phainon can barely bear the thought of losing either of them in his life. Trying to get closer to them both would be way too dishonest, but choosing one over the other... What should he do? Meanwhile, Mydei is in trouble. He wasn't planning to set up some secret identity or anything; it's not his fault Phainon mistook him for a girl online! There's nothing weird about dudes posting sparkling kitten gifs, godsdammit!! But now the charade's gone on way too long to come clean, especially since Phainon seems so invested, and... well, can you blame Mydei for not wanting to give up on the closest thing to a relationship he's ever managed to start? tl;dr: Online mistaken identity hijinks fic.

5. The required-in-every-fandom time travel fic (with bonus fake dating)! Through an outpouring of Oronyx's power, Mydei and Phainon end up in the bodies of their future selves, who, it turns out, have not only managed to end Amphoreus' war and revive Castrum Kremnos, but... appear to have also... gotten married?!! Now Mydei and Phainon have to not only find out exactly how their future selves managed to save the world (so they can accomplish the same task) then look for a way back to their own time--they've got to do all of that while also pretending to be a happily wedded pair of rulers to avoid raising everyone's suspicions. This would be a whole lot easier if either of them knew the first thing about being actual kings... or about relationships. The slightest slip up could create ripple effects that change the entire timeline permanently, but--no matter how nerve-wracking it might be to admit, after seeing the future in store for them together--there's nothing Phainon (and Mydei) won't do to make sure things go exactly as they should.

[killerplink]

MELTDOWN

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Plot: A rare sunny day in Gotham, the perfect excuse to lounge around and pick out a book. But with Jason Todd as your man? Yeah, reading was never really in the cards.

The AC hums in the background, cool air washing over your skin, but the heat outside is thick, the kind that clings to your body even indoors. It's rare to get a day this sunny, so you're making the most of it, already daydreaming about curling up in your favorite spot by the window with a book.

Jason, on the other hand, is trying to watch TV. Trying being the keyword.

Because there you are, standing in front of the bookshelf, back to him, wearing the shortest fucking shorts he's ever seen. And you, completely oblivious to the effect you're having on him, are bent over just slightly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you skim through the titles.

You don't even notice how you wiggle your ass when you move, how the fabric of your little shorts rides up with every shift. His eyes track every motion, his fingers twitching against his thigh. He should look away, should focus on the screen, but how the fuck is he supposed to do that when you're standing there looking like that?

You hum softly, fingers trailing along the spines of your books, lost in your own little world. The sunlight streams through the window, catching the smooth line of your legs, the soft curves of your thighs, and Jason's mouth goes dry.

You reach a little higher, stretching, standing on your tiptoes, and the bottom of your shorts rides up more, revealing the curve of your ass, just barely peeking out. Jason groans, low and deep in his chest, shifting on the couch.

He knows you're not doing it on purpose. You're not teasing him, not intentionally torturing him, but that somehow makes it worse. You're just existing, just being, completely unaware of how easy it is to drive him fucking crazy.

His dick throbs in his sweats, already hard, already aching, and he grits his teeth.

You finally find the book you were looking for, pulling it from the shelf with a pleased little noise, completely unaware of the way Jason is sitting behind you, fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes dark and hungry, dick hard and throbbing.

And then you move again, wiggling your hips just slightly as you straighten up, and he inhales sharply through his nose. He leans back against the couch, spreading his legs a little, voice low and lazy when he finally calls you over.

"C'mere, doll."

You blink, looking up from your book, and when you turn, he's already watching you. His eyes are darker than before, hooded, and there's something about the way he's sitting���his arms draped over the back of the couch, his legs spread wide—that makes your stomach flutter.

You don't think much of it when you walk over, don't even question it when his hands grip your waist and pull. But instead of landing in his lap like you expect, you land on his thigh, the firm muscle pressing right between your legs.

You giggle, adjusting yourself, setting your book down next to him on the couch before wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Was that on purpose?" you tease.

His hands slide down, gripping your ass, squeezing firmly, pulling you closer. "What do you think?"

And then his mouth is on yours. The kiss is slow at first, but deep, his tongue sliding against yours, teasing, coaxing. He kisses like he fucks—dominant, unrelenting, thorough, and you love it. His fingers flex against your ass as he tilts his head, kissing you deeper, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he's trying to devour you.

A little moan slips from your lips, swallowed up by his mouth, but he hears it. Knows exactly what it means. Knows how easily you fall apart for him, how just kissing him makes you wet. You break the kiss with a breathless little gasp, flustered, and as you try to steady yourself, you accidentally shift, grinding against his thigh.

God. The thick muscle beneath you is so firm, so solid. The fabric of his sweats is a bit rough against your soft little shorts, and it's... good. Jason watches as your breath stutters, as your lashes flutter, as your fingers curl a little tighter into his shoulders.

He knows. His lips curl, his hands gripping your waist as he starts to move you, guiding you back and forth.

"Feel good, baby?"

Your face burns, and you know he can see it—how you're blushing, how flustered you are. You've done plenty of filthy shit with Jason, tried all sorts of things, but this? You've never tried this before. You never even thought about trying this before. And now you don't even understand why because it feels amazing.

His hands keep moving you, dragging you against the hard muscle of his thigh, setting a rhythm. It's effortless for him, his strength making you feel weightless as he rocks you against him, your clit pressing right against the firm muscle every time he pulls you forward. Your arousal already soaks through your panties, the thin lace already damp, and each grind leaves a little wet spot behind, darkening his sweats.

Jason groans, voice rough. "Look at you."

You try to, but your lashes flutter, head tilting back, lost in the slow friction, the way he's making you ride him. His eyes drop lower, watching the way your slick is soaking through, watching the growing wet patch you're leaving behind.

"Fuck," he rasps, "you're drippin', baby."

Your face burns hotter, a little whimper escaping your lips, and then... he stops. You blink, eyes flying open, dazed, confused. Your hips twitch, trying to move yourself, but it's not the same. Not as smooth, not as good.

Jason smirks. "Oh, what's wrong, doll?"

His voice is all teasing, all smug amusement. You pout, shifting, trying again, but you need him to move you, to help you. He just grins, leans back, makes a show of looking completely unbothered.

"You were havin' such a good time," he muses, cocking his head. "What happened?"

You whine softly, squirming, but he doesn't give in, just watches, entertained as you get more and more flustered.

"You want me to help you again?" he murmurs, voice low, gravelly. "Want me to make you cum just from grindin' on my fuckin' thigh?"

You squeeze your thighs, biting your lip, nodding. Jason hums, gripping your ass again, his fingers squeezing, dragging you just once against him. And then he stops again. Your breath hitches, frustration clear in your expression, and he just chuckles, tilting his head.

"Gotta ask real nice, doll."

He smirks, still so damn smug as he grips your hips, keeping you right where he wants you. Not grinding, not moving, just sitting on his thigh, aching and needy. Your whole body is thrumming, restless, desperate for more, and he knows it.

And then he starts bouncing his leg. It's slight, just a subtle movement, but holy fuck, the little jolts send shocks of friction straight to your clit, making you gasp, making you dig your nails into his shoulders.

"Oh?" he taunts, voice thick with amusement. "That feel good?"

Your breath catches, your pussy throbbing as he keeps doing it, that little bounce making your clit rub against his sweatpants over and over, teasing and torturous.

It's too much and not enough at the same time, your slick spreading, soaking into his pants, making your clit extra sensitive with every grind of fabric against your swollen little bud. Your thighs tremble, and he notices, one hand sliding up to grip your waist again, his fingers digging in.

"God, baby," he groans, "you're drippin'. So fuckin' messy."

His thigh is soaked, your slick spreading, making the fabric stick damply to his skin. And you can feel it, the way your folds are all swollen and slick, the way your pussy clenches down every time your clit gets that perfect little jolt of friction.

Your nipples are visible through your thin tank top, pressing against the fabric, aching to be touched, and Jason notices that too.

His other hand moves up, fingers slipping under your top, and before you can even react, he yanks it down. Your tits spill free, nipples pebbling instantly in the cool air, and he groans, his eyes dropping straight to them, dark and hungry.

"Fuck," he rasps, fingers skimming over the swell of your tits before he pinches one stiff nipple between his fingers.

Your body jerks at the contact, the sharp pinch sending another jolt of arousal straight to your clit. Jason chuckles low, dragging his thumb over the tight peak, teasing.

"So fuckin' pretty," he murmurs, squeezing one full, soft breast in his big hand, groaning at the way it fills his palm.

Your breathing is ragged, your head spinning, your whole body hyperaware of everything—his hands, his thigh, the way his fingers are rolling your nipple, making it throb, making your pussy clench.

And the fucker is still bouncing his leg. It's steady, relentless, those little jolts against your clit making you tremble, making your slick spread even more. Your pussy clenches again, a fresh wave of slick drenching your folds, and Jason feels it.

His grip on your waist tightens, his eyes flicking back up to yours. "Shit, pretty girl," he mutters, voice rough, "you're so fuckin' wet."

His thigh is so firm beneath you, strong, all solid muscle, and every bounce rubs your clit just right, sending a little pulse of pleasure through you. You can feel how swollen you are, how slick, your folds puffy and aching as you throb against his thigh. Every movement makes your pussy clench around nothing, makes your clit twitch, needy, so sensitive.

Jason groans, dragging his other hand back to your ass, squeezing, pulling you just a little closer. "You like this, huh?" he murmurs, voice teasing, smug. "Lettin' me use you like this? Rubbin' your sweet little pussy all over me?"

Your whole body burns, your clit pulsing. Jason fucking knows it, and of course, he stops bouncing his leg. You whimper immediately, hips twitching, chasing the friction, but he holds you still, his grip firm, fingers digging in.

"What's wrong, baby?" Jason coos, mock sympathy dripping from his tone, his voice rough with amusement. His thumb brushes over your hip, deceptively gentle, but his grip stays firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you. "Missin' it already?"

You pout, squirming just a little, testing him, but his hands tighten, unmoving, unyielding. Heat prickles along your skin, frustration bubbling up, and you don't even try to hide the needy whimper that escapes your lips.

He smirks, head tilting, dark eyes gleaming as he watches you struggle. "You want more?"

Your nod is immediate, quick, eager, desperate. Your breath catches in your throat as his fingers flex, just enough to remind you who's in charge, just enough to make you crave the pressure of his touch, but not giving it to you.

His voice drops lower, teasing, taunting. "Then beg, doll."

Your breath catches, eyes widening in disbelief. Beg? Like hell you would beg right now. You shake your head, lips parting as if to argue, but instead, your body moves on its own—hips shifting, rolling down against him, dragging your soaked cunt over the firm muscle of his thigh. If he isn't gonna help, fine. You'll take what you needed yourself.

Heat crawls up your neck, your cheeks burning. You know you probably look clumsy, your movements not as fluid as you'd like, but it doesn't fucking matter. Not when the friction makes you shudder, makes your clit throb, makes pleasure lick up your spine.

Jason chuckles, low and amused, his hands resting lazily at his sides like he's got all the time in the world. "Shit, look at you," he murmurs, voice thick with something smug, something downright filthy. "That desperate, huh? Thought you had more pride than this, baby."

"Shut up," you pant, biting down on your lip, refusing to meet his gaze even as your thighs tremble.

He hums, eyes flicking down to where you're grinding against him, slow and messy, his sweats glistening with your slick. "Nah, I don't think I will. You're fuckin' adorable like this. All worked up, gettin' yourself off on my thigh like a needy little thing. Thought you wanted my help?"

Your hands fist in his shirt, and you glare at him, though it holds no real heat, not when your body is already betraying you. "I don't need your help," you shoot back, hips pressing down harder just to prove your point.

He laughs, shaking his head. "Sure you don't."

He watches you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide with hunger, his jaw tight as you shift in his lap, your hips rolling down against his thigh harder. He can feel how wet you are, how every little movement leaves more of your slick smeared against his sweats, soaking through the fabric. And you're not even thinking anymore, not strategizing or teasing like you usually do.

No, you're needy, lost in it, panting softly, rocking against him like you need it to fucking breathe. His dick twitches, straining against his sweats, already leaking, the pressure fucking unbearable.

You always make him hard fast, but this? Watching you fuck yourself on his thigh, your tits bouncing, your face all flushed and desperate? He should make you beg. You always beg. That pretty little voice of yours, whining, pleading, desperate. But you don't this time.

You just keep grinding down, moaning, completely fucking lost, your hands clutching at his shoulders like you can't even think beyond how good it feels. Your tank top is still shoved down, tits spilling free, bouncing with every desperate little roll of your hips, your nipples stiff and aching.

Jason drags his hands over your thighs, his fingers curling into your soft flesh, his cock throbbing as he watches you lose yourself.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice rough, strained, "look at you."

You whimper, eyes fluttering shut, grinding harder, dragging your clit over the firm muscle of his thigh, soaking his sweats.

He groans, hands gripping you tighter. "You're makin' a fuckin' mess, baby," he mutters, voice thick with hunger. "So fuckin' sloppy."

Your body trembles, your cunt clenching down on nothing, the heat coiling low in your stomach, your orgasm already close.

You know he's watching, can feel the weight of his stare, can feel the way his fingers twitch against your thighs, like he's barely holding himself back.

You whimper again, shifting forward, arching your back, your tits angling toward his face, practically fucking presenting yourself to him. Jason groans, a low, needy sound, his hands flexing against your skin, his control slipping.

And then you moan, breathless, desperate, so fucking turned on you don't even realize you just said—"Feels so good, Jay—gonna cum—"

He snaps. His hands clamp down on your hips, fingers digging in, holding you still, tearing you away from the edge, making you groan in frustration.

"That's enough, baby," he growls, his voice low and rough like a warning.

His cock throbs hard, leaking precum into his sweats, so fucking hard it's painful, his control gone. He can feel your pussy dripping through your shorts, through his pants, sticky and hot and so much, and he fucking needs you now.

"Get on my dick," he orders, breathless, his grip tightening.

Your whole body jolts, a sharp whine spilling from your lips as you try to keep moving, try to grind down against him just a little more. You're right there, pleasure coiling tight, your cunt throbbing, so close you can almost taste it.

"Jay, b-but I'm s-so close—"

Your voice stutters, breaking on a desperate little sob, but before you can chase that high, his hand is on your jaw, firm but not forceful, tilting your face until your wide, glassy eyes meet his. His fingers press just enough to make you gasp, to make your lips part, and you barely have a second to register the dark hunger in his gaze before his other hand grips your ass, squeezing rough and possessive.

"You're gonna cum on my dick," he mutters, voice thick with heat, "or not at all."

A needy whimper slips from your throat, your thighs twitching as you try—fucking try—to move against him, but his grip is iron. Unyielding. Holding you still when all you want to do is grind, rub, anything to get yourself off. The frustration, the desperation, it makes you dizzy.

And then he's kissing you.

No, kissing isn't the right word for it. Jason crashes his mouth against yours, taking, devouring, a mess of tongue and teeth and heat. He licks into your mouth, deep and filthy, groaning when you suck on his tongue like you can't get enough, like you're starving for him.

Your fingers tremble as you reach between you, finding the thick length of his cock through his sweats, and he's so fucking hard, the heat of him searing even through the fabric. You palm him, rubbing slow, teasing, smearing his precum into the soft cotton. His breath shudders against your lips, his grip tightening on your ass before he slaps it.

The sharp sting shoots through you, a gasp ripping from your throat as his palm cracks against your ass, hard enough to make you jolt, make you keen, make you feel it even through your shorts. You shudder, fingers tightening around his cock, clenching around nothing, so fucking needy it hurts.

Jason pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, voice dark and thick with authority. "Get up."

You obey without thinking, your body moving before your brain catches up, legs shaky as you push yourself up, and then your eyes drop to his lap.

His sweatpants are ruined, absolutely fucking soaked, the gray fabric darkened with your arousal, clinging to his thigh. The sight sends a fresh wave of heat flooding through you, makes your pussy clench so hard it's damn near painful.

Jason smirks, fingers ghosting up your thigh, teasing. "Look what you did, pretty girl."

Your whole body burns, heat rushing up your neck, cheeks going pink as you stare at the mess you made of his sweatpants. You're always like this—shy, blushing even after all this time—but Jason fucking loves it. Loves how you can be so desperate one second and so bashful the next, like you don't know exactly what you do to him.

Before you can even stammer out a word, his fingers hook into the waistband of his sweats, and he pulls them down just enough to free his cock. Your breath catches, your thighs pressing together as he fists himself, slow and lazy, his hand gliding over the thick length, smearing precum along his flushed tip.

"C'mere, baby."

The rough rasp of his voice sends a shiver down your spine, and you step between his spread legs without hesitation. His hands move instantly, gripping both your shorts and panties in one swift motion, yanking them down your legs until they pool at your ankles. You step out of them, your bare skin prickling at the sudden exposure, your cunt so wet you can feel the slick coating your inner thighs.

Jason leans in, hands settling on your ass, pulling you closer until his mouth is right there, his breath hot against your needy, aching pussy. And then, his tongue darts out. Just the very tip, flicking against your clit in a teasing little stroke that has you gasping, hands flying into his hair as your knees threaten to buckle.

"Jay—fuck—"

He hums against you, the vibration making your whole body shudder, his fingers squeezing, kneading your ass as he licks you again, still light, still teasing, knowing it's not nearly enough. And then, a smack.

You whimper, your grip tightening in his hair as his palm lands on your ass again, the sharp sting making you jolt, making your clit throb. You're so fucking wet, so desperate, you can feel your slick dripping, smearing against his lips, his chin. But then he pulls away, leaving you panting, trembling.

His eyes flick up to yours, dark and hungry. "C'mere. Sit on it."

There's no hesitation. You straddle him in an instant, legs spreading wide over his lap, your drenched cunt dragging against his cock, smearing your slick over the hot, thick length of him. He groans low in his throat, his hands gripping your waist as you grind against him, needy and restless, your clit catching on the swollen head of his cock.

Your breath hitches, a sharp little gasp spilling from your lips at the sudden jolt of pleasure, your body tensing, shivering at the sensation of his slick, leaking tip rubbing against your throbbing clit.

Jason curses under his breath, his grip tightening. "Fuck... look at you, baby," he mutters, voice rough, almost strained. "You feel that? How fuckin' wet you are? Shit, you're gonna make a mess all over me before I even get my dick in you."

Your breath is shaky, your whole body trembling as you murmur, "Jay..."

The way you say his name—soft, needy, dripping with desperation—has him hissing through his teeth, his hands flexing against your waist as you grind down against him, your soaked pussy dragging over the length of his cock.

"Yeah, I know," he rasps, voice rough, barely holding onto his control. "I've got you, doll."

One of his hands slides to your thigh, gripping tight, and the other moves to your hip as he lifts you just a little, just enough to position himself right at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against your slick, throbbing cunt. And before he can even think, even process anything, you're sinking down.

Slow, because he's big—so fucking big—but you're so goddamn wet, so fucking ready for him, that he slides in with almost no resistance. The stretch has you gasping, your walls molding around him, clinging, gripping, dragging against every inch as he fills you up. It's too much, not enough, the ache deep and delicious as you take him, inch by inch, your pussy opening up for him like it was fucking made for this.

Jason groans, his head tipping back against the couch, his fingers tightening on your hips. "Shit, baby—fuck, you feel so good," he mutters, his voice all rough edges, thick with heat.

You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders, but you don't stop. Don't hesitate. You don't even bother taking him all the way before you start to move, lifting your hips just enough to slide back down, taking more of him every time, forcing yourself to stretch around him until you take him to the hilt, his cock bottoming out inside you, the thick head pressing right up against your cervix. The feeling knocks the breath from your lungs, your pussy clamping down on him hard, pulsing, squeezing, making his dick twitch deep inside you.

Jason lets out a low, guttural groan, his fingers digging into your flesh. He shifts just a little, adjusting beneath you, settling into the perfect position, the one that lets him thrust up into you if he wants, fucking you deeper. But you don't wait for him to take over.

You start moving again, rolling your hips, fucking yourself on his cock, letting the stretch turn into pure, dizzying pleasure as you take him over and over, your pussy gripping him tightly. Every drag of his thick length against your walls sends shivers through you, every little shift making your clit throb, making your breath come in soft little pants.

Jason watches you, eyes dark, half lidded, completely fucking wrecked. "Look at you," he mutters, his grip tightening. "Fuckin' yourself on my dick like a desperate little thing."

You whimper, rocking against him harder, needing more, needing everything. And then he leans in, his mouth latching onto your breast, licking, sucking, his tongue swirling around your nipple before he closes his lips around it and sucks.

A broken moan rips from your throat, your head falling back as pleasure slams into you, your walls clenching down around him tighter. The room is filled with the obscene, wet sounds of your slick pussy taking him over and over, every roll of your hips making his cock glisten, coated in your arousal.

Each time you lift yourself, it's slow, dragging, your walls clenching as if trying to keep him inside, and when you drop back down, taking him to the hilt, there's a soft, messy squelch that makes Jason groan, his fingers flexing against your hips.

"Shit," he mutters, his voice thick, nearly slurred. "You're so fuckin' wet, baby. Listen to that—fuckin' dripping all over my dick."

And you are. There's a mess where your bodies meet, slick smeared across his lap, the base of his cock absolutely drenched. Your clit throbs each time you grind down, catching against his pubic bone, making your breath hitch, making your thighs shake.

Jason doesn't stop sucking on your tits, his mouth hot and hungry, his tongue swirling around your nipple before his teeth graze it, making you gasp. He latches on again, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, his other hand coming up to squeeze the soft flesh, thumb swiping over your pebbled nipple before he moves to the next, biting, licking, leaving messy, dark little bruises all over your skin.

You're fucking yourself stupid on his cock, chasing your high, using him like a toy, grinding, bouncing, moaning with every slick, filthy movement. The pleasure is overwhelming, building too fast, too much, your cunt gripping him, pulsing around his cock, squeezing so tight you can feel every ridge, every vein, the heavy, thick weight of him inside you making you delirious.

And then it hits you. Your moan is sharp, breathless, your whole body going tense as your orgasm crashes over you. Your walls spasm around his cock, clenching and fluttering, squeezing him in rhythmic waves as pleasure washes through you, hot and dizzying, so intense it almost hurts. Your thighs shake, your hands fisting in his hair, your whole body trembling as you cry out, completely undone.

Jason groans, his jaw going tight, his fingers bruising against your skin as he holds you still, pinning you in place. "That's it, baby—fuck, that's it," he rasps, watching you fall apart. "Look at you. Feels good, huh? That's what you needed?"

But he's not done with you. Before you can even catch your breath, his grip tightens, and then he fucks up into you. Hard. Fast. Deep.

The force of it knocks the air from your lungs, your body jolting with every brutal thrust. He's relentless, slamming his dick into you, dragging it against your sensitive, still clenching walls, punching soft little gasps from your throat as he fills you over and over. The stretch, the heat, the way his cock pounds into that sweet spot inside you—it's almost too much, almost overwhelming, your legs trembling from the sheer intensity of it.

"Fuck, baby," Jason growls, his voice rough, nearly wrecked. "You wanted this, yeah? Fuckin' taking me so good—so goddamn tight, still squeezin' me."

Your head tilts back, your body limp in his grip, letting him use you, letting him fuck you the way he wants, the way you both need. Every thrust is deep, hard, his dick splitting you open, dragging against your slick walls, sending aftershocks of pleasure through your overstimulated body.

Jason keeps fucking into you, deep and relentless, his grip firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you. His cock drags against your slick walls, sliding in and out with ease, each thrust forcing little, choked moans from your throat, every slam of his hips making your tits bounce, making the couch creak beneath you. And he fucking teases, the bastard.

"What were you thinkin', pretty girl?" he rasps, breathless but still in control, still completely focused on ruining you. "Wearin' those fuckin' shorts... bendin' over like that..."

You try to respond, you really do, but all that comes out is a whimper, a breathless, desperate moan. Your head is spinning, your body burning, every roll of his hips shoving you further into that heady, fucked out haze.

"Yeah?" Jason huffs out a low chuckle, his thumb stroking over your hip. "That what you wanted, baby? You wanted me to fuck you stupid?"

"Yes—fuck," you gasp, a sharp moan cutting through your words when he shifts, angling his thrusts just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your whole body shudder. "There—baby, please—fuck—"

Your thoughts are scrambled, your brain a mess of heat and pleasure and Jason, Jason, Jason.

Every time his dick sinks into you, you're done for. Because no matter how long you've been together, no matter how many times he's had you like this—wrecked and dripping and stuffed so full of him—it never gets old. He never gets old.

The way he touches you, the way he moves inside you, the way he always makes sure to shift his weight to his elbows, to keep you pinned beneath him without ever crushing you, even when he's fucking you into the mattress like he's losing his goddamn mind. It's never been like this before.

Not for you, and not for him.

He looks down, watches how your pussy swallows his cock, how your greedy little cunt clings to him, sucking him in deep, creaming all over his dick, leaving a messy, wet sheen every time he pulls back. He groans, his grip tightening, his jaw clenching as he watches himself fuck into you, watches the way you take it.

Jason's had his fair share of girls. A past he never tries to hide, never lies about. Before you, he took what he needed from anyone willing, let them warm his bed and spent all his frustration and loneliness inside them, over and over again, until he could pretend for a second that it meant something. And it never did. It never could.

Not until you. Maybe it's the way you let him manhandle you, let him be rough, let him fuck you exactly how he wants, because you know he'd never hurt you. Maybe it's the way your pussy takes him so perfectly, like you were made for him. Or maybe, maybe it's because it's you.

Because he loves you, and it's annoying sometimes, how much he actually loves you, how much he needs you, but it's also the best fucking thing in his life. Jason groans, deep and low, his hips snapping harder, his control slipping. And fuck, that sound drives you insane.

The way he moans, rough and wrecked and desperate, makes your cunt squeeze him tighter, makes you whimper, makes your body move against his without thinking. Your tits bounce with every thrust, your moans getting higher, sharper, and he just keeps fucking into you, deep, filthy, perfect.

You lean in, desperate, catching his mouth in a kiss that's justr as messy, just as filthy as the way he's fucking you. It's all moans and gasps and tongues, wet and hungry, your mouths moving together with the same frenzied rhythm as your bodies. His lips are hot, insistent, his tongue sliding against yours, sucking, licking, groaning into you.

Your breath hitches when his teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging, a sharp little sting before he soothes it with his tongue. It's all so sloppy—spit slick and desperate, barely audible over the wet, obscene sounds of his cock splitting you open.

Because he's still fucking you. Still rolling his hips up into you, still dragging that thick, heavy cock in and out of your dripping cunt, his hands gripping your hips, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

And you're so close.

Your body is thrumming, tight with heat, every thrust pushing you closer and closer to that edge again. Your pussy clenches around him, gripping him, sucking him in, your walls pulsing around his dick. You can feel perfectly the way he stretches you, the way he fills you, the way he drags against every sensitive spot inside you, pushing deep, so fucking deep.

His breathing is ragged, his rhythm faltering just slightly, his hips jerking up into you with more urgency, more need. His fingers tighten, digging into your skin, his control slipping, his groans rough and wrecked as he watches the way your greedy little cunt keeps sucking him in, taking him, milking him.

"Fuck—" he growls, the sound vibrating against your lips. "You feel that, baby? Feel how fuckin' deep I am?"

You whimper into his mouth, nodding, gasping against his lips when he slams up into you, harder, faster, fucking you like he's losing it. And good God, he is. He's so fucking close, and so are you, and he's gonna make you cum with him.

Every time he bottoms out, his skin slaps against your clit, that little jolt of pressure making you cry out, making your whole body tremble. His dick fucks into you so good, stretching you, filling you, rubbing against every perfect, sensitive spot inside you. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing him, soaking him, every thrust dragging wet, filthy sounds from your slick, messy cunt.

And you're right there, right on the edge, so fucking close you can taste it.

You moan against his lips, panting, whimpering, "Baby, I'm so close—"

Jason groans, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot, uneven. "I know, doll," he rasps, hips snapping up into you, deep and relentless. "C'mon, lemme feel it."

And you do. The moment he slams in again, hitting that perfect spot, his cock stuffing you full, you break. Your orgasm slams into you, so hard it knocks the air from your lungs, your whole body locking up, shuddering, a long, wrecked moan spilling from your lips. Your cunt pulses around him, gripping him, milking him, your slick dripping down his dick, coating his sweats, making a messy, soaked patch right where you're riding him.

And Jason—fuck, Jason's right there with you. The second your pussy clenches down on him, his control shatters. A deep, wrecked groan rumbles from his chest, his arms tightening around you as he fucks up into you, hard, deep, sloppy. His cock twitches, throbbing, and then he's spilling, hot and thick, his cum shooting deep inside you, filling you up, so much it's already leaking out around his cock, smearing between your thighs, dripping down onto his sweats.

He grits his teeth, his hips jerking, his breath ragged as he rides it out, grinding you down onto him, making sure you take every last drop. And you feel the warmth spreading inside you, feel the way his cum drips from your messy, wrecked cunt, mixing with your slick, sticky and obscene.

You shudder, your body weak, legs shaking, a soft whimper slipping from your lips as you lean in, catching his mouth in another kiss. It's slow and deep and lazy, both of you gasping into each other's mouth, completely spent, completely ruined.

Jason loves it. Loves the way you feel, loves the way you taste, loves the way you're still clinging to him, still keeping him deep inside.

Your lips stay on his, slow, lazy in a way that only comes when you're completely wrecked, bodies still tangled together. His cock is still inside you, still so fucking hard, twitching every time your walls flutter around him, overstimulated and messy.

You sigh into his mouth, your body melting, boneless against him, and Jason groans low, his hands dragging up your sides, squeezing at your waist before moving higher, cupping your tits, thumbing at your sensitive nipples. He drinks in the way you whimper against his lips, his tongue flicking against yours, his cock giving a slow, thick throb inside you.

And before you can even process it, he moves. His grip tightens, his muscles flex, and suddenly, your back hits the cushions, a surprised gasp slipping from your lips. Jason just grins, that fucking smirk playing on his lips as he spreads you open, settling between your thighs, his hands gripping the backs of your knees.

"Fuck," he mutters, dark eyes locked on your pussy. "Look at that."

You can feel his cum, warm and sticky, leaking out of you, dripping onto the couch, so much of it, messy and wet. Jason watches, jaw tightening, nostrils flaring, and then his fingers are there, spreading your folds, teasing, dipping into the slick mess between your thighs.

"You tryna waste it, baby?" he murmurs, voice low, rough, teasing. "Nah. Can't have that."

And before you can even think of a response, he pushes back in. Slow, deep, fucking deliberate, his dick stretching you open again, filling you up all over, pushing everything right back where it belongs. You moan, your back arching, your legs trembling, and Jason grins, watching the way your body reacts, watching the way your messy, used pussy takes him.

He stays there for a second, buried to the hilt, letting you feel the way he throbs inside you, and then, he yanks his shirt off. Because he needs you closer. Needs to feel your tits against him, your soft, warm skin pressed to his, your hard nipples dragging against his chest.

His hands slip beneath you, gripping your ass, pulling you even tighter against him, his breath hot against your ear as he groans, "That's better, doll."

It's so different from earlier. Not fast like before, not rough, just deep, slow, deliberate thrusts that sink his thick, still hard cock all the way in, filling you to the fucking brim, stretching you open over and over like he's savoring every second.

Like he's feeling every clench of your walls, the heat of you wrapped around him, sucking him in so greedily that he has to take a breath through his teeth, has to focus just to hold onto his self control.

Your hands clutch at his back, nails digging in, scratching at the muscle there as he sinks in again, slow, pushing deep, stretching you open all over again. His hips press flush against yours, burying himself all the way, his cock twitching inside you before he pulls back, so fucking slow it makes you whimper. He almost slips out completely, just the thick, leaking head inside you, before he pushes in again, making sure you feel every inch of him, making sure you take him.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, his voice low, smug, dripping with satisfaction as he watches you tremble beneath him. "You feel that? Feels good, huh?"

Your moan is shaky, your body arching up into him, desperate for more friction. "So good," you breathe, your fingers tightening against his back, dragging down, leaving marks.

Jason groans, loving the sting of it, the way you claw at him, completely at his mercy, wrecked and desperate and so fucking perfect.

"Yeah, I know," he breathes, his lips brushing over your temple, down your cheek, his voice warm and teasing. "So fuckin' needy, huh? Never get enough of this dick, do you?"

You shake your head, your legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him deeper, but he doesn't let you rush it. He moves at his own pace, slow, steady, dragging it out, making you feel every stretch, every slide, every inch of his thick, leaking dick splitting you open.

And God, this is rare because he rarely fucks you like this, taking his time, making it last. Usually, Jason loses it the second he's inside you, fucking you rough, desperate, starving. But when he does this? When he fucks you slow, deep, teasing? It's a different kind of ruin.

Your thoughts are a mess, a hazy, fucked out spiral of Yes, more, please, and Fuck, I love this man, because you do. You love everything about him—his mouth, his hands, his fucking dick, the way he's so big compared to you, muscles hard under your fingertips, his broad frame caging you in.

But no matter how big he is, how strong, he never crushes you, always mindful of his weight, of the way he holds you, of how he makes you feel. Even when he's wrecking you, fucking you into the mattress or bending you over the nearest surface, he always makes sure you can take it, always makes sure you're okay.

And Jason? Jason is fucking losing it.

You're so fucking tight, so wet, so warm, clenching around him with every slow thrust, dragging him deeper, sucking him back in every time he pulls out. He watches your face, the way your lips part, the way your brows furrow, the way your cheeks are flushed with heat. You're so fucking pretty, all messy and sweaty, pupils blown wide, wrecked just for him.

"Fuck," he breathes, gripping your waist, his thumbs pressing into your hips. "Look at you. Always so fuckin' perfect, huh?"

His eyes drop down, watching the way your pussy takes him, greedy and desperate, stretched wide around his thick cock. Watching how every slow, deep thrust makes more cum spill out, soaking his dick, his thighs, the couch.

He groans, low and deep, his jaw clenching as he pulls out again, until just his tip is inside, teasing your entrance, and then he gives it to you. All of it. One long, slow thrust, sinking in deep, filling you up, making you feel it.

And you do.

Jason's hips roll, smooth and slow, fucking you deep, stretching you all over again. His cum makes everything wetter, messier, and every time he sinks in, you feel it—hot, thick, dripping out around his cock, probably soaking into the couch, but it's not like it's the first time.

And then he kisses you. Deep, sloppy, tongues sliding together, hot and wet and desperate, little moans spilling into his mouth as he fucks into your soaked, puffy cunt, never stopping, never slowing, making you feel every inch, every drag of his thick cock against your walls.

You whimper against his lips when he bottoms out, when his hips press flush against yours, grinding his pelvis against your clit, forcing another moan from your throat.

"Yeah," he murmurs against your mouth, his voice low, satisfied, loving the way you react to him, the way your pussy flutters around his dick, your moans getting higher, needier. "That's the spot, huh? Feel good, baby?"

You nod, words escaping you, lost in the slow, steady grind of his cock, the deep, intense pleasure that builds every time he presses in, presses deep, rubbing against every sensitive spot inside you.

Jason groans, pulling back, sitting upright, needing to watch because he's obsessed with you, but your pussy? That's a close second.

His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open wider, watching his dick slide in and out, coated in slick and cum, so wet it makes little squelching sounds every time he thrusts in, so slow, so deep.

"Fuck," he breathes, eyes heavy-lidded, watching the mess between your legs. "Look at you. Such a pretty little pussy, baby. Always takes me so well."

His thumb drags across the base of his cock, catching some of the cum that's leaking out, and then he smears it onto your puffy, sensitive clit, making you gasp, your whole body jerking as your pussy clenches down on him.

"Jay, no," you whimper, head thrashing against the couch cushions, overstimulated, heat prickling up your spine.

But Jason just shushes you, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your clit as he keeps fucking you, deep, torturous, his voice a warm, teasing hum.

"Shhh," he murmurs, eyes flicking up to your face, drinking in the way your lips part, the way your brows furrow, the way your whole body trembles underneath him. "I know you can handle more."

His thrusts stay slow, controlled, but his thumb doesn't stop, teasing your clit, drawing soft little circles, every touch making your cunt flutter around him, dragging him deeper, making him groan.

"There you go, baby," he coaxes, his voice thick with praise, low and warm. "That's my good girl."

And fuck, you want to protest, want to tell him you can't, that it's too much, but you can't speak, can't do anything but moan, your whole body trembling as he works you open all over again, coaxing another orgasm out of you.

Jason keeps it slow, steady, every deep stroke making you feel every thick inch of him, every drag of his cock against your swollen, sensitive walls. And his thumb? Torturous. Pressing, rubbing, working your clit in those teasing little circles that keep you right there, trembling, on the edge of something intense, something overwhelming.

Your hands claw at his arms, his shoulders, needing something to hold onto, nails biting into his skin as your breath stutters. "J—Jay, fuck—"

He groans, loving the way you stutter, the way you whimper as your cunt flutters around him, trying so hard to pull him even deeper.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, low and rough, watching you with that sharp, hungry gaze, his thumb never stopping. "Take it. Lemme feel you cum again."

"I—I can't—" your voice is high, desperate, your body trembling beneath him, pinned open and at his mercy.

Jason chuckles, breathless, because he knows you can. He can feel the way your thighs twitch, the way your pussy squeezes him, the way your moans turn into little gasps, little pleas.

"Yeah, you can," he coaxes, voice dark with satisfaction, with praise. "You're my good girl, aren't you? Always take my dick so fuckin' good, baby."

Your head tips back, mouth open on a silent moan as your whole body locks up, that heat in your belly snapping, pleasure crashing over you like a wave, so intense you can't breathe.

Your pussy clamps down, hard, pulsing around him, and Jason grits his teeth, a sharp groan tearing from his throat as he feels it, as you milk his cock, your walls squeezing him in a tight, rhythmic pulse.

"Fuck, there you go," he groans, his hands tightening on your thighs, pinning you in place as you writhe, as your legs shake, as your back arches. "Fuck, baby, just like that—God, you're so tight when you cum—"

Your moans are high, whimpering, breathless, your whole body shuddering as the pleasure crashes over you in waves, rolling through your limbs, leaving you shaking, wrecked, soaking his cock in your release, dripping down between your thighs, making an absolute mess on him, on the couch, on everything.

Jason groans, head tipping back for a second, jaw clenched, trying to hold onto his own control, because you feel too good, too tight, too perfect around him.

"Fuck," he grits out, a shudder rolling down his spine as you shift your hips, still fluttering around him, still riding that high, oversensitive, overstimulated, but still wanting more.

"Greedy little thing," he huffs, pressing a hand to your lower belly, pinning you down as he pulls back just enough, then thrusts in again, slow, deep, making sure you feel every thick inch of him pressing back into your still pulsing cunt.

"Jay—" your voice is a gasp, back arching, nails digging deeper into his arms, his back.

"You like that?" he teases, voice rough, teasing, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. "Thought you were done, baby. Thought you couldn't take anymore."

Your answer is a whimper, your hips rolling, pussy desperate, still throbbing around him. And Jason grins, dark and satisfied, watching you, taking in the way you squirm, the way your messy, fucked out expression makes his dick twitch deep inside you.

"Nah," he murmurs, deep, his thumb slipping back down to your clit, making you jerk against him. "We're not done yet, pretty girl."

And he starts moving again. Jason keeps it slow, keeps it deep, never really pulling out, just grinding into you with those shallow, teasing thrusts that have your whole body shaking, that make your toes curl every time the thick head of his cock drags right against that spot that makes your vision go white.

And his thumb? Fucking lazy, the slowest little circles on your swollen clit, just enough to keep you moaning, to keep your body locked in that unbearable, delicious tension, just on the edge of something that keeps slipping away.

"Jay—" you whimper, thighs trembling, voice barely above a gasp. "Kiss me—"

And he doesn't hesitate. His hand leaves your clit, gives you a second of relief, but his dick? That's still fucking into you, thick and hot, every inch of him stretching you open, keeping you full.

Jason braces himself on his elbows, pressing down, caging you beneath him, his chest flush against yours, his skin hot, damp, his weight pinning you in place. Your arms wrap around his neck, one hand fisting into his hair, tugging him down, and when your lips crash together, it's not even a kiss. It's a mess.

All tongue, all heat, all desperation. His mouth moves rough against yours, teeth catching your bottom lip, pulling, making you gasp, and he growls into it before licking into your mouth, deep, filthy, hungry.

You whimper, clutching at him, hips rolling up, meeting his slow, shallow thrusts with your own, and he moans into your mouth, deep and gritty, swallowing every little sound you make, like he can't get enough of them.

Your tongues slide together, wet and messy, lips parting just enough for breathless little gasps, for soft, slick noises, the sound of your desperate, open mouthed kisses barely audible over the steady slap of his cock driving into you.

Jason sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, nipping, soothing it with his tongue before diving back in, kissing you stupid, like he's starving for you, like he needs to be as deep inside your mouth as he is inside your cunt.

His hips stutter, just a little, just enough for him to groan, and he pulls back just enough to mutter against your lips, voice wrecked, rough, low.

"Fuck, baby," he pants. "You kiss me like that, and I'm gonna fuckin' lose it."

And then he fucks into you again. But this time, it's harder. Jason grips your thigh, fingers digging in as he wrenches it up, spinning it against his side, forcing you open, spreading you wide so he can fuck you deeper.

And fuck, he does. The next thrust has you crying out, his cock slamming into you, thick and hot and so fucking deep it feels like he's in your gut.

"Yes, baby," you moan, voice breathless, needy, "please—fuck, Jay, harder, please—"

And something in him just fucking snaps.

"Shit—" Jason groans, hips snapping forward, grip tightening on your thigh as he pounds into you, fast, hard, fucking relentless, grinding deep with every thrust, forcing your body to take it.

And you do, pussy gripping him so fucking tight, so fucking wet, squeezing down every time he drags out, making it harder for him to fucking breathe, let alone think.

You yank him down, kissing him again, sucking on his tongue, gasping into his mouth, swallowing every moan he can't fucking hold back, because he never means to make noise, but you always fucking drag it out of him.

And the sounds, God, the sounds. The filthy, slick noises of your pussy, soaking fucking wet, clenching around his cock, mixed with the deep, rhythmic slap of skin against skin as he wrecks you. It's fucking obscene.

And Jason? He's gone.

Every time you beg for it like that, every time you moan his name in that breathy, fucked out little voice, his whole fucking brain goes feral. Like he has to give it to you. Like he has to fuck you harder, deeper, until you can't think, until you're just a whimpering, moaning mess beneath him, gripping onto him like you need him.

And the way you take it, the way your body just gives under him, the way your pussy stretches around his dick, milking him every time he pulls back, the way you're already so fucking soaked he can see your slick smeared all over his cock, dripping down onto the fucking couch. It's perfect.

And you? You never thought rough sex was for you. Because your exes? Fucking awful at it. Too rough in the wrong ways, not even caring if it hurt, just chasing their own pleasure with no fucking clue how to make it feel good for you.

But Jason? Jason ruined you. Because with him, it's never too much, it's never bad, it's just fucking perfect. Every fucking time. Because he knows exactly what you need, exactly how to fuck you, exactly how to make you soaking wet with just his fucking kisses.

And when he fucks you like this? When he's all rough edges and barely contained hunger, obsessed with making you fall apart on his dick, making you moan for him? You can't help but fucking love it.

You can't stop kissing him. It's desperate, messy, all open mouths and tangling tongues, gasps and moans swallowed between the obscene slap of his hips against yours.

Jason's fucking you hard, sweat slicking his skin, dripping down his chest, his arms, his forehead, but he doesn't slow down. Not for a second. His hand cups the top of your head, fingers slipping into your damp hair, tilting you up, controlling the kiss as he moves.

And fuck, every time he thrusts into you, your tits rub against his chest, nipples aching, so fucking sensitive, making you whimper against his mouth.

Jason groans—deep, guttural—because he feels it. Feels your hard little nipples dragging against his sweaty skin, feels the way your whole fucking body responds to him, the way you arch, the way you fucking shake every time he grinds deep.

His lips move slower, deeper, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, biting, making you fucking whimper before licking back into you, wet and messy, all slick tongues and panting gasps, completely fucking filthy.

And his dick—fuck, his dick. It's fucking throbbing inside you, fucking into your swollen, wrecked little cunt, stretching you out over and over again, grinding in so deep. And he loves it. Loves how fucking ruined you are beneath him.

Loves how wet, how hot, how fucking tight your pussy is, squeezing down on him every time he moves, milking his cock, making it so much fucking harder to keep from cumming, but he's not stopping until you're a fucking mess for him. Not until you can't stop moaning his name, not until you're completely fucking gone for him.

Jason breaks the kiss, lips wet and swollen, a string of spit still connecting your mouths before it snaps, breaking over your chin as he groans against your cheek.

And then, his mouth is on you again. Licking a hot, wet stripe down your jaw, sucking just beneath it, dragging his teeth across your pulse, biting, hard enough to make you whimper, make you shudder beneath him, make your cunt squeeze down around his thick cock so tight that he fucking moans against your skin.

"Yeah, that's my girl," he mutters, voice rough, heavy, wrecked, his tongue soothing over the bruise blooming beneath your skin before moving lower, kissing over your throat, your collarbone, sucking little red and purple marks into every inch of bare skin he can find. "My pretty fuckin' girl."

His hands grip your thighs, his breath hot against your sweat slick skin as he fucks you deep, thick cock stretching your swollen, puffy cunt open, slick and hot and dripping around him as he thrusts in hard, fast, grinding deep enough that his swollen tip kisses your cervix, sending sharp little sparks of pleasure up your spine every time his hips snap forward.

And it's so much. Too much. Your legs start to shake, and you try to push at his arms, whimpering, a little gasp of, "J-Jay—s'too—too much—" slipping past your lips, but Jason just shushes you, one big palm pressing flat against your belly, pushing down, making you feel every inch of his dick as he grinds deeper.

"Nah, baby, you can take it," he murmurs, lips dragging along the shell of your ear, his voice all syrupy sweet, like he isn't fucking you brainless. "You're my good girl, right?"

A particularly hard thrust makes you jolt, your tits bouncing, and Jason moans again, snapping his hips forward again just to watch them move. "Yeah, you are. You're my good fuckin' girl, lettin' me fuck this pretty little pussy the way I need—"

And then you're gone. A broken little cry catches in your throat, your back arching as heat bursts through you, rolling, intense, so fucking deep that it makes your eyes sting, makes your chest shake, makes you sniffle and whimper and tremble beneath him as your cunt clamps down on his cock, gushing all over him, his thighs, the couch, soaking everything, completely fucking ruining him.

"Ohh, fuck, baby—"

He moans, voice deep, guttural, and then his hips stutter, his fingers dig into your thighs, his cock twitches, and he fucking spills.

Hot, thick spurts of cum fill you up, pump into you as he thrusts, slow and deep, like he wants to make sure you feel every drop, like he needs to make sure it stays, and he shudders, breath catching as he moans against your throat, pressing sloppy little kisses there as he fucks it all back into you, slow and deep, completely fucking wrecking your swollen, sensitive little pussy.

"Jesus, baby," he gasps, voice all rough, shaky, as he grinds deep, like he just can't stop, like he needs to fuck you soft, sweet, long after you've both cum, just to feel it, just to keep it there. "So fuckin' good for me. So fuckin' perfect."

And even when he stops moving, when he just stays there, buried deep inside you, keeping his cum warm in your soaked, wrecked little cunt, he still doesn't pull out.

You're both panting, bodies slick with sweat, chests rising and falling against each other as you try to catch your breath. Jason is still inside you, cock still buried balls deep, his last few slow pulses spilling the very last of his cum into you.

And he stays there. Just stays, his hands smoothing over your sides, rubbing slow, lazy circles into your heated skin, so gentle despite his rough hands, despite the way he'd been fucking you minutes ago, like he wanted to fuck you apart.

But now? Now he's soft. Tender. Sweet.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, your nose, your jaw, anywhere his lips can reach, whispering a soft, "Jesus, pretty girl," as he trails his mouth over your skin.

And then he kisses you. Slow, lazy, like he has all the time in the world, like he wants to savor you, taste you, keep you, his lips moving against yours. Easy, affectionate, his tongue slipping past your parted lips to lick into your mouth, coaxing little moans from your throat as you kiss him back.

It's deep, wet, warm, every little sound you make swallowed up by him, every shaky breath shared between you, his hands still rubbing over your sides, grounding you, keeping you close.

But of course he can't help himself.

His mouth drags down your jaw, down the column of your throat, over your collarbone, kissing over every bruise he left behind, soothing each one with his tongue, before he moves lower, down to your tits.

And fuck, he's always been obsessed with your tits.

He groans, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth, tongue swirling over the pebbled flesh, dragging slow, wet circles around it before he bites, sharp enough to make you gasp, make you arch into his mouth, make your cunt pulse around his cock, still warm and thick inside you.

"Fuck, baby," Jason groans, voice wrecked.

One hand palming your other breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucks at the other, pulling deep little gasps from your lips, from your chest.

A little moan of "Jay—" slips out, making him shiver against you.

And as his mouth moves lower, down the swell of your breast, sucking little bruises along the soft flesh, marking you up all over again.

You whimper when he shifts, his cock still deep inside you, still hard, still filling you up, and Jason shushes you softly, cupping your cheek with one large, calloused hand, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone as he leans in, pressing the softest kiss to the tip of your nose.

"You did so good, baby," he murmurs, voice all warm and low, lips trailing down to your cheek, kissing you there, too. "So fuckin' good for me."

You sigh, utterly blissed out, your body heavy and warm and hazy with pleasure as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, pressing tiny, sleepy kisses against his lips, one after the other. Soft. Sweet.

Jason laughs against your mouth, lips curling against yours, and you murmur, "I love you so much, baby."

And God, he really feels it. Feels it like a punch to the gut, feels it like it's branding him, like it's sinking into his bones.

"I love you too, doll," he rasps, breath warm against your lips, his heart pounding in his chest.

And then you kiss him again because you can't help yourself. Sloppy, hungry, all wet heat and messy tongues, every little moan and gasp swallowed up, shared between you, your lips moving against his in lazy, needy little licks, your fingers tugging at his hair, keeping him there, making him groan into your mouth.

Jason tilts his head, deepening it, licking into you slow, teasing, his teeth catching your bottom lip and tugging, making you whimper before he soothes the sting with his tongue, one hand sliding down side, gripping you like he needs you.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Jason pulls back, breaking the kiss, and your lips chase his on instinct, a whimper escaping as he starts to pull out.

"Jay..."

You barely recognize your own voice, raw and sweet, your body still humming from the aftershocks.

He grins, all lazy and smug, his forehead pressing against yours as his hands hold your hips still. "Shhh, baby, just relax."

His dick drags against your swollen walls, the slow, steady drag making your thighs twitch as he pulls out, his thick head slipping free with an obscene, wet sound.

And then his gaze drops. Jesus Christ. There's a few views Jason loves. You, at any hour, any day. Sleepy, sweet, wrapping yourself around him in bed like a feral little gremlin. You, grinning at him, teasing him, saying you love him, with that look in your eyes like he's your whole world.

And then there's this. You, fucked out. All messy and wrecked, thighs spread open, your flushed, sweaty body still trembling under him, your swollen, puffy little cunt all soaked with his cum.

His jaw tightens, chest heaving, his cock twitching where it rests between your legs, gleaming with your slick and his release. You're so fucking pretty, all flushed and warm and his, your pussy still trying to clench around something that isn't there. It makes him want to spread you open, push every single drop of cum back inside just to watch it spill out again, to hear the little sounds you'd make.

Jason hums, dragging his fingers down your thigh, slow, teasing, before bringing them between your legs.

You whimper, hips twitching as he spreads you open, his thick fingers pressing into your puffy, swollen folds, gathering up the mess he made, his own cum sticky and wet as he smears it back against your pussy, dragging his fingers over your puffy clit, making your entire body jolt.

"Jay—"

Your breath hitches, the overstimulation making your back arch. His fingers stroke over your clit again, lazy, teasing, watching how you drip for him, his cum mixed with yours making everything wetter, sliding down the cleft of your ass. He loves the way your lips tremble, the way your tiny hand suddenly wraps around his wrist, a weak little grip as you try to stop him.

"Jay—it's too much—"

Your voice is all breathless, barely even there, but he hears it, and fuck if it doesn't make him harder. Jason chuckles, deep and satisfied, his fingers slipping down, spreading you apart with both thumbs just to watch as even more of his cum drips out, pearly and thick.

"Shit," he mutters, watching mesmerized, obsessed. "Fuckin' look at you, pretty girl. So messy for me, huh? Can't keep a single drop in that tight little pussy, can you?"

You whimper, pressing your thighs together, trying to hide, but Jason just tsks, shaking his head as he swipes two fingers through your folds again, smearing his release up and around your puffy clit.

"Jay—" you gasp, hips jerking when he strokes you just right, but your hand snaps out, catching his wrist before he can do it again, your fingers curling weakly around him. "Jay, no—it's too much—"

He fucking loves when you get like this, when you're so far gone, so sensitive and spent and desperate all at once, your poor little pussy still clenching around nothing as your voice shakes.

Jason just chuckles, rubbing your clit in slow, maddening circles as he leans down, lips ghosting over yours. "Sorry, doll," he rasps, though he doesn't sound sorry at all, his lips curling into a smirk as he smears more of his cum over you. "I can't help it."

"Jason—" you squirm, hips twitching, body shuddering as he gives one last teasing swirl over your swollen clit before he finally relents, drawing his hand away.

He smirks, bringing his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean, groaning at the taste, before he shifts back, pushing up onto his knees, the heat of him leaving you. You watch through half lidded eyes as he strips off his sweatpants and boxers, the fabric sticking to his thighs from how messy you both got, and he makes a face at the mess before letting them drop to the floor.

"Gotta toss these in the wash anyway," he mutters.

Before you can even think to say anything, he's scooping you up, arms warm and strong around you, and you gasp, then giggle as you snuggle into his chest.

"Jay—" you smile against his skin, pressing your lips to his jaw, your nose nuzzling against his cheek. "you're so warm..."

"Yeah?" he grins, squeezing you just a little, holding you tighter as he stands. "C'mon, I'll clean you up real quick so you can enjoy your book while it's still sunny."

You huff a soft little sound against his skin, burying your nose into his neck. "Will you stay with me?"

Jason chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "On your armchair?"

"Mhmm," you nod against him, arms curling around his neck as you murmur, "I wanna snuggle with you."

"Deal, baby."

He presses a kiss to your hair, voice all soft, so damn fond as he carries you toward the bathroom.

Half an hour later, as promised—though barely, because Jason was this close to fucking you again in the shower—you're curled up with him in your favorite armchair, a place that feels just as much like home as the man holding you.

The chair is big, oversized and plush, made for stretching out, perfect for long reading sessions and lazy afternoons. A fluffy blanket is draped over the back, the same one you always pull over yourself when you get lost in a book, and Jason—huge, warm, always taking up too much space—somehow manages to fit in it with you. Barely. But neither of you care.

Your legs dangle lazily over one armrest, stretched out and relaxed, while your body is snugly pressed against him, your ass perfectly nestled against his dick, because of course it is.

Jason's arms are wrapped around you, holding you close, his large, rough palm resting against your thigh, fingers idly stroking over your bare skin, while his other arm is draped around your back, hand rubbing slow, soothing circles along your arm.

Your head rests against his shoulder, your body practically melting into him, warm and soft and content, your book open in your lap as your eyes lazily scan the pages.

And Jason... well, Jason doesn't even fucking care about the damn book.

Not when you're curled up against him like this, all warm and sweet, your fingers tracing absent little shapes over his forearm. Not when he can smell the faint traces of your body wash and shampoo, his scent lingering on your skin, on his clothes. Not when your soft little ass is pressed right against his lap, snug and perfect against his dick, the heat of you seeping through his sweats.

You sigh against him, shifting slightly to get comfortable, and Jason grits his teeth, his hand squeezing your thigh a little tighter.

Fuck. If you keep squirming like that, he's gonna fuck around and start something again.

He exhales through his nose, forcing himself to focus on anything else, not on how soft your skin is beneath his fingers, or how easily he could slip his hand higher.

"You good, baby?"

You don't even look up from your book, voice soft, teasing, and he can practically hear the smirk in it.

Jason huffs a laugh, shifting slightly, adjusting his grip on your thigh. "M'good, doll."

Liar. Your fingers trace up his arm, slow, lazy, curling around his wrist as you nuzzle into him, your lips brushing against his neck.

"Mhmm," you hum, voice light, mischievous. "You sure?"

"Baby—" Jason groans, low and warning, but you just giggle, pressing another kiss to his skin, and he knows you're about to start trouble.

As you turn another page, your fingers absentmindedly trace over the veins in his forearm, nails grazing over his skin in slow, delicate strokes. He hums, squeezing your thigh in response, the warmth of his palm sinking into you. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath you, but there's that telltale shift—the way his thumb starts rubbing a little slower, a little more deliberately.

He leans in, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and when you tilt your head just a little, giving him access, his lips find yours. It starts soft, just the slightest brush, the kind that makes your stomach flutter, but then he deepens it, lazy and teasing, tongue sliding against yours with that same slow, deliberate pace he fucked you with earlier.

You sigh into his mouth, melting further against him, and his arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly close. "Love you," he murmurs against your lips, voice low and raspy.

Your heart clenches in that way it always does when he says it. Like this. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. You press another kiss to his lips, and another, and another, soft and fleeting, making him huff out a quiet laugh.

"You're really tryna start somethin' again, huh?"

His voice is rough, teasing, but there's already that edge to it, that heat beneath his tone. His hand squeezes your thigh, fingers twitching like he's already thinking about flipping you over, spreading you open, pumping you full.

You giggle, nuzzling into his neck instead, pressing a kiss right over his pulse. "Nope," you lie, knowing damn well that if he really wanted to, you'd let him do whatever the fuck he wanted to you, again.

[aventurineswife]

Can I geeeeet Alhaitham, Kaveh, and Ratio waking up with their s/o (male reader please?) after an “eventful” night and the reader apologizing profusely for how many marks he ended up leaving?

“We Made Love, and I Bear the Proof”

Tags: Alhaitham x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Kaveh x Reader, Male!Reader, Established Relationship, Post-Intimacy Fluff & Teasing, Suggestive Themes, Light Angst (Guilt/Shame Over Marks), Banter & Playful Arguments, Mutual Affection & Possessiveness, Soft/Teasing Dom Energy (Alhaitham & Ratio), Flustered/Subtly Needy Energy (Kaveh), Morning After Vibes, Physical Affection & Gentle Comfort.

Warnings: Suggestive Content (Mentions of intimacy, marking, and possessiveness, but no explicit smut), Marking/Biting/Scratches (Characters are covered in hickeys, bite marks, and scratches from the previous night), Mild Alcohol Mention (Kaveh’s piece briefly implies he might’ve had a drink the night before), Light Power Dynamics (Ratio & Alhaitham being smug/teasing about being marked up, Kaveh being flustered about it), Mild Swearing (Casual cursing in dialogue).

A/N: I may have went a bit overboard... Whoops-🧍‍♀️

The early morning light filtered through the curtains of Alhaitham’s bedroom, casting golden hues across the sheets. The crisp Sumeru air carried the scent of sandalwood and ink—his usual. The warmth beside you remained steady, unwavering, even as you stirred.

You blinked blearily, still hazy from the eventful night before, and shifted slightly. That was when you noticed them—faint scratches trailing down Alhaitham’s toned back, deep red marks along his throat, and a particularly dark bruise blooming just above his collarbone.

Your stomach dropped. "Shit."

Alhaitham’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze already fixed on you like he had woken long before you. His expression remained unreadable, but there was something smug in the way his fingers traced absentmindedly along your wrist, as if committing the weight of you to memory.

"I'm so sorry," you groaned, face buried in your hands. "I—uh, I didn’t realize I got that carried away—”

"Clearly," he cut in smoothly, voice still thick with sleep. "But I don’t see why you’re apologizing."

You peeked through your fingers at him. "Because you look like you got into a fight with a particularly aggressive lion—and lost."

Alhaitham hummed, finally sitting up, the sheets pooling at his waist. He stretched, his toned torso catching the morning light in an unfairly appealing way, before he turned his head slightly to observe the marks you had left on his skin.

Then, in a tone far too nonchalant for the situation, he smirked. "If anything, I’d say it’s a victory."

Your face burned. "Alhaitham."

"You’re the one who couldn’t keep your hands to yourself," he reminded you, shifting so that his lips ghosted over the shell of your ear. "And now you’re embarrassed?"

"I wasn’t trying to maul you—"

"Hm. Could’ve fooled me."

You groaned, shoving your face against his shoulder in sheer mortification, but the warmth of his skin, marked by you, only served to make you more flustered. His chuckle rumbled in his chest, sending a shiver down your spine.

"It’s fine," he murmured, fingers threading lazily through your hair. "Besides, I like the reminder."

His lips brushed against the fresh mark on your neck—the one he had left in return. A possessive streak glinted in his gaze when he pulled away.

"Now, are you planning to take responsibility for them, or shall I return the favor?"

You swallowed thickly. Oh, fuck.

The soft glow of morning bathed the room in warm gold, but the real warmth was beside you—Kaveh, tangled in silk sheets, his hair fanned out like the most intricate masterpiece ever crafted.

He looked peaceful, lips parted slightly in his sleep, his breathing steady. And then—oh.

Your eyes trailed down his bare skin, and guilt punched you in the gut. His porcelain skin was covered in evidence of last night—deep, dark bruises along his neck, light scratches ghosting over his shoulder blades, and a particularly harsh bite mark at his hip.

You barely had time to process it before Kaveh stirred, blinking sleepily at you with those vibrant eyes. He stretched with a soft groan, his arms raising above his head, exposing more of your handiwork.

Your guilt doubled. "Shit—Kaveh, I—"

His gaze followed yours, and when he spotted the marks littering his skin, his face exploded into color. He immediately yanked the sheets up, flustered beyond belief.

"You—!" His voice cracked, and you had never seen him this red before. "You—look at what you did!"

"I'm so sorry," you rushed out, hands raised in surrender. "I—uh—I wasn’t thinking—"

Kaveh buried his face in his hands, groaning in a mix of mortification and something dangerously close to satisfaction.

"I look like a damn canvas!"

"You are an artist’s muse," you teased, earning a weak swat to the arm.

"Don’t flatter yourself," he mumbled, voice muffled. Then, after a pause, his hands lowered just enough for his eyes to peek through his fingers. "...You really got carried away, huh?"

"I didn’t mean to—"

"You bit me, you menace!" He gestured dramatically to the mark at his hip, and you covered your face in shame.

"I’ll make it up to you," you promised, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder in silent apology. Kaveh sighed, still visibly flustered, but he didn’t pull away.

"You better," he huffed. Then, quieter, "But... maybe I didn’t totally mind."

Oh? You grinned against his skin. "Noted."

Morning arrived in quiet stillness, but your mind was not at ease.

Ratio, the insufferably intelligent, sharp-tongued man currently lying next to you, was covered in proof of your inability to control yourself. His skin was marred with bruises—your fingerprints at his waist, faint bites trailing up his chest, and a particularly deep mark at the base of his throat.

You were so fucked.

"Uh..." You swallowed. "Ratio, I—"

His striking eyes, sharp even in the haze of sleep, cracked open. He studied you in silence, gaze flickering down his own body as he took in the damage.

Then, in a voice infuriatingly even, he mused, "Fascinating."

You choked. "Fascinating?"

"Your enthusiasm last night was... excessive." He traced a faint bruise at his wrist, lips twitching slightly. "But I’ll admit, the empirical evidence is intriguing."

"Ratio, I practically mauled you!" You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. "I—fuck—I got carried away—"

His amused hum interrupted you. "So, you’re apologizing?"

"Obviously?"

Ratio tilted his head, violet strands falling over one eye as he considered you. His lips curved ever so slightly.

"Then allow me to pose a counterargument," he murmured, leaning in, his breath warm against your ear. "If you were truly remorseful, you wouldn’t be looking at me like that again."

You froze, heat crawling up your neck.

Shit.

Ratio chuckled, the sound like silk and steel. "What? Cat got your tongue?"

You scowled, shoving him back onto the mattress in sheer frustration.

"You are insufferable."

"And yet, you seem to enjoy suffering." His smirk deepened. "Shall I prove that hypothesis?"

You barely had time to react before he flipped the situation entirely—pinning you against the sheets, his sharp, knowing gaze drinking in every ounce of your flustered state.

You were so, so screwed.

[sad-scarred-sassy]

You are so gorgeous, it makes me so mad

For @elucienweekofficial Day 7: Tension/Healing

I wanted to illustrate a bit of what I think their banter will look like. I think Lucien’s rakish charm will drive Elain mad (in the best way).

Enjoy the little comic of Elain trying to stay mad at Lucien but getting a bit distracted by his lips🫦

[zhukzucraft]

=====>

Skizz: We're gonna crush it! You'll see! We just need to get back in that cave, get into the Nether portal-

Mumbo: -the what-

Skizz: -and we'll be set for the whole game! Just you trust me on this!

Mumbo: Err, I don't think it's safe to do that right now, actually.

Skizz: Why not?

Joe: Yoo hoo! Over here, lovebirds!

Joe: Looking for a place to safely spend the night after losing everything but each other?

Joe: Well look no further than the patented Hunker Down Bunker!

Joe: By the way, the matching suits are a great touch. You two look like you came here straight from your wedding!

Skizz: Oh haha you're so right dude, we do!

Mumbo: a-

Mumbo: it's-

Mumbo: Could you not?? say it like that??

Skizz: So, puppet guy, are there any king size beds for our wedding night down in that bunker?

Joe: No, the sheep seem to have gone extinct, but we have some mighty comfortable stone!

Mumbo: I wish the zombies would hurry up and end this already.

=====>

Start Over -- Go Back

[lyn31]

Another Game?

Summary:

You book an appointment with Dr. Zayne for a "check-up," but professionalism was never your real intention. What begins as a playful challenge soon unravels into something far more intense, testing the limits of control, composure, and just how far he's willing to go to satisfy you.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes:

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader CW: Smut, roleplay, sex, semi-public sex, teasing, fingering, I still fit some fluff in there somewhat, oh and this is a long one......god help me Heyy look! Not an AU ahahaha

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You step into Zayne’s office, the sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to the air. The door clicks shut behind you. He doesn’t look up right away, gaze fixed on the holographic display above his desk. His posture is composed—crisp white coat, sleeves folded to his elbows, revealing the firm lines of his forearms. Professional. Detached.

You wonder if he even remembers.

Then his eyes flick up, catching yours. A pause.

“…You actually showed up.”

He doesn’t sound surprised, but something lingers beneath the usual impassivity—a flicker of intrigue, the faintest hint of amusement. He leans back, tapping the console to dismiss the screen, blue light fading from his face.

“Of course I did,” you say, feigning innocence. “I have an appointment, don’t I?”

Zayne exhales—almost a scoff—but gestures toward the examination table nonetheless. “Then let’s begin.”

No push. No mention of yesterday’s conversation—yet.

You climb onto the table, letting your legs cross at the ankles. Zayne stands before you, tugging on a pair of gloves with slow precision. The snap of latex against his wrist sends a tingle down your spine.

“Any concerns?” he asks, tone purely clinical. “Pain? Discomfort?”

You hum, trailing a finger along your collarbone. “Well… my chest has been feeling strange lately.”

His expression sharpens. “Strange how?”

You barely suppress a smile. He thinks you mean your heart. Of course he does.

“It’s been tight,” you murmur, pressing a hand just above your breast. “Like something’s pressing down on it.”

Zayne doesn’t hesitate. He steps closer, fingers cool through the thin fabric of your blouse as he presses against the center of your chest. “Any shortness of breath? Dizziness?”

You shake your head, watching him. The calculation in his gaze, the slight shift in his stance—it sends a slow curl of heat through your stomach.

He reaches for his stethoscope, looping it around his neck. The metal gleams under the clinical lights, and the sight alone makes something in you tighten with anticipation.

“Unbutton your shirt,” he says, the same way he always does.

But this time, your fingers move slower.

One button. Then another.

You part the fabric just enough, the lace-trimmed edge of your bra peeking through.

Zayne doesn’t react.

You almost pout.

He tugs his gloves tighter, then presses the stethoscope against your skin. The metal is cold, and you inhale sharply, arching ever so slightly under his touch.

“Deep breath.”

You obey, slow and drawn out.

His frown is slight. “Your heartbeat is steady. No irregularities so far.”

You tilt your head. “Maybe it’s my clothes.”

His brow lifts. “Your clothes.”

“They feel… restrictive.” You toy with the lapels of your blouse, shifting just enough for the fabric to slip further off your shoulders. “Maybe they’re the problem.”

Zayne’s silence is damning. You can practically hear the gears turning, restraint pressing thick in the space between you.

Then, finally, he exhales.

“…Explain.”

A shiver of delight runs through you. Oh, he’s playing along now.

You trace a finger down your collarbone, teasing. “It only gets worse when I move.” A slow roll of your shoulders, the subtle arch of your spine. “Like I can’t quite breathe properly.”

His eyes flicker down. Then back up, sharp as a scalpel. “You want me to believe that the fit of your clothing is causing chest discomfort.”

You blink at him innocently. “I don’t know, Doctor. You tell me.”

The title lands between you like a challenge.

Zayne’s gloved fingers flex at his sides.

Then, smoothly, he steps closer.

“I suppose we’ll have to test that theory.”

His fingers skim along the open edge of your blouse—clinical, precise, but lingering just a fraction too long. His eyes meet yours, steady, unreadable.

“If your clothes are restricting my examination,” he murmurs, “we have two options.”

You already know where this is going, but you keep your expression neutral, waiting.

“Either I remove them for you,” he continues, measured and calm, “or you remove them yourself, and we proceed with the full examination.”

There it is.

Anticipation thrums through you, heat curling low. He’s still playing the professional act, but the weight in his voice betrays him. He’s watching. Waiting.

You press your lips together, pretending to consider. “Wouldn’t it be improper for a doctor to undress his patient?”

Zayne doesn’t rise to the bait. “It’s a medical necessity. For accuracy.”

You exhale, dramatic. “Well, if it’s for accuracy…”

Your fingers find the remaining buttons, slipping them free with slow precision. The fabric slides from your shoulders, pooling around your elbows before you let it fall onto the table behind you.

Zayne watches. Silent.

His expression doesn’t shift, but his fingers twitch—so subtle you almost miss it.

You smile.

Then, just to test him, you reach back, unhooking your bra with a quiet snap. The straps slide down your arms, lace slipping away, leaving you bare beneath his gaze.

The air between you thickens.

Zayne doesn’t react—not immediately. He simply exhales, slow and measured, before reaching for his stethoscope once more.

“Lie back.”

Steady. Too steady.

Your breath hitches, but you obey, reclining against the cool surface of the table.

Zayne leans over you, pressing the stethoscope to your chest once more. The metal is cold, but it’s not the temperature making you shiver this time.

“Breathe in.”

You inhale, deep and slow.

The stethoscope drags lower, tracing the curve of your ribs, the underside of your breast. His fingers graze your skin—a little too deliberate.

Your grip tightens on the table’s edge.

“Please breathe normally,” he murmurs. “I can’t get an accurate reading otherwise.”

Your voice is barely steady. “I am breathing normally.”

“Are you?”

His gaze flicks up, catching yours. He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t gloat. But the shift is there, an unspoken challenge woven through his voice.

The stethoscope circles lower, pressing just above your nipple. You inhale sharply, your back lifting slightly off the table.

“Sensitive?” Zayne asks, the picture of professionalism.

Bastard.

Your lips press together, but he only hums, adjusting the stethoscope with a thoughtful tilt of his head. “That could indicate a heightened response. I’ll need to examine further.”

His fingers, still clad in gloves, follow the stethoscope’s path—skimming, lingering.

He’s torturing you. Deliberately. And you have half a mind to call him out on it—

Until he speaks again, smooth and detached.

“…Are you sure your chest is the only area that’s been bothering you?”

The breath catches in your throat.

You meet his gaze. He’s waiting.

For you to say it.

For you to push the game further.

And, oh, you will.

Your grip flexes against the table. His gaze lingers, cool and patient, waiting for your answer.

You take a slow breath, letting the tension stretch, before finally exhaling, “Actually…”

Zayne doesn’t move, but you don’t miss the way his eyes sharpen, just the slightest fraction.

“My chest isn’t the only thing bothering me.”

His silence is expectant.

You let the moment breathe, dragging it just long enough before you shift slightly on the table, parting your legs ever so subtly.

“It’s… lower.”

A bold claim, but one you deliver with just enough hesitance—like you’re still playing coy, like you’re not deliberately pushing him to react.

Zayne exhales through his nose, slow and measured. His gaze flicks downward, skimming the length of your bare stomach before settling at the hem of your skirt.

“Lower,” he repeats, as if confirming.

You nod.

He holds still for a moment, his expression carefully neutral. Then, without hurry, he reaches for his gloves, snapping a fresh pair on with precise, practiced movements.

“Well,” he says, tone still entirely neutral, “I’ll need to examine that as well.”

Your stomach tightens.

He moves as if nothing is amiss—like this is just a routine check-up, another standard procedure. His hands find your knees, pressing against the soft skin there before sliding down, tracing the length of your thighs with methodical ease.

Then, carefully, with intent, he urges them apart.

You exhale, pulse thudding in your throat as the air shifts against the exposed skin beneath your skirt. Zayne’s touch remains steady, his gloved hand a stark contrast against your warmth.

His thumbs stroke idly over your inner thighs, like he's weighing his next move. “Your symptoms,” he murmurs. “Describe them.”

You stare at him.

He meets your gaze, expectant, composed.

You swallow, fingers curling slightly. “It’s… hard to explain.”

“Try.”

Oh, he’s awful.

You shift slightly, just enough to feel the ache between your legs sharpen. “It feels… hot.”

Zayne hums, dragging his fingers higher. “A warm sensation in a specific area?”

Your teeth sink into your lower lip. “I… guess so.”

He nods, acknowledging it with quiet interest. Then, with infuriating patience, he smooths his gloved hands further up your thighs.

“Any discomfort?”

You suck in a breath. “Not exactly.”

“Strange.” His tone is mild, completely detached. “You’re requesting an examination for something that doesn’t hurt?”

You glare at him.

Zayne doesn’t acknowledge it. He simply exhales, feigning thoughtfulness, before his fingers hook under the hem of your skirt.

“I’ll need a clearer view to assess properly.”

Your breath catches, but you lift your hips slightly, just enough for him to slide the fabric up, exposing the damp fabric clinging between your legs.

The crisp air barely registers against the heat spreading low in your belly.

Zayne’s gaze drags over you, lingering on the damp fabric of your panties, the way you’re already wet from nothing but his teasing.

Then, like nothing at all, he presses his palm against the soft cotton.

You jolt, hips twitching instinctively. Your fingers tighten at your sides, resisting the urge to grab at his wrist—to make him press harder, to make him move.

Zayne hums, thumb grazing absently over the damp patch. “Noted.”

You don’t even have time to react before he adds, completely straight-faced, “The fabric may be affecting circulation. Would you prefer to remove them yourself, or shall I?”

A loaded question, if there ever was one.

Your breath shudders. He’s still playing his game, still waiting for you to crack first.

But two can play.

You lift your hips just slightly, reaching down to slip your fingers beneath the waistband. Slowly, deliberately, you slide them down, letting the damp material drag against your skin before finally kicking them off the edge of the table.

A quiet exhale slips past his lips.

Then, just as patient as before, he shifts closer, gloved fingers parting you with infuriating gentleness.

He speaks with practiced neutrality.

"I’ll begin."

The first touch is light—barely there, a teasing brush of his fingers against your folds, feeling, assessing. The latex is smooth, the contrast against your warmth making you shiver. He moves methodically, mapping you out like he would a textbook illustration, slow, impersonal.

Your breath stutters as he spreads you wider, the motion precise. His thumb presses just above your clit, holding you open while his fingers explore, a slow drag from entrance to tip. The touch isn’t meant to satisfy—it’s meant to study.

"Hm." Zayne tilts his head, as if in deep thought, his eyes flicking up to yours for the briefest moment before returning to his work. "The area is… unusually sensitive. Are you experiencing any discomfort?"

You bite your lip, forcing down a whimper. "No."

"Interesting."

His fingers slide lower, pressing against your entrance without pushing in, circling, spreading the wetness across his fingers. Your thighs twitch, a reflexive attempt to close around him, but his grip tightens—keeping you still, keeping you open. He hums again, thoughtful, detached.

"There's quite a lot of moisture." A pause. "Perhaps an overactive response?"

Your thighs twitch, but his grip tightens, still keeping you in place. The bastard is enjoying this—drawing it out, making you squirm under the guise of professionalism.

"Would you say this is a normal amount for you?" he asks, his tone giving nothing away.

You suck in a sharp breath. You should have known he'd make you say it. You can’t just whine, can’t just push against his hand and take what you want. No, he wants you to explain yourself.

Your voice is uneven when you answer. "It… it happens when I’m aroused."

His fingers still—just for a moment—before resuming their torturous pace.

"Hm. I see, it is a normal reaction of course."

His fingers continue their slow, deliberate exploration, spreading the slickness across his gloves as if considering his next step. Then, finally, he presses inward.

Slow. Too slow. The stretch is barely anything, just the tip of his finger easing into you before retreating, testing your resistance. His free hand shifts slightly, reaching for something just out of view. Before you can register it, the press of the stethoscope against your stomach makes you jolt.

"Relax," he murmurs, voice maddeningly soft. "I need an accurate reading."

As if that is why your muscles are tensing. As if he isn’t the one making your heart hammer against your ribs.

His finger sinks deeper, curling just enough to make you gasp. Your hips jerk up, chasing the movement before you even realize it—but then he’s gone, gloved touch retreating, leaving you empty.

"Hm." He exhales lightly, gaze flickering over your body before meeting your eyes once more. "A more thorough examination may be necessary."

The words alone make you clench around nothing, thighs threatening to snap shut, but his hands keep you open yet again. His thumb brushes over your clit—just once, barely enough pressure to count—and you nearly arch off the table.

Zayne watches you, patient as ever as if it’s just another part of the check-up.

"Deep breaths," he says. "This may take a while."

His fingers return to you, sliding through the slickness he’s already drawn from you, gathering it up before pressing inward again. The chill of his touch is startling, even through the latex, heightening the sensitivity prickling along your skin. This time, he doesn’t retreat. The stretch is unbearably measured, as he sinks his fingers inside you, just one at first, moving with the same methodical precision as before.

"Any discomfort?" he asks, as if he doesn’t already know the answer.

You shake your head quickly, breath coming shallow. "No."

His finger curls slightly, pressing against a spot that makes your thighs tremble. "That’s good."

His movements remain lingering, thorough, like he’s actually examining you. Twisting his wrist slightly, he presses deeper, his knuckles brushing against your swollen folds. The heel of his palm hovers just above your clit—not close enough to give you what you need, but just close enough to tease, to remind you how little he’s actually giving. The lingering cold of his touch only amplifies the sensation, sending sharp, involuntary shivers through you.

Then, with his free hand, he picks up the stethoscope again.

The metal rests against your chest, just above your racing heart, and you jerk at the sensation, a small gasp slipping out before you can stop it.

"Your pulse is elevated," he observes, his voice as steady as ever. "Try to calm your breathing."

He adjusts the stethoscope slightly, the movement coinciding with the slow thrust of his fingers. His voice remains maddeningly even. "Is this making you nervous?"

You swallow hard, gripping the edge of the examination table. "No."

"Then why is your heart racing?"

He presses the metal piece of the stethoscope lower, the edge barely grazing your nipple. The temperature difference—his cold fingers inside you, the icy press of metal against your skin—is unbearable. Your back arches involuntarily, and Zayne’s gaze flickers up, studying the reaction as if filing it away for later analysis.

He hums, contemplative. "It seems there’s a correlation between certain stimuli and your heart rate." His fingers push deeper, curling just right, and a small, choked noise escapes you before you can stop it.

He pretends not to notice.

Instead, he glides the stethoscope across your chest at an agonizingly slow pace. The edge drags over your nipple, the lingering chill making you whimper. His fingers inside you don’t falter, maintaining their slow, torturous rhythm.

His fingers slip out of you, leaving you empty for a torturous moment—until you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading them wider.

"Even without apparent symptoms, a thorough examination is still necessary," he murmurs, gaze settling between your legs.

He lets the words settle before shifting his attention. Then, without hurry, he picks up a small bottle of lubricant from the tray beside him, snapping the cap open with the ease of routine.

His gloved fingers return, coated now, sliding against your entrance with obscene ease before you can even catch your breath. The first brush is smooth, his fingers slipping against you with effortless precision.

“Breathe,” he instructs smoothly, pressing against your entrance with more intent this time. “I'll make sure to be thorough.”

And then he pushes inside, stretching you open with two fingers this time, filling you in one slow, controlled motion.

The stretch burns just enough to make your breath hitch. He pushes in fully, his fingers sinking deep, before stilling just long enough for the sensation to settle.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” he says, tone as calm as ever, but there’s an unmistakable tension in the way his fingers flex inside you.

Too much? It’s nowhere near enough.

You shake your head, swallowing hard. “It’s fine.”

"Good." He adjusts his angle slightly, and the next thrust is just a little firmer, the pads of his fingers press into the soft, vulnerable spots inside you. “Judging by your reaction, I assume this spot is particularly sensitive.”

Your breath stutters as his fingers brush a spot that makes your stomach tighten. He notices. Of course, he notices.

"Here?" he asks, pressing again.

A strangled sound catches in your throat. You try to nod, but the movement barely registers.

"I see," he murmurs, as if making another note in his imaginary diagnosis. He presses deeper, the glide of his fingers calculated as he drags them against that same spot. The slow friction makes your thighs twitch, heat pooling unbearably low, but he keeps his pace infuriatingly steady.

Just when you think it can’t get worse, his free hand shifts. The cold metal of the stethoscope returns, settling just below your collarbone.

"Another deep breaths," he instructs again. "I need to get a proper reading."

You suck in a shaky inhale as he moves the metal piece of the stethoscope lower, the edge grazing the swell of your breast before settling directly over your nipple. The unyielding metal presses against your skin, making you tense, your back arching instinctively at the unexpected sensation.

Zayne, naturally, notices.

“Interesting,” he muses, still feigning detachment. His fingers inside you curl slightly, pressing just right, while his other hand subtly adjusts the stethoscope, dragging the cold metal in slow, lazy circles.

Your head falls back against the table, lips parting around a helpless sound. The pressure, the contrast, the unrelenting patience of it all—it’s unbearable.

He doesn’t ease up.

"You’re definitely more responsive to certain stimuli," he observes, as if it isn’t obvious.

His fingers withdraw slightly before sliding back in, the stretch more pronounced this time, and your thighs tense around him. His movements remain methodical, controlled, but there’s a new weight to them, as if he’s savoring your reactions despite himself.

Still, he plays the part.

“Your heartbeat hasn't stabilized,” he says, voice smooth, unaffected. “Perhaps I should continue until it stabilizes.”

As if that would actually work.

He presses the stethoscope lower, The stethoscope drags down your ribs, over the dip of your stomach—inch by inch, closer to where his fingers are working you open.

You feel lightheaded, burning up from the inside out, but Zayne remains composed, watching you carefully as he pushes deeper, as if gauging just how much you can take before you finally break.

And you’re close—so painfully close.

And just when you think he’ll let you fall apart, his fingers are gone—leaving you clenching around nothing.

The sudden emptiness makes you whimper, hips lifting slightly as if chasing the contact.

Zayne ignores it.

Instead, he sets the stethoscope aside and tilts his head, regarding you with that same unreadable expression.

Zayne exhales slowly, as if in deep thought, before his gloved fingers skim along your inner thigh, just shy of where you want him.

“I can’t seem to determine the exact cause,” he murmurs, gaze flicking over you clinically. “I’ll need to run more tests.”

You let out a sharp breath, frustration coiling tight in your stomach.

More tests. Of course, he’d say that. As if he hasn’t already had his fingers inside you, as if you aren’t already dripping onto the examination table, as if your body isn’t screaming for him to stop pretending and just fuck you already.

His fingers remain maddeningly still, resting against your thigh like he has all the time in the world.

That’s the last straw.

With a groan of impatience, you yank him forward, your hands fisting in his coat as you crash your lips against his.

The force of it catches him off guard—just enough that he has to brace a hand against the table, steadying himself. His palm presses firm beside your head, the shift bringing him closer, trapping you beneath his frame. Even now, he remains measured, his movements precise—until you deepen the kiss, until you pull him in harder.

He stiffens, just for a second. A sound catches in his throat, a quiet, unbidden reaction. Then his fingers flex against the table—just once—before he reins himself back in. You take full advantage, your tongue sliding against his, pouring every bit of frustration into the kiss.

Then, pulling back just enough to breathe, you meet his gaze head-on, your voice edged with impatience.

"Fuck me, Doctor."

His gaze lingers for a beat—assessing, considering.

Zayne exhales slowly, dragging a gloved hand down your side, settling at your waist. Despite everything, he still keeps his composure. His professionalism.

“…I see,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly, as if considering the request. “A rather unconventional treatment method.”

His voice remains perfectly measured, but you can feel the tension in the way his fingers flex against your skin.

Without rushing, he straightens, adjusting his gloves as he reaches for the small drawer beside the examination table. You watch, breath coming shallow, as he retrieves a foil packet and tears it open with precise, practiced ease.

Then, locking eyes with you, he lowers his waistband.

Your stomach clenches at the sight his cock, thick and already achingly hard, standing rigid against the smooth plane of his lower abdomen.

And yet—he doesn’t rush.

Instead, he rolls the condom on with excruciating slowness, deliberately dragging out each movement as if testing your patience.

Your fingers twitch against the edge of the table, resist the urge to grab him and force him to move faster.

He catches it, as he always does.

But instead of relenting, he simply hums, smoothing the latex down to the base before finally meeting your gaze again.

“Proper preparation is crucial,” he muses, voice infuriatingly calm. “It would be irresponsible to rush.”

His hand wraps around the base of his cock, giving himself a slow, deliberate stroke. Heat pulses through you, making your hips shift.

He watches the reaction, silent for a moment—before exhaling softly, finally settling between your spread thighs. His hands slide beneath your thighs, guiding you until your hips meet the very edge of the table, your legs now hanging freely. The shift leaves you open to him, perfectly positioned.

"Now," he murmurs, tone still so composed. "Shall we continue?"

His cock drags along your entrance, slow and deliberate, the tip pressing against your slick folds but never quite pushing in.

It’s unbearable.

You pant, fingers tight on the edge of the table as he keeps up his torment.

“Any last concerns before we proceed?” Zayne asks, as if this were still some routine check-up. His voice is infuriatingly steady, like he isn’t teasing you to the point of madness.

Your patience snaps.

“No,” you grit out, glaring at him. “Just fuck me already.”

Zayne makes a soft, thoughtful sound—almost like he’s considering your words. But instead of giving you what you want, he adjusts his grip on your hips, positioning himself better.

As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he asks, “How’s the pain level?”

You actually let out a laugh—breathless, disbelieving. “Are you serious?”

He hums, pretending to consider. “Perhaps it would be best to start slow.”

Before you can protest, he presses in—just the tip. The stretch is delicious, but not nearly enough.

Your nails dig into the table. “Zayne.”

He doesn’t respond—at least, not in words. Instead, he leans in slightly, tilting his head in mock curiosity. His cock nudges deeper, inch by inch, testing your patience.

“You sure there’s no discomfort?” he asks smoothly.

Your glare sharpens. “Only because you’re still teasing.”

His lips quirk slightly. “Hm. I suppose this position isn’t effective.”

Before you can process what he means, he shifts.

With little warning, he grabs your hips and flips you over, pressing your chest against the cool surface of the examination table. The movement knocks the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping. Your feet hit the ground, stabilizing you—but barely.

And then he’s there, lined up against you again, his cock pressing against your entrance once more. His hands slide up your sides, steadying you, before dipping beneath your waist to prop you up at just the right angle.

One of his hands trails lower, curling around your thigh, lifting one of your legs onto the table. The shift forces you open even further, leaving you completely at his mercy.

"Much better," he murmurs. "Let's try again, shall we?"

Without further warning, he thrusts into you, burying himself to the hilt in one deep, fluid motion.

A strangled moan rips from your throat.

Zayne exhales, fingers tightening against your hips, as if the feeling of you around him is testing his control.

He starts slow—pulling out almost entirely before sliding back in, filling you all over again. Each thrust is measured, controlled.

"Does this ease the discomfort?" His voice remains steady, like he’s still focused on his so-called examination.

You can barely think, much less answer him. A whimper escapes instead, your fingers gripping uselessly at the smooth surface beneath you.

"Hm." He adjusts his angle slightly, sinking in deeper, making your legs tremble. "How about now?"

Your mouth opens, but before you can say anything—

A sharp knock echoes against the office door.

Both of you freeze.

Your heart leaps into your throat, lungs seizing as Zayne goes perfectly still behind you, his cock still buried deep inside. The only thing you can hear is the distant hum of the hospital lights—too loud, suddenly deafening.

The knock comes again, followed by a muffled voice.

"Dr. Zayne? Are you available?"

Fuck.

Your body tenses, every nerve on edge as you hold your breath, praying that whoever it is will just go away or for Zayne to do something, anything.

For a moment, he doesn’t. His silence stretches long enough to make your pulse spike in raw panic.

Then—a slow exhale, deliberate. His weight shifts.

But you didn’t expect his hand to move to covers your mouth.

He doesn’t pull out.

Instead, his other hand slides between your legs, fingers finding your clit.

You jerk beneath him, a muffled whimper caught against his palm.

"Shh," he whispers, calm and teasing. His cock twitches inside you as he resumes his movements, rolling his hips in slow, deliberate thrusts.

The knock sounds again.

His fingers circle your clit, lazy and unhurried, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. He’s barely moving—just enough to keep you teetering on the edge, just enough to drag out the pleasure.

Your thighs tremble, every teasing stroke winding the heat tighter—so close, so dangerously near the edge.

Your muffled whimpers, shaky and desperate, are the only sign of how wrecked you are beneath him—while Zayne remains infuriatingly composed, his breath steady, unbroken. Even when you clench around him, even when your body trembles, he doesn't falter. The only real evidence of his own unraveling is the faintest hitch in his breath, lost beneath the slick, sinful sounds between you.

The office is quiet except for the rhythmic slide of him inside you, the wet, obscene sounds barely masked by your unsteady breaths. The sharp rustle of his coat with each movement and the faint creak of the examination table beneath you only make the silence more suffocating.

The voice outside the door fades. Footsteps retreat down the hall.

The moment the sound disappears—

Zayne's fingers move faster against your clit, his cock thrusting deep.

The pleasure coils so tightly in your core, unbearable, before it snaps all at once, dragging a cry from your throat. His hand remains over your mouth, not quite as tight, but enough to stifle the sound as your body clenches down around him, shuddering under the force of it.

Your vision whites out for a breath, heat rippling through every nerve as the tension unwinds in sharp, relentless waves. His fingers don’t stop, coaxing every last tremor from your body, his thrusts steady, unrelenting, prolonging each pulse of pleasure until it borders on too much.

He exhales sharply, fingers tightening on your thigh as he keeps moving, fucking you through it, prolonging every shuddering aftershock.

Even now, he doesn’t let go—not until the last tremor fades, until your body goes slack beneath him, spent and breathless. Only then does he finally lean down, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear.

"Good girl," he murmurs, maddeningly composed. "You kept quiet so well."

His cock is still hard inside you. Moving. Teasing.

"And we’re not done yet."

If anything, he takes his time now, fully regaining his composure, even as you're still shaking beneath him. His thrusts remain slow, measured, letting you feel every deliberate movement of his cock inside you.

Your body twitches with every lazy roll of his hips, the aftershocks of your climax still rippling through you.

"You’re still trembling," he observes, voice smooth. His fingers trace idle circles against your inner thigh, feeling the slight shudders coursing through you. "Perhaps we should pause for another assessment."

You shake your head quickly, barely able to form words. "Don’t—don’t stop."

Zayne exhales softly. Then his hand slides down again, settling between your legs. His fingers find your clit, pressing down just enough to make your breath stutter.

"You're still responsive," he muses, voice as steady as ever. His movements remain excruciatingly unhurried, dragging out every sensation, every pulse of overstimulation. "Sensitive, too."

A low whimper catches in your throat. The contrast between his slow thrusts and the precise circles on your clit is unbearable.

"Do you think you can handle another?"

It takes a moment to process the words through the haze of pleasure. Then, weakly, you nod.

"Good." he murmurs, and his grip shifts. His fingers slide higher, stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his touch deliberate. The slow caress only heightens the ache already coiling deep in your stomach.

Then—he shifts his hips, angling himself just a little differently, sinking into you in a way that makes your whole body jolt. The change is subtle but devastating, forcing him even deeper.

A choked gasp escapes you. Your fingers flex against the table, scrabbling for support.

Zayne hums, as if pleased with your reaction. His touch on your thigh lingers, his fingers kneading lightly, soothing and teasing at once.

Then he thrusts—slow at first, testing, before drawing back and snapping his hips forward with a sharp, precise motion.

The force of it makes your breath stutter. He does it again, each thrust with the same pressure, driving into you with an unrelenting rhythm, every movement pushing you closer to the edge. The steady, rhythmic pressure builds unbearably fast, winding tighter and tighter until—

Your body is raw, wrung tight from the first climax, but this one is sharper—like a live wire pressed to your spine, making you arch helplessly beneath him.

But Zayne doesn’t stop. He keeps moving, fucking you through every aftershock, his thrusts slow but unyielding, prolonging each pulse of pleasure until you're gasping—oversensitive to each shift, each lingering stroke. You twist beneath him, unsure if you're trying to escape or take him deeper.

Your legs twitch against the table, your breath coming in uneven shudders as the intensity finally begins to subside.

And then—you feel it. A pause, just barely there. The faintest shift in his grip, a breath that drags a fraction too deep. His rhythm falters—not by much, but enough.

Zayne exhales sharply, fingers flexing against your thigh, his rhythm stuttering. Your walls still flutter weakly around him, and this time—this time—he doesn’t recover immediately.

His grip tightens. A slow breath through his nose, as if re-centering himself.

"I suppose that confirms my hypothesis," he murmurs, though there’s a faint edge to his voice now—just a little rougher, just a little less composed.

A fresh wave of heat builds in your core, slower this time, rolling through you with a dull, insistent throb instead of a sharp jolt.

Zayne hums, his hips resuming their movements—unhurried, deep, every stroke dragging against your still-sensitive walls. "It seems we’re reaching the final phase of this examination."

His thrusts stay deep and steady, teasing rather than overwhelming, giving your body just enough time to recover—just enough time to let the heat start pooling again, simmering beneath the surface. Your breath stutters, legs trembling against the table, anticipation building in slow, excruciating waves.

Then—he slows. Excruciatingly so. Not enough to stop, just enough to keep you hovering, desperate, the pleasure slipping just out of reach.

"You're already taking me so well," he murmurs, his voice lower now, his grip flexing against your thigh. "But if you want more, you should ask properly."

Your fingers tighten against the table. A whimper slips from your throat.

His thrusts slow to a near stop.

"Go on," he coaxes, tilting forward just slightly, letting you feel every inch of his cock still inside you. "Tell me how badly you need it."

Heat coils tight in your stomach. Your pride keeps your lips sealed, but it’s a losing battle. The ache is unbearable. When you finally speak, your voice shakes.

"Hah—y-you’re the one who said this was an examination," you pant, gripping the table. “So finish it properly.” Your voice is hoarse, barely steady.

A pause—just long enough to make you second-guess, to leave you teetering on the edge. Then, far too calm for what he’s about to do—“You’re right.”

And then he thrusts. Hard.

A ragged moan rips from your throat, the force of it knocking the air straight from your lungs. The shift in angle sends pleasure surging through you, fierce and overwhelming.

Then he does it again.

And again.

Until his pace is no longer slow, no longer careful—no longer methodical.

Just deep, sharp thrusts, filling you over and over, every movement deliberate, precise, but losing that careful restraint, inch by inch.

You can feel it in the way his grip tightens against your hips, in the controlled but rough snap of his thrusts, in the way his breathing finally, finally breaks from that infuriating steadiness.

Your name slips from his lips—not perfectly even anymore, but a little more raw, a little more strained.

It sends another sharp wave of heat straight through you.

Then—

Zayne exhales sharply, and you feel it—the slight tremor in his movements, the way his cock twitches deep inside you.

And then, without warning, he pulls out.

A whine of protest leaves your throat before you can stop it, your body aching at the sudden emptiness.

Then he’s flipping you over again, pressing your back against the table, his hands guiding your legs around his waist.

His gaze lingers, half-lidded and hazy, but still sharp beneath the haze of lust.

“I need to see you,” he murmurs.

Then—

He thrusts back in.

Your breath catches, back arching, as his cock buries itself inside you again in one smooth motion.

Zayne exhales sharply, his hands bracing against the table on either side of you. His face is close—too close—his breath warm against your skin, his gaze locked onto yours, refusing to waver.

And then he moves.

Not teasing anymore.

Just chasing his own pleasure.

And you’re right there with him.

Your body is still trembling when the last wave crashes over you, your breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. It’s too much—too sharp, too overwhelming—but Zayne’s grip keeps you steady, refusing to let you slip away.

And then, he breaks.

His breath shatters on a sharp exhale, his body tensing—then shuddering—as he buries himself deep inside you one last time. You feel it in the way his fingers clutch at your skin, almost too tight, as he finally, finally lets go.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the sharp, uneven rhythm of your breathing and his, mixing with the faint hum of the hospital lights.

The silence stretches. Neither of you moves, still caught in the lingering pulse of it all—his weight half-braced over you, his breath still uneven against your skin.

Then—slowly—he exhales, long and measured. And with deliberate care, he pulls away.

Your body protests the loss, muscles still tense, but Zayne is already moving—hands steady as they guide your legs down, adjusting your position with the same practiced precision as before. As if he hadn’t just—

You barely register the soft rustle of fabric as he removes his gloves, the quiet snap of the discarded condom. Then, warmth—his hands, bare now, skimming lightly over your thighs, tracing slow, steady paths as if grounding you back into yourself.

“Easy,” he murmurs. Not a command. Just a reminder.

You exhale shakily.

Zayne’s gaze flickers over you, scanning, assessing. His usual precision is back, but there’s something different in the way he touches you now—less clinical, more... grounding.

His hand moves, brushing over your hip, then lower, between your legs. You twitch at the touch, still sensitive, but he’s gentle, using a clean cloth to wipe away the mess between your thighs.

You blink blearily at him, still trying to come back to yourself.

“…You had that ready?”

Zayne hums softly, unbothered. “Of course.”

His movements remain methodical, careful, making sure you’re clean before setting the cloth aside. Then, with that same infuriating ease, he adjusts your skirt—smoothing it down, covering you again, as if he hadn’t just spent the last hour ruining you on this very table.

Your breath catches slightly at the contrast, at the effortless way he slips back into professionalism. As if he hadn’t just been—

Your fingers twitch, reaching for him before you can think better of it.

Zayne doesn’t move away.

Instead, he exhales quietly—then leans down.

The kiss to your forehead is firm, steady—a grounding weight rather than a fleeting touch.

Your chest tightens, warmth settling beneath your ribs.

His lips linger there for a second longer, then move lower. A soft press to your temple. The corner of your eye. The bridge of your nose. Each touch unhurried, deliberate—as if reassuring himself that you’re still here, still whole.

A slow exhale leaves you, your body finally beginning to relax.

Zayne pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, studying you with quiet intensity.

“Are you alright?” he asks, voice quieter now, lacking its usual calculated edge.

You hum softly, still catching your breath. “I think my legs forgot how to work.”

He doesn’t comment—just moves, shifting to sit beside you on the examination table, his presence a solid, grounding warmth at your side.

You let yourself lean against him slightly, just enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

There’s no rush to move.

No immediate need to separate.

Zayne doesn’t fill the silence with unnecessary words, doesn’t try to push you forward before you’re ready. Instead, he just remains there, his palm settling lightly over your waist—absentminded, but firm.

It’s you who breaks the moment first.

You tilt your head up, a teasing glint flickering past the haze of exhaustion. “So much for this is a professional environment.”

Zayne exhales sharply, a near-silent laugh, before giving you a look. “That changed the moment my certain patient decided to seduce me during her check-up.”

You grin, pleased. “Guess I should book another appointment soon, then.”

Zayne exhales quietly, fingers pressing briefly against your waist. “You can barely sit up.” A beat. Then, softer—“…You should rest first.”

You hum noncommittally, tilting your head up to brush a soft kiss against his jaw, feeling the way his breath hitches ever so slightly.

“…There’s still some time before my next appointment,” he murmurs after a beat. “You can stay until you feel steady again.”

A rare concession.

One you don’t take for granted.

So you settle in a little more, letting your body slowly come back to itself.

Zayne waits, unhurried.

And when you finally do sit up on your own, legs still trembling slightly, his hand lingers at your back—just in case.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes:

I gone through so many draft for this.... until I satisfied with this one ahahahaha well hope y'all enjoy the play :D

I was editing to add the rest of the series part but it was too long ahahaha so here's just the whole list: My Masterlist ✨

[raekiastri]

“yeah i wont be doing that one, i’m just gonna do the Oscar Piastri 👍🏼”

[primarchslut]

rogue trader banters — 15/?

HEINRIX 🠶 ABELARD / IDIRA

+ bonus audios since i love love love this interaction

[theknitfem]

as a femme i'm legally obligated to twirl my hair, bat my eyelashes, and be the sweetest peach when i flirt. in reality my flirting style consists of making fun of you and hoping you get flustered by that.

[enha4everr]

the beginner’s session — psh

PAIRING: park sunghoon x reader

GENRE: older brother’s friend, established relationship, fluff, skinship, teasing.

SYNOPSIS: When Jake drags you and Sunghoon to the ice rink, he’s determined to keep an eye on you two. But true to form — a literal walking disaster, he somehow ends up face-first on the frozen surface. As Jake attempts to recover, it’s the quiet moments between you and Sunghoon that make the sparks impossible to ignore.

Jake had one job. Just one.

He was supposed to keep an eye on you and Sunghoon. But, leave it to him to turn the simplest task into a full-on disaster.

The sharp crack of a push-along penguin colliding with the ice, snaps your attention away from the laces of your skates, the blades lightly scraping the frozen surface beneath you.

And there he is — the nation’s natural walking disaster, arms flailing wildly, knees buckling, and his whole body tilted at an angle that absolutely screams this is going to end badly.

Right on cue, a yell of horror bursts from his mouth — dramatic and doomed as he full-body slams into the rink barriers.

He hits the ice with all the grace of a collapsing lawn chair, now sprawled along the edge of the rink, muttering something about a “total backstab from the ice gods.”

You blink. Then sigh.

What was he even thinking? Seriously —who steps onto the ice like that? With zero coordination. No warm-up. No plan. Just blind faith and vibes.

What an idiot.

His left skate twitches—just as traumatised as he is, face twisting into a painfully awkward grimace, like he’s stepped on a Lego, before weakly throwing up a thumbs-up.

Hand clasped over your mouth, you’re stifling a chuckle which earns you a look that’s part betrayal, part plea for help—as if it’s your fault gravity has it out for him today.

“Should’ve stayed off the ice, genius,” you tease, glancing back at Sunghoon, who’s effortlessly executing a perfect spin.

Jake frowns, wobbling as he tries to stand with all the determination of someone who’s clearly lost the battle already.

“Did I ask for your commentary?”

“I’m just doing my job” you say, hands raised in mock defence, watching him trip over his own feet—again.

Jake winces, rubbing his elbow as he tries to sit up, but before he can say anything, Sunghoon glides over effortlessly, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, coming to a smooth stop beside Jake’s sprawled form.

He leans down, offering a hand with a growing grin. “You alright? Or should we call for penguin-shaped medical assistance?”

Jake glares up at him like a wounded animal, dignity scraped raw along with his knees, before taking the offered hand wearily.

“I knew coming here with the two of you was a mistake. One’s an Olympic hopeful, the other’s a traitor.”

Classic Jake, dragging you both here just to have front-row seats to the chaos.

“I’m not a traitor” you remark “Just an honest observer of natural disasters.”

“Disaster? Please. I was being avant-garde.”

“You were being uncoordinated,” Sunghoon laughs whilst brushing ice off Jake’s jacket —a sound so smooth, it almost makes you forget your brother nearly cracked his skull open.

Jake's scowling, clearly defeated but not willing to admit it and you can’t help but grin at the easy dynamic between them — the teasing, the banter, the subtle care beneath it all.

His hands move carefully over the fabric,but his eyes keep drifting to you — bright and shy, like he's memorising every little detail about you.

You feel his gaze on you, warmth creeping up your neck, your eyes now shifting to your skates.

Oh no—your heart skips, and suddenly, you forget how to breathe and when you finally manage to look up, he's still watching you with a quiet amusement dancing in his eyes

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Jake, still half-covered in frost, groans.

“Oh my god,” he mutters. “Can we not flirt over my frozen corpse?”

“That’s rich, coming from someone who thinks sticky notes are a foolproof flirting method.”

Jake’s eyes widen at your words, and for a split second, he forgets all about his bruised pride and the ice that’s still slowly melting into his clothes. He looks absolutely scandalized, like you’ve just announced his darkest secret to the entire rink.

“Sticky notes,” he scoffs, though there's a slight edge of embarrassment creeping into his voice.

“You’re exaggerating. It was a unique method. And highly effective— you're no longer listening about his “unique flirting” techniques.

Instead your eyes are flickering to Sunghoon who’s pretending to be totally absorbed in adjusting his gloves. You catch the way his lips twitch in amusement, and that quick glance he throws your way —confident, a little teasing before he looks away, like he’s fully aware of the effect he has.

Jake’s eyebrow arches sharply as he catches the subtle exchange, his tangent momentarily forgotten.

“What’s with the secret staring contest?” he shoots out, voice half-amused, half-baffled.

You shrug, face still warm “Nothing.”

Jake’s grin widens like he’s just uncovered a treasure trove of scandals. “Uh-huh. Sure. Nothing.”

You can’t help but let out a soft groan, pressing your fingers to your forehead in a half-hearted attempt to shield your growing embarrassment. Jake’s eyes, gleaming with mischief, are practically twinkling now, and there’s no way to talk your way out of this one.

“Seriously, you two are like this close to turning into a rom-com plot,” Jake teases, wiggling his fingers between you and Sunghoon. 

Sunghoon’s laughter is low, warm, and dangerously close to being too perfect for the moment. You almost can’t decide if it's charming or frustrating at this point.

Jake's grin widens as he watches you squirm, clearly enjoying every second of this. He knows exactly what he's doing, and he’s definitely aware of the subtle tension between you and Sunghoon. After all, he’s your older brother—he would catch on.

You roll your eyes, mentally bracing for the inevitable "Jake, I swear—" but he cuts you off.

“Alright, alright, I’ll give it a break. I won’t push it—for now.” He takes a step back, but not without giving you one last look that says he knows.

“Remember, I’m watching you,” Jake says, eyeing you both with a faint smile. “No funny business. Keep it PG.”

And just when you think he's leaving towards the benches, he turns to Sunghoon "I saw that smile. You’re a guilty man.”

Jake’s now somewhere behind you, perched on a bench — possibly muttering about unspeakable betrayals” and “obvious romantic tension,” or possibly inventing new swear words for ice.

The rink feels quieter now, the chaos dimming to a gentle hum of laughter and the soft scrape of blades against ice. You feel it before you hear it—the shift in the air, the presence that’s almost tangible.

When you glance over your shoulder, Sunghoon’s there, trailing behind, with the same smooth ease as always—his movements are as effortless as breathing.

"Still alive?" his voice is brushing against your ear like a secret.

You bite back a smile. “Barely” you mutter. “If I fall, you’re carrying me out.”

His hands immediately find yours — warm, firm, steady through your gloves. The contact is electric, yet somehow grounding, sending a flutter through you as his fingers curl around yours, guiding, steadying. 

Your heart's stuttering again but he doesn't rush, doesn't grip too hard— just gentle and there’s an undeniable certainty in it.

“You’re bending your knees too much” he corrects softly.

“I’m trying not to faceplant.”

“You won’t.” His hands slide from your fingers to your wrists, curling around them like he’s anchoring you. “You’ve got me.”

Your breath catches, and a flush rises in your cheeks. The rink blurs, but his presence is sharp, a steady pulse beneath your skin.

“Real smooth,” you whisper, tilting your head back to catch his profile — the curve of his jaw, and that illegal dimple smiling at you.

"I try" his voice softens, chin brushing against your shoulder — the contact lingering just enough to make your skin prickle.

“So, this is a lesson?”

He breathes out a small chuckle “Mm. A very hands-on one.”

“You just wanted an excuse to touch me,” you tease, trying to sound casual, but failing.

He shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Guilty.”

“Jake’s gonna murder you.”

“Jake can barely walk.” he mumbles, fingers tracing light, teasing patterns over your sleeves.

You roll your eyes, but a smile betrays you. "You're impossible."

"And that's why you like me."

You glance at Jake who's on the bench, shooting daggers at both of you. Sunghoon leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. "Just wait till we leave," he whispers. "I’ve got more lessons for you."

Jake mouths from behind the glass "Can you two not?" as he dramatically mimes a gag."

Sunghoon flashes you a sly smile "Let’s go before he faints from secondhand embarrassment."

And with that, he's leading you effortlessly — the rink, the chaos, and everything else fades leaving only that warm feeling of his hand in yours.

⊹ enha4everr’s note ⊹ ahhh i’ve finally finished my exams :) i’m really excited to share this fic with y’all. happy reading <3 hehe sulky jake and charming hoon. i know this piece isn't perfect but it's all about growth! i hope to bring more fics for y’all ;)

just a reminder that this piece of writing is from my imagination and does not represent the names mentioned.

taglist: for @chuuyaobsessed

[peskyvinot]

scar finally found grian's end-of-season-9 sign :,)

[fellhellion]

the queer ears remain forever pricked etc etc but going straight into kcd2 from kcd1 is so compelling for me because like. you feel that little shift in how henry and hans speak to one another. you feel the thrum of something below the surface neither of them appear to recognise. they’re still exactly the same men having exactly the same banter but it’s changed, gained a new shade in a way neither have realised at this point I don’t think.

[confused-cakepop]

YOU CAN'T TRICK ME LLOYKITA I'VE HEARD THIS SONG BEFORE!!!

[aventurineswife]

Reader meows at their partner, their partner decides to FINALLY play along and meow back. Reader gives them a judgmental look and gose "grown ass man" and then leaves them seething. (Veritas, Kaveh, Sunday, Dan heng, Kinich.)

“You're a grown-ass man”

Tags: Ratio x Reader, Kaveh x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Kinich x Reader, Humor, Lighthearted Teasing, Playful Interaction, Quirky Conversations, Lighthearted Roleplay, Banter.

A/N: how dare you hurt the pookies?!😕💔

Ratio had been lost in a heap of ancient texts when you meowed at him. His eyes flickered momentarily, then returned to his notes. However, you persisted, meowing once more, tilting your head as if you were trying to catch his attention. After a moment, he set down his book, the faintest smirk curling his lips.

"You’ve got my attention now," he said with a wry grin, leaning back in his chair. "Meow."

You stared at him, eyes narrowing in silent judgment.

"You're a grown-ass man," you quipped, shaking your head with feigned disappointment. Without waiting for his response, you walked away, leaving him seething with embarrassment that even his intellect couldn't resolve.

As the silence of the room settled back in, Ratio muttered under his breath, "I’ll show you… I’ll show you all." His pride, ever so finely honed, would have to settle this matter later, but not today.

You meowed softly, half-joking and half-curious. Kaveh didn’t immediately respond, his mind clearly preoccupied with his blueprints for the next grand design. But after another insistent meow from you, he looked up, blinking in mild surprise.

"I suppose if it’s important to you…" he sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock resignation. "Meow."

You gave him a judgmental glance, one that he knew all too well.

"You're a grown-ass man, Kaveh," you said, your voice light but pointed.

The words stung more than he would admit. Kaveh, ever the perfectionist, stood frozen for a moment, his mind reeling. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He watched you leave, and in that moment, the grand architect of beauty was left questioning his choices with a furrowed brow and a silent, simmering annoyance.

"Unbelievable," he muttered to himself, before returning to his work. His pride would make sure to get even somehow, even if it was just with a sarcastic retort next time.

You meowed at him from across the room, your voice light and playful, but something in it caught Sunday’s attention. His eyes softened for a moment as he processed the unexpected sound.

He blinked, and then, in a rare moment of abandoning his usual reserve, he gave you a small, reluctant smile before offering a soft, almost melodic, "Meow."

You stared at him, eyes narrowing as you crossed your arms.

"You're a grown-ass man, Sunday," you said with a raised brow.

For a second, the smile faded, replaced by a distant look as though your words had struck a deeper chord. Sunday sighed, his wings twitching in mild discomfort, though his face remained calm. His gaze followed you as you walked away, and for the first time, he felt a twinge of something more than just the usual self-reflection.

"Perhaps... I am," he murmured under his breath, lost in thought, a mix of self-awareness and a quiet amusement filling the space as you left.

Dan Heng was leaning against a railing, quietly observing the stars in the distance. He had been contemplating something far beyond the reach of your teasing when you meowed at him. At first, he thought he misheard you, but then, the second meow came, and his eyes shifted toward you in slight confusion.

"...What?" he asked, his tone uncharacteristically soft but puzzled.

You meowed again, this time with a mischievous glint in your eye. He sighed deeply, obviously not used to this playful dynamic. But after a moment of hesitation, he straightened, and with a begrudging look, he muttered, "Meow."

You stared at him, your expression unimpressed.

"You're a grown-ass man." you stated dryly, turning to leave him behind.

Dan Heng, frozen in his position, felt a sudden heat in his cheeks. He scowled at the stars, a small, bitter chuckle escaping his lips. "Unbelievable," he grumbled. A little humiliation wouldn’t be enough to break his stoic composure—but he definitely wasn’t going to let this go. Next time, he’d show you just how stoic he could be.

You meowed at Kinich, catching his attention momentarily as he glanced up from sharpening his knives. His eyes flickered, sizing you up, clearly unimpressed. His lips twitched for the briefest moment before he grunted in annoyance.

"I don’t have time for—" He paused as you meowed again, louder this time.

With a sigh, he put the knife down. "Fine," he muttered, running a hand through his hair, before deadpanning: "Meow."

You stared at him with an exaggerated look of judgment.

"You're a grown-ass man," you quipped, shaking your head.

Kinich froze. His expression soured as he watched you walk away, that slight, reluctant frustration building beneath his usually stoic demeanor. With a resigned sigh, he leaned back in his chair and muttered, "You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today."

Though it wasn’t much of a concession, it was clear to him that next time, he’d let his sarcasm loose.

[fuumiku]

Day 21: Tavern

Pre-canon vs Post-canon 💖

Be careful guys it starts with your coworker asking "What's the name of your hometown?" and next thing you know it's "When is your daughter's wedding happening? Can I help get Flertom ready?" Love love love thinking about them meeting at taverns to think of plans to reconcile Chilchuck with his wife that somehow turn into her planning out a wedding. "Renewing of vows!! It's necessary trust me!!", Marcille argues. She's just having fun, and frankly who's not thinking it's kinda cute of her. He promised it to her alongside meeting his family & now she is claiming her rights

Which hey speaking of, this is kinda similar to the premise of the fic I posted (the first chapter of) the other day, meant for an early prompt in the month! Ten simple steps to not get your wife back! A romcom where Kabru sees their umpteenth efforts to make a plan to reconcile him with his wife, bound to once again go nowhere, and tries to help!... By matchmaking his friends together, because hey Marcille doesn't fake dating sound like the best way to achieve this? Hey Marcille it'll totally work, like in that romance political intrigue novel you read that other time, exactly yeah! Chilchuck is powerless to stop the menace of the two royal advisors working together