#i just like the triangle background | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

agent4justice · 22 days

Text

Scammers sophistication technique have reached a new apex, making Banking Fraud just like a walk in the park to this crime syndicates with richer background helter-skelters depositors and has been keeping most retirees that reinvested most of their retirement plan sleepless after words of the threat that swept the streets does not seem to have not weakened at all.

Masses are appealing for a more stringent countermeasure to be in place as soon as possible, such are adding more authentication request. Although retina scanner can slow down the process with the amount or rather the size of the data, but it also gives us an opportunity of having time to lockout perpetrators. The size of the data makes it at least 70% better than an iris scan and many more folds multiplied compared to a fingerprint.

Several years ago, I foresaw that the mCommerce (mobile commerce) would be ruled out as the mainstay of electronic processing for the sole reason that it is the most affordable business appliance that can serve the majority, representing the poor to medium class and the trending plot of global economic structure just like a triangle.

Having mCommerce | Mobile Technology as our economic transport offers the possibility of catering and adding the biggest chunk of our global population to pitch in the global trade for us to achieve having reserves and surplus will be more conceivable.

To make it a little impenetrable and globally under tighter scrutiny, I proposed that we adopt the universal identification system. We will integrate every other form of identity attached to it using our mobile number as the key index that will permanently our lifetime phone number. In the event of loss, the telco will make a SIM based on a secret code given to the subscriber upon the receipt of your subscription and issuance, which will be honored and will be service by other Telcos if subscriber opt to change carrier. The number coding of telcos should also compliment tracking effort, narrowed down within the radius and range of a few kilometers apart where the last signal was received or transmitted. The succeeding successful connection recorded by cell sites would enable us to speculate the linear direction as it trends.

We will enable the mobile technology to be a conduit of payment gateways or as a payment gateway itself. Our objective is to open the global trade and cover a larger scope and as far-reaching it could service most specially the marginalized poor a chance to lift their social status getting connected and finally be able to join our bandwagon to the brighter future. The fact can't be denied that they have been left without an adequate means to tap the convenience and business opportunity through eCommerce. Through the mobile payment gateway, even in the absence of a banking system in their region, they can now fulfill the checkout process by loading or charging it from your telco which is even less intricate than having a debit card or as to many known financial credibility.

#mobilepaymentgateway

#mobiletechnology

#mCommerce

#onlinefraud

#RetinaScan

#mobilepaymentgateway

#mobiletechnology

#mCommerce

#onlinefraud

#RetinaScan

#FraudAlert

#Scammers sophistication technique have reached a new apex #making Banking Fraud just like a walk in the park to this crime syndicates with richer background helter-skelters depositors and has been k #Masses are appealing for a more stringent countermeasure to be in place as soon as possible #such are adding more authentication request. Although retina scanner can slow down the process with the amount or rather the size of the da #but it also gives us an opportunity of having time to lockout perpetrators. The size of the data makes it at least 70% better than an iris #Several years ago #I foresaw that the mCommerce (mobile commerce) would be ruled out as the mainstay of electronic processing for the sole reason that it is #representing the poor to medium class and the trending plot of global economic structure just like a triangle.#Having mCommerce | Mobile Technology as our economic transport offers the possibility of catering and adding the biggest chunk of our globa #To make it a little impenetrable and globally under tighter scrutiny #I proposed that we adopt the universal identification system. We will integrate every other form of identity attached to it using our mobil #the telco will make a SIM based on a secret code given to the subscriber upon the receipt of your subscription and issuance #which will be honored and will be service by other Telcos if subscriber opt to change carrier. The number coding of telcos should also comp #narrowed down within the radius and range of a few kilometers apart where the last signal was received or transmitted. The succeeding succ #We will enable the mobile technology to be a conduit of payment gateways or as a payment gateway itself. Our objective is to open the globa #even in the absence of a banking system in their region #they can now fulfill the checkout process by loading or charging it from your telco which is even less intricate than having a debit card o #mobilepaymentgateway #mobiletechnology #mCommerce #onlinefraud #RetinaScan #FraudAlert

0 notes

glitter-epoch · 2 months

Text

-ˋˏ [ nerve endings ] ˎˊ

≪ zayne x afab!reader ≫ - smut under the cut, 18+ ONLY mdni!!! do NOT!!! - part two of this drabble, but all you really need to know is zayne gave you stitches and neither of you are being normal about it. - warnings: smut at the end, afab reader no gender assigned pet names or references, a couple y/n's, reader got stitches in the first part, no explicit description of wound, slight pain from the wound at one point, fingering, zayne is mean and also anxious, he's real for that, zayne's scars mention

again, 18+ under the cut! mdni!

you’re unscrewing the cap on the ointment zayne ordered for you when your phone rings. the two gigantic strides you take to cross to the kitchen are ridiculous, but you’ve been waiting for him to call since his shift ended.

zayne. his name flashes on the screen, right under the time, 8:08 PM. you fumble to get the phone in your hands and put it up to your ear, cap still balanced between your fingers.

“hi,” you breathe out.

zayne is quiet for a moment. something whirrs in the background, mechanical and smooth.

“hello,” he replies, in that somehow monotonous and matter-of-fact tone. “why are you out of breath?”

“nothing,” you swallow. “just...trying to get the cap off the ointment you got me.”

another moment passes. the soft drone of machinery in the background clicks in your mind, finally-

“are you driving?” you ask. surely he’s not-

“not anymore,” zayne says, and the whirring dies. “i’m in your parking lot. i have extra bandages and dinner for you. i’ll leave them outside if you’re not in the mood for company.”

the feelings that pass through you are like a molotov cocktail; fear and excitement and relief all at once. it all burns in your chest. zayne had said he was going to call, but once it got to be past seven o’clock, you wondered if he’d forgotten. and you didn’t really think he would come see you, but...you had maybe thought he might.

“you got me dinner?” you start, nervously. “that’s too much. thank you.”

you’re in your pajamas, gauze pad ungracefully peeking out over the waistband of your fuzzy blue shorts.

“i’m not dressed,” you murmur, unsure of what exactly your goal is in saying so. you do want him to come up-

“i don’t care about that,” he replies. “but if you need time to put something else on, i can wait. i didn’t call you until eight.”

“yeah,” you huff, “what were you doing?”

zayne sighs. “buying you bandages.”

“quit paying for things!”

you look around your apartment. it’s clean, thankfully, uncluttered and dusted; countertops gleaming to the usual degree once they’ve been wiped down. he says he doesn’t care about your outfit, and you believe him.

you can see him in your mind’s eye- buttoning your trousers, zipping them up like it was nothing.

“i’m glad you came,” you say, chest buzzing with nerves. “i’ll come let you in. do you remember which building i’m in?”

“i’m already outside.”

you scamper all the way downstairs, gliding over the complex’s steps so fast it’s a miracle you don’t slip and fall. by the time you get to the bottom, you're out of breath again; the cut over your hip sore.

zayne’s hair is blown over his forehead by a cold breeze that curls in through the open door of the apartment building, quickly sucking all of the warm air out of the lobby. you step aside, ushering him in.

“oh, it’s cold,” you complain, narrowing your eyes out the glass door as you shut it behind him. “are you cold? no. you have that massive coat.”

zayne looks down at his black overcoat; the sharp triangles of the lapels framing his jaw, which is just as sharp. he takes one pale hand out of his pocket to brush the hair out of his eyes. you’re smart enough not to ogle this time, but your eyes do snag on something-

scars. little ones, all over the back of his hand; one deeper, longer one down the center.

if he notices your gaze falter, he doesn’t say.

“it is cold,” zayne chides. “you shouldn’t have come down here in shorts.”

“i was barely outside,” you retort.

“why are you wearing them in the first place?” is zayne’s reply.

“they have cows on them,” you mumble, pointing at the wide nose of one on your shorts. “here, come upstairs. is that soup?”

“yes,” zayne replies simply.

his tone is a little icier than it had been at akso, but his porcelain cheeks are red, and his lips are wet with cold, too. there’s a small black thermal bag on his other arm, and mug in that hand (also scarred, you see, and his fingers move around aimlessly). he’s nervous.

he’s nervous.

you’d grin if you weren’t about to throw up.

. . .

he’s so tall. his shadow seems to stretch out across your living room as he sits down next to you on the sofa; half-a-cushion away. it seems intentional.

“you didn’t have to heat it up for me,” you scold.

zayne nearly ignores this, but provides you with a small mm and shake of his head. “you shouldn’t be reaching up that high, at the microwave; your stitches could tear.”

you inhale, trying to settle in as he clearly does the same beside you. the back of your couch barely meets his shoulder blades. the lights are low, the overheads in the kitchen a distant glow. the resting screen of the television, the far-off lights of linkon, and one small lamp on the side table remain.

zayne’s taken his jacket off, and his usual white button-down is gone. the charcoal-grey slacks remain (they’re tailored. they have to be. nobody’s legs look that good in department store slacks).

his shirt is black, and thermal; with subtle waffling. it looks soft, but it’s tight around his biceps. at this waist, the shirt leaves a tiny bit of room- he's strong, his shoulders are wide, but he’s lean, you think.

things you’d never have noticed in his usual uniform, and also, things you do not need to and should not be noticing.

you avert your eyes only to find him rolling up his sleeves.

Lord. zayne fluffs the rice inside a small plastic box with a fork and stirs a couple of glazed chicken strips into the container, a healthy amount of steamed broccoli also placed in the side tin. instead of handing it to you, he slides it across the coffee table as a small curl of steam rises from the rice.

the vein that starts in center of his palm and disappears through his inner-wrist flexes as he pokes the fork into one of the broccoli florets.

“you don’t eat enough vegetables,” zayne remarks.

he has his glasses on. you’re too busy noticing this to offer a snide reply to his comment. when you do, it’s too late. he’s noticed your staring.

“you don’t eat with me enough to know what i eat,” is your pathetic retort. “and you’re a cardiologist, not a dietician. get another degree and then we’ll talk.”

zayne’s smile is small but victorious. he reaches for the mug on the table and shifts until he’s facing you, knees pointed at yours.

then he starts unscrewing it.

“your heart health is more dependent on your diet than almost anything else,” he says, voice low, almost teasing. “other than the aether core, of course.”

the choice to unscrew the cap right at you, his knuckles moving deftly to twist off the lodged lid, that same center-vein and a few new ones appearing on his forearm. it’s so blatant you’re glaring incredulously at him by the time he offers it to you.

zayne blinks a little after a moment of you ignoring him, hazel eyes looking a little concerned at your coldness. “it’s soup,” he offers. “not as warm as the rice, so you can hold it.”

you lower your chin at him, brows low: “what are you doing?”

it’s more of a statement than a question. and zayne (who’s been weaving this game all day, but now seems to be anxious), says-

“i’m giving you this soup i made.”

he sets it down on the table.

“it’s just broth and some vegetables. protein would have been too much, you already have your chicken.”

for a moment, you think you’ve gained the upper hand. but your eyes trail after his wrists as he sets the thermos down on the table and plucks the fork out of the rice, chicken still attached.

one corner of his lip curls when he notices.

zayne presents the fork to you. when you don’t accept, he cocks his head.

“i came here to make sure you eat dinner and change your bandage,” zayne says. you’re not sure if it’s pure dishonesty; his voice is too difficult to read, as always. “i’m not sure why you’d refuse the food.”

at that, you take the fork, and eat the bite off the end.

“i’m not refusing the food,” you swallow. “and thank you. this was very kind of you. i’m...i’m really surprised, actually.”

the mirth fades from his features. “surprised?”

“i just assumed you weren’t going to call,” you add quickly, almost guilty over how suddenly his demeanor shifts. “it was getting late. i didn’t want to bother you.”

“i told you i’d call,” zayne replies softly. “if i say i’ll do something for you, i will.”

“you do have a good track record of that,” you reply.

he nods. “i know i do.”

gulp. you eat more of the rice, trying to occupy yourself. “this is very good. thank you.”

“you don’t have to say it again. why were you so worried about me calling?”

you peer at him, a ball of rice in your cheek. “i-” you murmur over the rice, and swallow quickly. “i wasn’t worried. well, i worried something might have happened to you, but it would have been fine if you didn’t call. you already gave me stitches for free.”

“i’m your doctor,” is his reply.

“you’re my cardiologist.”

“primary care doctor,” zayne counters. and he leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees. he’s still a head taller than you. “are you averse to me caring about all the other parts of you?”

you inhale sharply to try and hide the flush that bursts in your cheeks. the next time you swallow, he follows it; watches your throat bob.

“no, i’m not averse,” is your stupid reply.

he blinks slowly, like a cat. the smirk returns. “mm.”

“mm,” you bite out, dropping the fork into the box of rice and pressing on the lid. “that was very g...you know i think it was good, but i’m not super hungry right now. i’ll put it away for later, unless you want some?”

you busy yourself with gathering up the box and the mug, so by the time you steal another nervous glance at zayne, it’s the first time you’re seeing him tilt his head forward at you. the pools of his eyes see everything; it’s like he’s looking straight into your skull.

“y/n,” he murmurs, slow.

your own name shocks you. there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s not going to say anything else. it’s not just your name, it’s a question.

he’s asking you what you want.

and he’s ridiculously patient as you sit there, box of rice and thermos in hand, blinking like a dear in headlights. you think of chickening out.

“can you help me change the bandage, please?” you nearly whisper.

. . .

“this cut is technically over your lumbar plexus. there’s a nerve here,” zayne continues. he drags the pad of his finger over the flesh between your hip and the curve of your waist, examining and admiring, like you’re a specimen. “obturator.”

you’re practically ignoring him at this point; your head is swimming, your face is hot as an iron. “obfuscator.”

he actually laughs, albeit softly. “obturator. with a ‘t’.”

“yeah, that’s what i said.”

you’re standing in front of the sofa, holding up the heavy bottom edge of your crewneck. zayne sits on the coffee table in front of you. his left hand traces over the right side of your belly, dances around the stitches he put in earlier. his right hand holds the waistband of your pajama shorts down; pins them to what’s nearly the middle of your thigh.

you’re looking up at the ceiling, trying not to think about how much of the skin over your pelvic bone is exposed. you’re also trying to steal glances at zayne, who you’re certain isn’t really here, and must be a dream.

even looking at him is too much, though.

“you looked that up,” you whisper. “you’re a heart doctor, not a hipbone doctor. you looked up what those nerves were called in the parking lot before i came and got you, cuz’ you knew you were gonna do this.”

“do what?” zayne wastes no time.

“do...”

well. you give up, not wanting to accuse him of seducing you out loud.

he pulls your shorts up for a moment and grabs the ointment beside him. “this shouldn’t hurt,” he says softly. “i’m only putting it around the sutures, not on the cut. then i’ll put a new bandage on.”

“okay,” you breathe.

he pauses. looks up at you. “okay?”

as in, are you okay?

you muster up the courage to look down at him, not actually wanting to alienate him. if he left now, you’d absolutely start sobbing.

“yeah, i’m okay. sorry.”

“don’t apologize. hold still.”

he spreads the ointment onto his fingers. like vaseline, it appears iridescent against the low-light of the television and the distant scape of linkon. you’re trying not to drool over the two fingers he’s placing over your hiphone when you remember.

“your scars,” you say, softly, a little nervous. “were they accidents?”

zayne stiffens. weighs his words. “essentially.”

you nod, not wanting to press any further. “not that it matters-”

you gasp as he starts to spread the ointment around the sutures; a barely-stinging, mostly-cold sensation fluttering like soft wings across your skin. his fingers are cold, not as cold as usual. he’s trying to keep them warm for you.

“yes?” zayne murmurs.

“not that it matters,” you continue, trying to steady your breathing. “but i think they’re beautiful. like tree roots.”

zayne stops for a moment. inhales. you watch the breadth of his shoulders rise and fall until he continues working, circling the cut over your hip with glossy fingers.

“do you?” he asks. almost a whisper.

you furrow your brows at him, surprised to hear a hint of insecurity in his tone. once he secures a new bandage over the wound, you know you’ve waited too long to respond.

“of course,” you manage.

he looks up at you, then; narrow jaw angled expectantly, his jaw shut tight.

“you like them?” he asks again, and his voice is darker than usual.

god.

you nod, unsure of how else to say it. “i like them,” you start. “i like...i like you, yes.”

zayne watches you with such intensity you wonder if he’s trying to melt you down like iron. his fingers tighten on your waistband where he holds down the right corner of your sleep shorts; then he pulls that side down further, other hand coming down over the slope of your waist.

he grips you. his palm ignites with ice; suddenly, extremely cold. you gasp.

“you like me.” zayne challenges.

“i like your scars,” you argue, but you can’t take it back. you’ve already said it.

“you like both,” he replies. his palm smooths down your waist, then snakes around to your front. he places both hands flat to your belly.

you let go of your crewneck, surprised, as he runs his hands up your front and then wraps them around your ribs, caging you in on either side.

“there are nerves here, too,” he mumurs. he doesn’t have to lift his arms up much to reach you like this; he’s barely reaching up to begin with. “an intercostal.” again, his hands dip lower, equally soft and calloused. his thumb presses down right under your ribs. “subcostal.”

“you’re making these up,” you huff, trying not to squirm, not to look too enraptured.

“you were confident enough in my medical expertise to let me put stitches in you.”

“well,” you breathe, “i trust you.”

“you do?” zayne remarks, like he knows exactly how much you trust him; but maybe it astonishes him. “you do...”

“this is your sacral plexus,” he says next, pressing two thumbs in just to the right of your navel. he goes lower, spreads his hands out; they fan like wings as they travel, colder and colder as he nears your pelvic bone. “obturator, again. this is lower, on your thigh; femoral.”

“i’ve heard of the femur.”

he stops to laugh. “you, are...”

you laugh with him, because if you don’t, you’ll scare off; truthfully, you’re deeply afraid of him looking at you underneath your clothes.

he senses this.

“you don’t want me to look at you?” zayne asks, with genuine confusion.

you look down at him. “no, it’s not that.”

“it is. you’re afraid.”

“not of you.”

“of me looking at you,” zayne replies. he considers this, brows knit together in discontent. “you have no idea how many times i’ve thought about seeing you like this.”

his voice is sanguine. this is new for him, too; you’ve both never been here.

zayne looks up at you. he wants to see you, wants to touch you, wants you.

his fingers curl over your waistband, but he stops. “yes or no?”

you watch him, trembling under his gaze, under his grip.

you can’t say it, but you nod. yes.

he looks down instantly, propelled forward, but as he pulls down your shorts, revealing your panties; he seems more interested in your navel. zayne lifts your crewneck with one hand and lets your shorts fall, adjusting as you step out of them. one hand comes flat to your navel, the other runs across the thin fabric covering your heat.

you inhale. the hand on your stomach flexes; small jolts of cold prick your skin.

zayne watches goosebumps rise there. his mouth is open, you notice- just barely, like he doesn’t even know.

“i don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says, almost slurred. “the cold.”

“no, no, it’s fine. i like it.”

he flashes you what’s almost a glare, like it can’t be true. “another thing you like.”

“if it’s you, i like-”

he brushes the pad of his thumb over your clothed cunt; catches the hood of your clit. maybe he doesn’t notice at first, but when you jolt, he hums.

“mmm,” he says. “what were you going to say?”

“if it’s you i like all of it,” you ramble off, “anything. what are you doing?”

“taking my time.”

he presses his thumb to that same spot, now that he’s found it, and rubs circles. meanwhile, you bend backwards; he grabs your waist, steadies you upright, and drags his frozen palms up and down your hips.

“you have to stand up straight, or you’ll tug on the stitches. that will hurt.”

“i don’t...care.”

“that’s only because you haven’t done it yet. hold still.”

you look down at him, gasping as he presses a kiss to the flesh above your panties, next to your cut. his lips are soft, warm, unlike his hands; sheen from his own biting. he does it again, and when you jolt, his grip is firmer.

“i won’t do anything to you if you’re going to tear your stitches,” zayne murmurs.

he loops his fingers through the legs of your panties, pulls them down. you nearly shriek.

“zayne!”

he hasn’t looked down yet, yet; he’s looking into your eyes. “that would be malpractice. also, i can’t stand to hurt you. i won’t, actually- so please, hold still.”

“it’s your fault i can’t be still.”

“try harder.”

when zayne’s gaze lands on your bottom half, naked, the goosebumps on your belly traveling to your cunt; you can tell that he’d been looking at you in the eyes not just to knock you off balance. he’d been preparing himself.

you’d be naive to think he doesn’t know what to do next, but for a moment, you think he might not- his pupils are big as moons.

“hold still,” he says again. this time, with fervor. “please, hold still.”

he touches you like he’s going to work; like he’s been studying for this his whole life. he keeps one hand on your ribs (clearly obsessed with physically feeling your breath hitch) and runs his fingers up the inside of your thigh, opposite of the wound on your hip.

zayne looks up at you once before dragging his finger through the center of your core.

you gasp.

he cocks his head, and grinds his jaw, icy fingers tightening around your ribs. “fuck.”

he keeps exploring, but you’re so stunned to hear him curse, practically drunk just hearing him talk, that you’re too busy examining his stoic but somehow awestruck expression when he finds your clit with his thumb.

“zayne,” you lean forward.

his brows knit together a bit when you say his name, almost confusion, almost disbelief. “say it again, please-”

he doesn’t have to ask, really; you gulp it out. “zayne...”

he lurches forward and presses a kiss to your navel, almost harsh. it stops you from leaning forward too far, but you feel the tug on your stitches.

“ouch,” you hiss.

it’s too loud. zayne hears you; drops you immediately. you’re colder than you were with his hands on you.

“did i hurt you?” he demands.

you grab him, actually; take his hands back, put them where they were.

“no, no- keep going, please, don't...”

you don’t finish. he hears you; rubbing circles with his thumb into the bundle of nerves at the peak of your core. it’s the only finger he can use, technically, from where you’re standing, but something about it is insane.

you’re so worked up about him touching you, breathing in and out like you’ve just come up from underwater; you forget how good it feels, how it will feel, once he finds-

“hm,” you swallow, choking over a gasp.

zayne doesn’t press harder; doesn’t speed up. “like this?”

you nod. his sigh is audible, ragged.

“you can say it, though, can’t you?”

you blink down at him, cheeks burning. “y-yes, like this.”

zayne growls, almost; softly, and digs his opposite fingers into your ribs. you’re not certain, but he may be feeling around for the best spot to feel your heartbeat.

“there’s too many nerves here,” he rasps. “to name. but you’re not really thinking about that right now, are you?”

“i like listening to you,” you choke out.

zayne smirks. it’s a little broken, with how enraptured he is. “i thought you liked my hands.”

“scars,” you retort.

“that was a terrible deflection.” zayne removes his hand from your ribs, too fast, moves down and presses one finger to your heat, inside your folds; he tests it. “can i...”

you lurch forward. he catches you, lets you drape over his shoulders. it was cruel of him to pretend you could stand the whole time, in the first place.

“alright,” he rasps, one big hand rubbing the small of your back. “come here.”

you half-stand, he half-pulls you to the sofa. a red streetlight beneath your apartment blears like a star through the window with the moisture gathering in your eyes.

zayne helps you lay down, slowly; has you put your head on the armest, and your body in his lap.

“this will be easier,” he says, smoothing his palm down your front. “try to lay flat.”

you grind your hips into him, a little humiliated. zayne bucks up; drags a hand over his mouth, either equally humiliated or furious with you.

he snakes his left hand underneath your crewneck and finds your nipple. he squeezes it, experimentally; you arch and he nods.

“see? you have more room to move.”

your nipples pebble under him as he moves about, letting his fingers crawl up to dip into the divot between your collarbones. he presses down there, leans into the ragged breath you take.

“your hoodie,” he hums. “do you want to leave it on?”

for a split second, you’re nervous to take it off. but when you lock eyes with him, and see how much he’s blinking, how desperate he is (despite pretending not to be) almost all of your insecurities vanish.

you sit up, pressing into his lap to shrug off the crewneck. he’s hard underneath you- big.

“oh, my god,” you whisper.

“y/n,” he groans.

zayne exhales sharply and gently cups the space between your shoulder and throat to push you back down. it dawns on you how strong he is, how easily he could throw you around. that, you think, is not in his nature.

he presses his palm flat to the space between your breasts. you watch his eyes dart around, taking in every inch of your torso, of your now naked body on top of him.

abruptly, he takes your clit with the pad of his finger again; but only for a moment, as he tests his middle finger at your center again.

“there are nerves here, too,” he says darkly. “you don’t care about that anymore. can i?”

you nod, practically shimmying down his lap to bring him closer. “yes, please, yes.”

he dips one finger into your cunt, experimentally- but it’s easy. he slides the one finger in, and when you gasp, he takes his chance to slide in a second. you almost sit straight up.

he starts pumping, excruciatingly slow. “do you have any idea how guilty i’ve felt?”

you squirm, whining; he says nothing about it.

“how many times you’ve come in to the office and not known i wanted to touch you like this? you come in for stitches on your hips, here,” he says, dragging his free hand down to ghost over the bandage. “i couldn’t believe it. and you had no idea i wanted you like this; it’s been agony.”

“i did know,” you lie.

“not entirely,” zayne presses, pumping faster in and out of you, “or you wouldn’t be so worked up.”

his hands are so big, his fingers are so long; you can’t imagine being fuller than this.

“zayne,” you whimper. it’s astonishing to you that you’ve ended up like this, but you can’t be bothered to care how you sound.

he breathes deeply, like it’s sex for him every time you say his name.

“you’ve wanted this,” zayne drawls. “how long?”

“always,” you gasp. “a-always.”

“fuck, y/n.”

he picks up the pace one more time and you know this is it- he's determined, needs to see you cum. you squirm and writhe around in his lap, and his free hand follows every inch of it; smoothing up and down your body, but you’re almost certain he’s trying to rile you up more than he’s trying to soothe you.

the coil in your stomach is tightens, taught like a string; you’re close.

zayne leans down and presses a kiss to the shell of your ear.

“i know everything about you,” he murmurs. “about your body. i know how your heartbeat feels; i’ve stitched you together. but this...is better than anything i could have imagined.”

you cry out as you come undone, clenching around zayne’s fingers. he pulls you up into him, careful to keep your hips flat as he holds you to his chest. you bury your face in his neck, riding it out, his fingers still inside you.

“do your stitches feel alright?” he hums.

“shut u-up.”

��✧•

if you know medicine and the nerves are wonky i'm begging you. remain quiet. thanks to ⚡ anon for requesting the first part of this!!! love u all!!

@lost-in-time-wanderer ur tag <3

#l&ds #l&ds zayne #love and deepspace #l&ds smut #l&ds x reader #love and deep space x reader #love and deepspace fic #love and deepspace fluff #love and deepspace smut #l&ds zayne x reader #zayne x mc #zayne x reader #zayne x you #zayne x y/n

860 notes · View notes