zaza

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note: merry christmas y’all😛 i love hugo’s lips and i wanna kiss him for like 4 hours straight, so here you go. it’s been sitting i my drafts for like 3 weeks lol. oh btw, when i write for anyone who has a foreign accent, i hope you guys are reading it in their accent😭. anyway, as always, enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!!!!!

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His lips moved against yours with a softness that felt almost unreal—plush, warm, patient, as though he were learning the shape of you by heart. Each kiss seemed to bloom slowly, like he wanted to stretch the moment until time itself grew heavy and syrup-slow. His hands found your waist, fingers firm but reverent, guiding you backward step by unhurried step until your spine brushed the edge of his bed.

Your breath tangled with his.

Your heart tangled with his.

Everything felt slow, molten, inevitable.

Your hand slid toward his hip almost on instinct, fingertips grazing the waistband of his sweats. The cotton of his boxers whispered against your knuckles—soft, clean, warm from his skin beneath. You tugged him closer by nothing more than that small touch, and he exhaled a sound that trembled against your mouth.

You caught his bottom lip gently between your teeth, drawing a low, breathy hum from him. He answered you with a kiss that deepened by degrees—press, retreat, return—until your soft moans folded together, matching the slow rhythm you always seemed to fall into without thinking, like a song the two of you had known long before you ever touched.

Nothing about this was new.

Not the pull, not the heat, not the way he melted when you kissed him like this.

But this—this pace—was new for him.

Hugo was used to moments snapping open quickly, like doors thrown wide. He was used to desire that rushed, that yielded, that followed wherever he led. Always his timing, his tempo, his want.

But with you… he had learned to slow his hunger.

With you, he was learning patience he never knew he had.

Of course you wanted him—your body made that clear every time you kissed him like you were trying to drink the air from his lungs—but you wanted something more than urgency. You wanted the terrain between you explored inch by inch. You wanted the anticipation, the near-touches, the breaths shared too closely. You wanted time.

For two weeks now, you’d come over, sink into each other’s mouths, let hands skim and wander and learn—until the moment the heat grew too sharp. Then you’d slip away, breathless and warm, leaving him on the edge of something he never reached.

At first, it frustrated him.

He wasn’t used to stopping.

He wasn’t used to wanting and not taking.

But now… now he savored it.

He liked the slow unraveling.

He liked the way kissing you felt like hours wrapped in silk.

He liked that you made him wait—not out of denial, but out of intention.

Out of depth.

In a world where everything came too easily, where desire was fast and hollow and always within reach, you made him feel something he didn’t expect:

You made him linger.

You made him feel the gravity of wanting you.

You made him need the moments before anything else.

And God, did he love the way that felt.

He guided you down onto the bed with a tenderness that felt almost ceremonial, his body following yours in a slow descent until he hovered over you—arms braced on either side, legs framing you as though he were building a world where only the two of you existed.

“Scoot back, bébé,” he murmured, tapping your thigh with a gentle command.

You kept your fingers curled around the collar of his shirt as you slid upward, never breaking eye contact. The headboard met your back, and before you could settle, his hand slipped behind your neck, easing you into the pillows as you tugged him down again.

“Come here,” you breathed, teeth catching your lower lip, a tiny smirk playing at your mouth.

He obeyed instantly, falling back into your kiss like he’d been waiting for permission to breathe. His hands roamed with controlled urgency—gripping your waist, your hips, the edge of your thigh—as though he couldn’t decide what part of you he needed most.

Your legs wrapped around him, drawing him closer, and he caught them in his palms, holding you with a firm, almost protective gentleness. One of your hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the warm curls there, while the other lingered low on his waist, brushing repeatedly against the soft, heated space between you as his slow rocking pulled your bodies into a rhythm.

“Keep your hand there,” he whispered, breath warm against your cheek.

His own hand rose, fingers tracing the line of your throat before resting lightly against it—not to restrain, but to feel you. To feel your pulse.

The flutter beneath his fingertips quickened, blooming against his touch like a secret you couldn’t hide.

A soft sound escaped you—half breath, half need—and he answered with a sharp inhale, his body reacting before he could temper it. Even after two weeks of moments just like this, he still wasn’t used to how intensely you affected him.

How just the sound of your voice, or the way your heartbeat stuttered when he touched you, could send heat rushing through him so swiftly.

He lived for that shift—

that quickening,

that unguarded response,

that proof written in your pulse that you wanted him just as deeply.

And tonight, it hit him again, settling low and warm in his chest:

He would wait as long as you asked.

As long as it took.

Because these moments—slow, breathless, aching—

were becoming his favorite kind of high.

This time felt different—charged, fragile, intentional.

You didn’t stop him.

You didn’t pull away.

You didn’t break the moment the way you had every time before.

Instead, you let the quiet between you grow warm and electric, letting the space inside your ribs open for him.

After nearly an hour of kissing—slow, drawn-out, addictive—you felt something inside you shift.

Your body wasn’t just humming; it was pleading.

Not the kind of need you could tamp down and tend to later.

Not the kind you could soothe with your own hands once you were home and alone.

This time, you needed him.

“Hugo…” you moaned, breaking the kiss, your lips brushing his as you spoke.

He lifted his head just slightly, eyes fluttering open—hazy, heavy, bliss-soft.

“Hm?” he hummed, the sound low and sleepy, like he’d been drifting somewhere warm with you.

“I want… you to touch me,” you whispered, keeping your eyes locked to his, letting him see the truth in them.

You didn’t blink.

You didn’t hesitate.

You wanted him to know you meant every syllable.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—soft, not arrogant—but his response came quickly, voice dropping into something low and reverent.

“Want me to touch you, hm?…”

He brushed his thumb along your jaw, slow enough to ask again without words.

“Where?” he asked gently, already knowing, already feeling the answer in the air between you but needing the confirmation.

You took his hand and guided it down, both your hands moving together to the heat blooming between your thighs.

Even through your clothes, you felt his breath catch.

“Here?” he murmured.

“Mhm…” you hummed, your hips giving the smallest answering roll.

“Here,” he repeated, voice nearly a whisper. “Okay, bébé.”

He licked his lips, anticipation softening the edges of his expression.

Nothing rushed.

Nothing greedy.

Just want—deep, focused want.

“How you want it? Fast? Soft?” he asked, searching your face, waiting for the exact instruction that would let him give you everything you were asking for.

Your body answered before your mouth did—your hips rocking again, the tiniest movement, but enough to send heat spiraling through your spine.

“Soft… please,” you said, breath shaky with need.

He didn’t make you wait another second.

His hand slipped into your shorts with slow, deliberate care—knuckles brushing your skin, fingers gliding over warmth as they dipped beneath your panties.

You opened your legs a bit wider, giving him space, giving yourself over to the moment.

His breath hitched softly.

You felt it ghost over your cheek, warm, hungry, reverent.

He leaned down, lips grazing the shell of your ear, and as his fingers found your center—bare and velvet-soft—your breath stuttered like it was trying to escape your body.

He touched you gently, exactly as you asked—soft strokes that made your eyelids flutter and your back arch instinctively.

“Is this how you like it?” he whispered, his voice a warm curl in your ear.

“Yes…” you whispered, barely audible, “just like that, Hugo…”

His lips drifted down your neck, slow enough to feel every breath you took.

He kissed you like he was tasting you with his mouth open—soft presses, slow drags, carefully placed nibbles that matched the rhythm of his hand.

Your fingers dug into his biceps, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your palms.

He felt solid, warm, grounding, and gently overwhelming.

“Mmh… yes… that feels so good—” you groaned softly, your voice catching on the end.

He exhaled sharply through his nose—quiet, aroused—but kept his movements slow, careful, intentional.

His fingers pressed a little more firmly, moving in gentle circles that made the heat coil low and deep inside you.

He felt your pulse through your thighs, felt your breath stutter, felt your hips rise to meet him.

“Look so good like this. Pretty girl” he murmured, kissing the curve of your jaw.

He loved the way your body reacted—how nothing about this was performative or rushed.

Just real.

Just you.

Just want.

Your pulse fluttered beneath his touch—wild, blooming—and he felt it, soaked in it, drank it.

His voice dropped to a low murmur by your ear.

“Can’t wait to be inside of you”

You were already falling into a trance—your breath uneven, your voice a soft, constant hum.

And he kept touching you, slow and tender, building the moment like a song he didn’t want to end.

Every nerve in your body was awake, every breath a tremor, every heartbeat a drum echoing through your chest. His touch wasn’t just sensation—it was language, a slow, deliberate poem that traced the edges of your skin, mapped the geography of your desire, and pulled it taut until it vibrated with need. You arched toward him without thought, hips lifting, letting the warmth coil tighter, spiraling like fire inside you. The soft friction, the glide of his fingers, the weight of him leaning in close—it all wrapped around you like a current, a tide you had no wish to resist.

Your senses burned with awareness. The faint scent of him clung to your nose and made your stomach flutter. The soft, almost imperceptible rustle of the sheets beneath you, the delicate catch of your breath, the quiet hum of the city outside, all blended into a slow symphony that existed only for the two of you. You could taste the warmth of him in every kiss, every breath that brushed your lips, every soft exhale that trembled through the space between your mouths.

His fingers moved with meticulous care, coaxing, circling, exploring. Every gentle press was matched by your body’s subtle response: a quiver of your thighs, a gasp caught in your throat, a tilt of your hips. You felt the coiling, the slow building of something that had been simmering for weeks, something that had been patient, restrained, savored. And now, finally, it demanded to be released.

“Shh… s’okay” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice was a soft vibration, curling through you, wrapping around the coil of tension in your belly. “Let me have it. I want it”

You clung to him, fingers tangled in his hair, thumb brushing along the tense line of his neck. Your hips moved almost unconsciously, pressing toward him in silent invitation, in rhythm with the slow, deliberate strokes of his fingers. The sensation pooled low and deep, rolling through you like molten silk, gathering intensity with every heartbeat, every gasp, every tremor that escaped your lips.

“Feels… so good… Hugo…” you whispered, voice breathy, fragile, needing. Your chest rose and fell, uneven with anticipation, your back arching toward him as he followed every curve, every shiver, every sigh.

He pressed closer, letting the weight of his body ground you as his fingers drew soft, demanding circles that made your world narrow to a single, exquisite point of sensation. You could feel the heat spiraling, a tight coil that expanded with every brush, every glide, every gentle, insistent movement. Time seemed to stretch, to thicken, to hold you suspended in this moment that was both infinite and fleeting.

“Look at me,” he murmured, his eyes dark, heavy-lidded, almost reverent, catching yours and holding them. You could see the awe in his gaze, the way he marveled at you, at your body, at the way you surrendered to him with nothing but trust and desire.

You shivered, letting your lips brush his in a soft, tremulous kiss. “Ugh- please. Please” you whispered against him.

He hummed, a low, vibrating sound, and let his hands follow the silent commands of your body. Slowly, deliberately, he traced, coaxed, guided, each movement careful, reverent, full of intention. The sensation built, spiraling higher and higher, until it curled through your spine, pooling in your chest, your stomach, your thighs, until it was all-consuming, luminous, unstoppable.

Your climax came in waves, slow and rolling at first, then fast and consuming, each one leaving you trembling, gasping, lost in the heat of it. Your fingers dug into his arms, clutching him as if holding him close could hold the world still. Your voice caught on the edge of every breath, every soft moan spilling into the quiet, and he caught them all, memorized them, let them linger in the warm, electric space between you.

When the tide ebbed, leaving you shivering and glowing, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes soft, lips brushing your temple. “You okay?” he whispered, voice husky, gentle, reverent.

You nodded, still trembling, cheeks flushed. “Yeah…” you giggled, “I’m good” fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

A soft smile curved across his lips, the kind that held secrets and promises. “That was a big surprise” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “But I like it.”

For a long moment, you stayed like that, tangled together, breathing, hearts slowing, letting the heat settle and the quiet deepen. Outside, the faint hum of the city persisted, but inside, there was only the lingering warmth, the soft echo of touch, the intimacy of shared moments held like fragile treasure.

Finally, you shifted slightly, brushing a hand along his arm. “I should… go,” you said softly, voice reluctant, heavy with the desire to stay, to linger in the warmth a little longer.

He caught your gaze, a secret fire sparking in his eyes. “Yeah… but soon. Soon again, right?”

You pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his temple, savoring the warmth of his skin, the quiet tremor in his chest beneath your hand. “Soon,” you whispered, and he mirrored it, the curve of his lips a private promise that made your heart flutter.

You dressed slowly, savoring the memory of his hands, the soft echo of his breath, the lingering pulse of intimacy that clung to you. The sheets smelled faintly of him, of warmth, of moments held too long to let go entirely.

When the door closed softly behind you, you didn’t feel empty—you felt full, aware, alive, carrying the heat, the quiet thrill, the memory of him with you. And you knew, without needing to look back, that he felt the same, that the room still held the weight of your presence, that anticipation lingered like a secret shared between the walls.

As you walked away, a shiver ran through you—not just from the memory of what had happened, but from the thought of next time. That slow, electric intimacy, the careful, reverent exploration, the thrill of wanting and being wanted—would return. And when it did, it would be even more exquisite.

Somewhere behind you, Hugo leaned against the edge of the bed, eyes closed, a small, private smile curling at the corners of his lips. He traced the empty space you had occupied, imagining the warmth of your skin, the curve of your thighs, the tremor of your hips, and the soft, breathy sounds that lingered in his mind.

And in the quiet, he knew the next time would come—slow, intentional, impossible to resist. And he couldn’t wait.