MDNI 🔞 if you play with fire too much, be sure that zayne will put you in your place
⋆. — content warnings: soft dom zayne, teasing, doggy style (implied), wall sex, rough sex, brat tamer zayne
He let you get away with too much.
The teasing. The eye rolls. The smug little smirks every time you pushed his buttons and got away with it. Zayne, the stoic doctor with nerves of steel and hands steady even in chaos. You liked to test him. You loved it.
Because every time he narrowed his eyes at you, every time his jaw clenched just so—you knew he was keeping himself in check. And you were the one rattling him.
But tonight... tonight you pushed too far. You’d been snappy all day. Rolled your hips against his thigh during a kiss. Bit his lip harder than necessary. Whispered a filthy dare in his ear right before his scheduled surgery. Left your underwear in his coat pocket.
And then he came home exhausted, drained and still in his scrubs, and found you sprawled on the bed in nothing but a shirt that wasn’t yours, asking in your sweetest voice, “Are you gonna fuck me or just keep pretending you’re not affected, Dr. Zayne?”
He cracked, but not loudly. No. Zayne didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t bark orders. He just locked the door, walked to the foot of the bed, and gave you a look so quiet and cutting it made your stomach drop.
You blinked and hesitated. He stepped forward calmly, collected and so damn commanding. “Now.”
And you moved to get on your knees, because there was no room for bratty behavior in his tone. No space for giggles or eye rolls. Just the weight of his dominance finally slipping into place.
He undressed you slowly—shirt first, then the little gasp you made when his fingers gripped your jaw, tilting your face up.
“You wanted my attention, my love.” he murmured, voice soft but no less cutting. “Now you have all of it.”
The next few minutes were a blur of command and contact. Face down, ass up. His palm against your skin. Measured swats that had your legs shaking. Your moans were half apology, half pleasure, but he didn’t let you speak. Every time your lips parted, he pressed a finger to them or pushed your face deeper into the mattress.
“You act like I won’t put you in your place,” he whispered into your neck as he lined himself up behind you. “But you forget, sweetheart…this body belongs to me and it knows it.”
He didn’t slam into you. He sank in, all the way in. One long, devastating push that left you crying out, clenching down, back arching in surrender. And once he was buried deep, with his hips flush and breath shaking against your spine, he stilled.
“You’re going to take every inch like a good girl,” he said softly. “And tomorrow, when you’re limping, when you feel every bruise, you’ll remember this is what happens when you act out.”
And you did. Because Zayne didn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you. He just needed to decide he wanted to, and you were already too far gone.
It only took a few days for you to regain courage. At first, you swore you’d behave. After the last time—after he left you sore and breathless, legs trembling for two days—you said all the right things. Promised you'd be good. Promised you’d learn.
You didn’t. Not really. Because by the end of the week, you were right back at it—this time more subtle, more teasing. At breakfast, you bent over in front of him in nothing but his shirt, letting it ride up just enough to show that you weren’t wearing anything underneath. When he reached for his coffee, you took it and sipped instead, licking the rim slowly while staring him dead in the eyes.
“Thought you liked it when I misbehaved,” you purred.
Zayne didn’t immediately give a reaction. He just stared like all the times before. But you knew that look too well now. His fingers clenched slightly around his fork. His shoulders held a subtle tension. And when you finally turned around to walk past him, his voice cut through the air, quiet and controlled. “Bedroom. Now.”
You glanced over your shoulder, feigning innocence. “But I haven’t finished my—”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
And that was it. Because this time, Zayne didn’t plan to be patient. The second you stepped into the bedroom, the door slammed shut behind you, and before you could so much as gasp, he had your wrists pinned against the wall.
“You don’t get to act like a little brat,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, “and then pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“No. You were testing me.”
His hands slid down your sides, slow and firm, grounding you in that way only he could. Your breath caught when he lifted your leg, forcing it around his waist, pinning your body between him and the wall.
“No warmup today,” he whispered. “You think you can play games? Fine. Take what you asked for.”
He pushed inside you in one brutal, perfect thrust. Your head slammed back against the wall with a moan, fingers clawing at his shoulders, nails digging into skin through his shirt. His pace was unforgiving, breath hot against your neck, hips snapping forward with punishing precision.
“Is this what you wanted?” he growled into your neck, voice still maddeningly calm. “To limp again? To cry because I’m hitting too deep?”
You couldn’t even answer. You were already gone, voice breaking on every thrust, legs shaking, walls fluttering around him like your body couldn’t decide whether to take him or break from how good he felt.
And Zayne was unrelenting. Not angry nor cruel, but so very intentional in every thrust inside you, every grip on your soft flesh. Every soft, cruel whisper in your ear.
“You want to see how far I’ll go, my love?” he breathed, kissing your jaw just before biting it. “Keep pushing. I’ll make sure you remember just how badly I can break you.”
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