O' gold-winged messenger of mighty gods

it’s wrong in the way things only ever are when they feel inevitable.

you’ve known him too long. seen him in too many soft moments—half-asleep on your couch, glasses crooked, shirt wrinkled from the way he curls in on himself when he’s tired. zayne is your best friend. the one who shows up with groceries when you forget to eat. the one who lets you steal his hoodies and never asks for them back. the one who sits too close, touches too casually, looks at you like he already knows how you feel but is pretending not to.

and now you’re in his lap.

really in his lap. not hovering. not perched. fully straddling him, thighs sinking into the heat of his, your weight settling in a way that makes his breath hitch sharply in his chest. you can feel him everywhere—the solid line of his thighs, the firm plane of his stomach under your palms, the hard, unmistakable press of him through his sweats, right where you’re already aching.

“this is a bad idea,” you whisper, but you’re already rocking forward.

zayne swears under his breath.

his hands come up like he doesn’t trust himself, hovering at your hips for half a second before gripping you properly, fingers digging in through the fabric of your shorts like he needs the anchor. like if he doesn’t hold you, you’ll disappear.

“yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “i know.”

you grind down again anyway. slow. just enough to feel how hard he is, how he twitches when your clit catches the seam of his sweats. the friction is maddening—fabric on fabric, heat building too fast, your panties already damp and clinging in a way that makes you whine before you can stop yourself.

zayne groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re gonna kill me.”

his hips buck up once before he can help it, a sharp jerk that drags a broken sound out of your throat. you grab at his shirt, fingers curling tight in the cotton, and for a second you’re both just breathing—heavy, uneven, like you ran up too many stairs and forgot how to come back down.

“don’t,” you whisper, even as you do it again. grind. slow and needy. “don’t move.”

he laughs, breathless and strained. “you’re the one on top.”

“then let me,” you say, and it comes out more desperate than you meant it to. more honest.

his hands tighten. he lets you use him.

that’s what makes it filthy. the way he stays still—muscles tense, jaw clenched, breathing wrecked—while you rock against him like you’re chasing something you’ve wanted longer than you’ll ever admit. the way his eyes track every movement of your hips, dark and blown out, lips parted like he’s one breath away from losing it completely.

your forehead drops to his. noses brushing. breaths mingling.

“you’re so wet,” he murmurs, stunned, like he can feel it even through the layers. “jesus… i can feel you.”

you whimper, nodding, grinding harder now, faster, chasing that dull pressure building low in your stomach. your thighs tremble, slick heat spreading, and every time your clit drags over him you see stars.

zayne’s control frays. his hips start to meet yours, slow at first, like he’s testing himself—then rougher, desperate, rutting up into you like he needs it, like he can’t stop. his hands slide up your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades, holding you tight against him so there’s no space left at all.

“we shouldn’t,” he pants, even as he does it again. “we’re—fuck—we’re best friends—”

“i know,” you gasp, grinding down hard, soaking him through. “i know.”

and that’s all either of you needs. you cum like that—clothed, messy, grinding against your best friend’s cock on the couch you’ve shared a hundred lazy nights on—crying his name into his mouth while he bites back a groan and spills into his sweats, hips stuttering, hands shaking like he doesn’t know what to do with all of it.

after, neither of you moves. you stay in his lap, breath slowing, forehead tucked into his neck, bodies still pressed together like if you separate it’ll all become real.

zayne’s arms stay locked around you. “we’re so fucked,” he murmurs.

you don’t answer. you just cling tighter.