Work Text:
The atmosphere in Zayne’s office felt thicker than usual — warm, close, and charged with something you couldn't quite name. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air — spicy, yet calming. Safe. The crinkle of paper beneath you echoed too loudly as you shifted on the exam table. You were here for your monthly check-up and had just finished answering the routine questions. Across from you, Zayne slid on a pair of gloves, the latex stretching taut over his fingers with a soft, deliberate snap. The sound rippled through the quiet space, and for some reason, your heart tripped on the next beat.
“Throat still bothering you?” he asked, his voice a smooth, low current of sound that seemed to settle in your chest rather than your ears. You complained to him earlier that week over a text that if felt like your throat was bothering you. He told you to take some over-the-counter soothing lozenges and if it was still a problem, he would check during your next visit. Zayne’s storm-gray eyes swept over you, steady and sharp, like he could read every unspoken thought if he just watched long enough.
You cleared your throat, an action that felt painfully ironic. “Yeah, scratchy. Kind of… tight.”
“Hmm,” he murmured, eyes narrowing with that razor-sharp focus you’d seen him wear a hundred times before — clinical, assessing, but somehow never cold. He stepped closer, his movements fluid, controlled.
“Let me check,” he said, and the authority in his tone left no room for argument.
He stood before you now, close enough that the faint warmth of him reached you, closer still when he tipped your chin up with two gloved fingers. His touch was firm but not rough, his thumb skimming the underside of your jaw like it was a point of quiet control. His eyes flicked down to your mouth, lingering for a second too long before he tilted his head, his gaze darkening.
“Open for me,” he said softly, his eyes lifting to yours, holding you there with that quiet, undeniable pull.
Your breath hitched, and you obeyed, parting your lips slowly. His thumb hovered just under your bottom lip, his fingers resting lightly along your jaw. The warmth of his touch seeped through his gloves and into your skin, grounding you in a way that was anything but calm.
“Wider,” he murmured, his voice dropping just a fraction lower — a shade rougher, like gravel under silk.
You did as he asked, lips parting wider, your heart drumming steadily in your ears. He stepped closer, close enough that his waist was just shy of brushing your knees. His fingers moved with precision, his thumb pressing down on your bottom lip. The slow drag of latex over your skin sent a ripple of warmth down your spine, unexpected and unrelenting.
"Good," he murmured, his eyes locked on yours like they were tethered. His other hand lifted, his gloved index finger catching on the edge of your lip before he slipped it inside. The pressure was gentle at first — a light, teasing graze along the curve of your teeth.
“Breathe through your nose,” he instructed, his tone so calm it felt unfair given the storm building just under your skin. His fingers moved with methodical patience, tracing the inside of your cheek with slow, deliberate strokes.
You tried to follow his instructions, but your breath came in shallow pulls. You could feel every inch of him — the push, the slow curl, the subtle pressure as his middle finger joined the first. The way they moved together was maddening. One firm press, then a retreat. Another sweep along the roof of your mouth, slow and purposeful. The drag of latex against sensitive skin heightened every sensation, each motion more distinct than the last.
His eyes never left you. Every shift of his fingers was measured, deliberate, like he was testing your reaction. The way his gaze dropped to your mouth, watching the way your lips stayed pliant under his touch, sent a flood of warmth coiling low in your stomach.
“Still okay?” he asked, his voice low and rough like it had been worn down to something raw.
You nodded, your throat tight for an entirely different reason now. The corners of his mouth curled into the faintest smile — barely there, but enough to make your pulse spike.
“Good,” he said softly, his eyes hooded, his attention unwavering. His thumb pressed at the edge of your mouth, a slow, steady stroke along the crease, coaxing it wider. His fingers inside moved with a rhythm that felt too deliberate, too knowing — a slow drag forward, then back, brushing against the ridges at the roof of your mouth. The pressure shifted as he pressed deeper, filling the space with a quiet certainty, as though he’d done this a thousand times.
Your hands curled at the edges of the exam table, gripping tight as warmth bloomed behind your ribs, molten and slow. The soft push and pull of his fingers felt too intentional, too precise, as if he was taking his time to map every inch of you. You swallowed around him, your tongue pressed tight against his fingers, and the sharp breath he pulled in wasn’t lost on you.
“Relax,” he murmured, his voice like smoke curling around you, seeping into every space it could reach. “Just like that.”
Your lashes fluttered, heart drumming faster now as your breathing grew shallow. The drag of his fingers was steady, the soft pull of them retreating just enough before they eased forward again. A slow, building ache unfurled in your chest — a need that had nothing to do with the check-up you’d come in for.
“Doing so well,” he murmured, eyes heavy-lidded as his thumb swept along your bottom lip again, slow, rhythmic. His fingers pressed in, filling every inch of space they could find, curling just enough to make you feel it. “Almost done.”
He didn’t sound like he was in a hurry.
His fingers lingered longer this time, curling slowly before retreating in one long, unhurried motion. The slide of them past your bottom lip left a soft, stinging tingle in their absence, and you fought the instinct to close your mouth too quickly.
He eased his gloves off with a practiced snap, eyes still on you as he spoke. “Looks like you’re in perfect health,” he said, his gaze dropping once, briefly, to your lips. His tongue swept along his bottom lip, slow and thoughtful, and the air between you grew far too still.
"Thanks," you managed, your voice rougher than it had been when you arrived. You slipped off the exam table, feet hitting the floor with a quiet thud. Your knees felt less steady than you’d like, and you refused to look at him as you straightened your clothes.
“Anytime,” he replied, and something in his voice caught you — a shift in tone, subtle but sharp enough to feel.
When you glanced up, his eyes were already on you, fixed with a weight you felt all the way down to your bones. His gaze dropped to your mouth once more, just a flicker, quick but unmistakable. The look wasn’t clinical. It wasn’t professional.
Your breath caught as you gripped the strap of your bag, heart still thudding in your chest.
“See you next time,” you said, and you didn’t wait for his response as you turned to leave.
But as you reached the door, you swore you could still feel the slow, steady drag of his fingers — and the weight of his gaze, tracking you all the way out.