💋🧵 | Glazed Under the Sun | Caleb 🍎
↻+♡ appreciated
“Caleb!!! What are you wearing that skin tight slutty ass swimwear for?” you blurt out.
Caleb playfully clutches his chest in mock offense.
“Ouch, Pips, harsh!! Slut-shaming much?” he grins.
He’s showing off his swimwear for the beach trip next weekend. It’ll be you, him, Gideon, Gideon’s crush and a couple of their other friends. Gideon basically invited everyone. He’s not quite brave enough to be alone with his crush yet.
“To be fair, Gideon bought a 2-for-1 pack and gave me the one. Might as well wear it.” He shrugs, though he doesn’t sound fully convinced himself.
“Does his fit look like this too?” you ask, circling him slowly. “He might be sabotaging himself, if you show up.”
You sigh and stare at his shorts.
“They couldn’t be any tighter, could they? Seriously, Caleb! No one but me deserves to see all that bakery of yours.” You tug at the fabric, trying and failing to cover his humongous ass a bit more.
“Can’t hide the goods. My bad~,” he smirks. “Besides…the bakery only serves you. And at least I might get a good tan everywhere,” he smirks.
“Go change, Caleb,” you say unimpressed.
“Remember the hot springs?” he replies. “That outfit’s the alternative.”
“Absolutely not. What happened to your normal swimwear?”
“Washed it too hot. It’d fit over one thigh now…yours, not mine.”
You sigh, eyes examining his half-naked body. It doesn’t help that Caleb is just so…big. Everything about him is.
Caleb noticed your gaze linger on his body.
“You’re allowed to touch, you know…” he says, though you can’t tell if he’s saying it for your benefit or his own.
“I can literally count your veins, Caleb.”
“My veins?” He lifts his arm, inspecting them.
You shake your head. “No…not those…” Your fingers trace over the veins along his lower abdomen. “….These.”
Caleb tenses up real quick. His cock immediately starts twitching, every muscle goes rigid.
“I can’t risk Gideon’s crush seeing them, what if she..” you dig your fingersnails slightly into his skin, “…thinks she’s allowed to explore where they lead to?”
There’s a smirk on his face.
“You’re welcome to try and get rid of them before that,” he slowly guides your hand over his hardened cock.
“Maybe by…,” he presses your hand more firmly against him, “…using your tongue? Try to see if you can lick them away?”
“Or maybe…” you tighten your grip on his cock, making Caleb’s body jerk forward in agony, “…you’ve got one week to return this belt of a swimsuit if you ever want me to touch you down there again.”
You ease your grip and let go of his dick, taking a step back.
“So…what is it?”
Caleb grins through the lingering pain.
“I like it when you’re like this.”
“CALEB!” you yell,” You’re not supposed to enjoy this, oh my god!!”
Caleb pulls you into a hug, locking you in his muscular arms.
“No, I don’t want a hug,” you protest. “Also—aaah—your cock is poking into me. That’s not fair.”
“Relax, Pips,” Caleb laughs. “I’m just playing with you. These are the shorts I accidentally shrunk in the washing machine. I got myself a proper new one.”
“What?” You stop squirming and free yourself from his grip.
“What do you mean, what? Did you look at me? Once I’m hard, my dick is basically hanging out of my shorts. I can’t walk around like that. And you know damn well…I get hard just looking at you.”
You glance down at his crotch and realize it is indeed peeking out. You giggle. “Well…yeah, I mean…yes…fair.”
“Uh-huh. I think I deserve a little apology, no?” Caleb crosses his arms.
“I’m sor— actually, no. How was I supposed to know you were joking? Besides, you—Seriously??!!”
Caleb interrupts your rant, hands suddenly hooking into the waistband of his swim shorts as he’s tugging them a little lower.
“I think I’ve got something on those veins when you were squeezing me so hard,” he says innocently, though there is a cheeky grin on his face. “Could you…help me clean it up?”
“Why should I?” you huff, glaring at him, but not entirely unaffected by the sight of his leaking cock.
“Because…” his voice is low and flirty, “…this bakery gives a special glazing to its regulars.”He slips his shorts off completely. “Plus… you always ask for extra filling.”
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For the Valko requests, I would love to see some cute family fluff between MC, Valko, his cousins, grandma, and his sister (I think he had a sister in his lore, correct me if I am wrong), because I want to see how MC would get along with Valko's family. 🐺
𝐀 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄
synopsis: when valko brings you home for the first time, he warns you about everything: his grandmother’s food, his sister’s stare, his cousin’s stories, the family jokes that always cut too close. he forgets to warn you that love in his house is not gentle or quiet, but loud, practical, mercilessly observant, and served warm at the kitchen table.
cw/tw: valko x reader. very soft domestic fluff. light family teasing.
read here: ao3 ⋅ tumblr
Valko lost his nerve three steps from the door.
It was a small death, but you saw it happen; the brave lift of his chin, the twitch in his jaw, the small, tragic collapse of his entire face when a crash came from inside the house.
His hand tightened around yours.
“Dobro,” he said.
Another crash.
From inside, and older woman called, “If that's my good plate, I will put someone in the ground before supper.”
Valko closed his eyes. You turned toward him.
He opened one eyes. “She loves plates.”
“More than people?”
“Depends on the people.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and relief moved through him all at once, softening his shoulders, loosening the frightened line of his mouth. He'd been nervous all morning. Badly nervous. Valko, who could grin with blood on his teeth and make danger look like a door he'd simply forgotten to knock on, had spent the whole walk here giving you warnings no sane person could have prepared for.
Do not let Mika read your palm. He makes things up and then believes them.
Do not compliment Baba's curtains unless you want curtains.
Do not say you're full.
And, most importantly, if anyone mentions the soup incident, Valko had said, grave as a condemned man, they're lying.
You had asked what the soup incident was.
He had started to walk faster.
Now he stood before the old wooden door with your fingers caught in his, trying to look calm and producing, somehow, the exact expression of a wolf about to be bathed.
“Valko,” you said softly.
“Yes?”
“You're shaking.”
“I'm not shaking.”
“You are.”
“I’m containing myself.”
“From what?”
“Hereditary embarrassment.”
The door flew open.
A girl about his age stood on the other side, dark-eyed and grinning, with flour on her cheek and murder in her posture. She took one look at Valko’s hand around yours, then lifted her gaze to his face with the slow delight of someone finding a knife exactly where she had hoped one would be.
A slow smile cut across her face.
“Oh,” she smirked. “So this is why you changed your shirt twice.”
Valko made a sound. Small, wounded, entirely unlike a wolf.
“I changed once.”
“You changed twice. The first shirt was the blue one. The second was the one that made you look like you were going to court. This...This is the third.”
His ears went red.
The woman held out her hand to you. “Milena. His sister.”
“Unfortunately,” Valko added.
“Fortunately. Without me, you'd still think soap is optional in winter.”
“It isn't optional.”
“Because of me.”
You took Milena's hand. Her grip was warm, firm, and full of judgement she hadn't yet decided to use.
Behind her, the house breathed out heat. Bread, onions, some in old wood, something sweet cooling on a counter. There were voices everywhere, layered and crossing. One person laughing while another complained, a child humming under a table, chairs scraping, a kettle whistling like a bird losing patience.
Milena stepped aside. “Come in before Baba starts saying we were raised by wolves.”
Valko muttered, “We were.”
She looked at him. “And still, some of us learned manners.”
You crossed the threshold. The house was smaller than the noise made it seem, or maybe the noise had simply learned to fill every corner. Framed photographs climbed the walls in crooked rows. Herbs hung drying above the kitchen window. Nothing matched, and yet everything looked touched, mended, argued over... kept.
Valko leaned close as he helped you out of your coat.
“Last chance,” he whispered. “We can run.”
You looked past him to where an old woman stood near the stove, hands folded over her apron, watching you with bright, wolfish eyes.
“Too late,” you whispered back. “I think she heard you.”
“I hear everything,” the old woman said.
Valko went still.
Milena smiled into her shoulder.
The old woman crossed the kitchen with the slow authority of someone who had ruled this house before any of them had teeth. She was small, broad in the shoulders, silver-haired, with flour on her wrist and no softness wasted in her face. The softness, you realised, was elsewhere. In the bread covered by a towel, in the chair pulled out before you reached it, in the way Valko lowered his head without being asked when she came close.
“Baba,” he said, and for the first time that day, his voice lost its jokes.
She, of course, ignored him.
Instead, she took your face between both hands.
Her palms smelled of rosemary, yeast, and soap. Her thumbs rested beneath your cheekbones, and for one strange second the whole house seemed to lean closer. The cousins, the kettle, the old boards, even Valko, holding his breath beside you.
“So,” Baba Vesna said. “You are the reason he forgets to eat.”
“I eat,” Valko protested.
Teta Marika appeared by the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “You came here last week, opened the pantry, stared at a sack of potatoes for six minutes, then said, ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’”
“That was taken out of context.”
“What was the context?” you asked, because love had made you brave and terrible.
Valko looked betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
A boy leaning backwards on his chair nearly lost balance from laughing, another cousin caught the chair by its back without looking up from peeling an apple.
Baba Vesna patted your cheek once and released you. “Sit, dušo. Eat something before my family embarrass me properly.”
Valko gave a strangled laugh. “Before?”
No one listened to him.
You were placed at the long wooden table as if the decision had been made before you arrived. A bowl appeared, then bread, then butter, then a small plate of pickled vegetables. Teta Marika, Valko's aunt, kissed the air beside your cheeks and took the small gift you had brought. Mika announced that he already knew your favourite colour from Valko’s face. Luka told him that was the stupidest sentence ever spoken in the kitchen, which Mika accepted as praise. The little one beneath the table emerged, solemn and bread-dusted, and introduced himself as Niko.
“Are you going to marry him?” Niko asked.
Valko walked directly into the side of a chair.
The whole kitchen paused. You pressed your lips together.
Milena leaned against the doorway, radiant with cruelty. “Careful, Niko. Val only has two knees.”
“Niko,” Teta Marika turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “We ask guests if they want juice first.”
Niko nodded, absorbing this etiquette with grave importance. “Do you want juice before you marry him?”
Valko covered his face with both hands. You bit down on your smile so hard it almost hurt. This wasn't what you had expected.
Some foolish, frightened part of you had imagined a den in the old sense. Teeth, watchful eyes, a family arranged around blood and law, waiting to decide whether your bones could be allowed near theirs. Valko had never spoken of them casually. Whenever he said home, something tender and embarrassed moved through him, as though the word itself had fingers and knew exactly where to touch.
Now you sat beneath a crooked lamp while his grandmother tore bread with her hands and put the first piece on your plate.
“Eat,” Baba Vesna said.
You obeyed.
The bread was warm enough to steam between your fingers. The crust cracked softly, butter melted into it in golden lines. Across the table, Valko watched you take the first bite as if your mouth held judgment from heaven.
You chewed. Swallowed.
“It’s delicious.”
Baba Vesna clicked her tongue. “Of course it is wonderful. I made it.”
Mika leaned towards you. “He talked about you after the market yesterday.”
Valko’s hand hit the table. “No.”
“Yes, you did” Luka said sticking his tongue out.
“No.”
“You said, and I quote, 'she chooses fruit with such care'.”
The table went quiet for half a breath, your hand stilled around the bread. Valko looked at Luka as if betrayal had entered the room wearing his cousin’s face.
“That was private.”
“You said it in the kitchen.”
“That makes it private.”
Milena sat across from you and rested her chin in her hand. “He also said you have kind hands.”
Valko’s mouth opened, nothing came out. Your heart did something foolish inside your chest.
The teasing had worked him bright and flustered, but beneath it, something softer trembled. He was embarrassed, yes. Horribly, so. Beautifully, so. Yet the thing underneath was more dangerous than shame. This was exposure. A curtain pulled open in a room he had spent so long keeping dim.
He had spoken of you here.
At this table. In this warm, loud house. To these people who teased him because they knew what he looked like with no armour on. He had brought you home long before he ever brought your body through the door.
Baba Vesna filled your bowl with soup.
“He was always like this,” she said.
“Baba, please.”
“He was a strange child,” she said.
Valko groaned. “Please.”
“A sweet child,” Teta Marika corrected.
“A dramatic child,” Luka said.
“A biting child,” Milena added.
Valko pointed at her. “You bit first.”
“You looked biteable.”
“You see what I mean?” Valko turned to you with helpless outrage. “This is what I survived.”
There was love in it, the kind that had been cooked too long and reduced into something strong enough to stain. They spoke to him as if they had known every version of him and chosen, again and again, to keep putting food in front of whichever one came home.
You looked at him while he argued with Mika about whether a stolen spoon counted as a childhood trauma.
He caught you looking. For a moment, the noise thinned.
There he was.
Valko with his hair refusing every law of decency. Valko trying so hard to survive his own family and failing beautifully. His eyes met yours with a nervous brightness that made you want to reach across the table and be cruel to every fear that had ever found him.
Then Niko pointed his spoon at you.
“Are you keeping him?”
The kitchen stopped.
Valko made a tiny sound into his bowl.
Milena closed her eyes as if praying for patience and finding none. “Niko.”
“What? Mika said maybe she is keeping him.”
His gaze dropped to the table, to the bread by his hand, to the small old cuts in the wood. The blush still clung to him, but it had changed into something quieter now. Hope, perhaps. Or terror wearing hope’s coat.
You could have laughed. Everyone would have let you. It would have been easy to throw the question back into the room like a toy and watch them tear it apart.
Instead, beneath the table, you found Valko’s hand.
His fingers closed around yours at once.
“I’d like to,” you said.
The house held itself still for half a breath.
Then Baba Vesna nodded, once, as if some old contract had been signed in soup and honey.
“Good,” she said. “He is difficult, but warm.”
Valko bowed his head.
His shoulders shook.
At first you thought he was upset. Then you realised he was laughing, quietly, helplessly, with one hand over his mouth and the other holding yours under the table like he meant to keep it there until winter.
Mika groaned. “Ah, look at him. Finished. Completely finished.”
Milena reached for the pickles. “Good. He needed finishing.”
Teta Marika smiled into her tea. “Eat more, zlato. You will need strength.”
“For Valko?” you asked.
“For all of us.”
Dinner became less a meal than a storm with chairs.
Bowls moved, hands reached, stories climbed over one another and died unfinished because someone remembered a better accusation. Luka asked you practical questions in a calm voice: where you liked to walk, whether Valko had shown you the old river path, whether he still pretended not to like sweet things. Mika tried to read your palm and declared that you were fated to own a troublesome dog.
“That's just Valko,” Milena said.
“I am not a dog.”
“True,” Luka said. “Dogs listen.”
Valko began quietly placing the best pieces of food on your plate.
A soft carrot, the inside of the bread, a dumpling he pretended to move away from himself and somehow abandoned beside your spoon. He was not subtle. He had never been subtle. He was a wolf trying to hide a whole deer behind a napkin.
You noticed on the fourth offering.
His family noticed on the first.
Baba Vesna said nothing until Valko tried to give you the last honey cake. Then she leaned back in her chair and looked at him over her tea.
“Ah,” she said.
Valko froze.
It was one syllable. It landed like a bell.
“What?” he said.
“No, no.” She waved him off. “Continue. Starve for romance. Very noble.”
Mika threw his head back.
You picked up the honey cake before Valko could die at the table and broke it in two, placing half on his plate. “There,” you said. “No starving.”
He looked at the cake.
Then he looked at you.
His expression opened in a way that made the room, somehow, feel too small for your heart. It opened with that unguarded, bewildered softness he sometimes gave you when kindness arrived before he had prepared himself to receive it.
Milena saw it.
Her teasing quieted.
For a moment, she only watched him with something old and protective in her face.
Then she stood. “Come help me with plates.”
Valko blinked. “Me?”
“Her.” Milena pointed at you.
Valko frowned. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“That's not a reason.”
“It has worked on you for years.”
You rose before he could protest again. Milena took two plates from the table and handed you none of them, which told you at once that this had nothing to do with helping.
She led you down a narrow hallway lined with photographs.
Behind you, Valko’s voice rose. “Do not interrogate her.”
The hallway smelled faintly of beeswax and dried herbs. The noise of the kitchen softened behind you, still there, still golden, but now wrapped in walls. Milena stopped by a window overlooking the yard and leaned her hip against the sill.
For the first time all evening, she let the smile leave her face.
“He likes you,” she said.
You smiled gently. “I got that impression.”
“No.” Her eyes flicked towards the kitchen. “He likes people easily. He likes old men who tell bad stories, stray cats that scratch him, children who throw rocks at windows because they want attention. Valko is built stupid that way.”
A laugh escaped you.
Milena folded her arms.
“He brings things home,” she continued. “Broken things, angry things. Things he thinks no one else will be gentle with.” Her gaze moved towards the kitchen, where Valko’s voice lifted in protest. “He does not bring people home.”
Your throat tightened.
From the kitchen, Valko shouted, “It wasn't soup. It was stew.”
Mika shouted back, “Stew cannot make a grown man cry.”
“I was overwhelmed by flavour.”
Milena closed her eyes for one second. “Bože, give me strength.”
You laughed softly.
She looked at you again, sharper now.
“He was nervous all week,” she said. “Changed his shirt three times. Asked me if the house smelled too much like onions. Asked Luka if his laugh was strange. Asked Baba if she could please not tell the story about the goat.”
“The goat?”
“Later.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Maybe never.”
You glanced back towards the kitchen.
He had asked if his laugh was strange.
Something in you ached with such tenderness that it almost felt like anger.
You looked down.
“He didn’t need to worry,”
“He is clumsy with precious things,” she said. “Because he thinks his hands are only good for breaking them, even when he is careful. Especially then.”
“So be kind,” she said. “Or be cruel quickly. He will survive either, but I prefer to know which one I’m dealing with.”
There it was.
The knife under the table. The love with its teeth intact. You didn't resent her for it, you thought, strangely, that you liked her more for it.
“I’m not here to hurt him,”
“Most people aren’t, at first.”
“Milena.”
Milena’s gaze narrowed.
“I don’t know what I’m doing with him,” you admitted.
“With any of this,” you continued. “He makes everything feel…” You searched for the word and hated every pretty one that came. Fated. Wild. Tender. All too polished for the mess he made of your heart. “He makes everything feel like I’ve been walking past a door my whole life, and he is the idiot who opened it with his shoulder.”
Milena stared at you.
Then she laughed once, sharp and startled.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re gone too.”
You looked down, caught.
She seemed satisfied. “Good.”
“Is that approval?”
“That is me deciding not to be difficult.”
“You were being difficult?”
“Dušo,” she said, and now her smile had teeth in it, “I was being polite.”
When you returned to the kitchen, Valko was waiting near the doorway as if he had tried to remain seated and failed.
His eyes moved from you to Milena. “What did you say to her?”
Milena walked past him. “That you were adopted.”
“I’m not.”
“Emotionally, you're a wet dog we found in the rain.”
He watched her go, wounded on principle, then turned to you with genuine concern. “What did she actually say?”
You reached up and brushed flour from his sleeve. “That you’re warm.”
“That was Baba.”
“Family consensus.”
His mouth twitched. “You are enjoying this.”
“I am.”
“You were supposed to be intimidated.”
“By Mika?”
“By the bloodline. The history. The general atmosphere of teeth.”
“Mika told me my palm says I’ll own a dog.”
Valko sighed.
You reached up and plucked the dish towel from his shoulder. “You have flour on your sleeve.”
He looked down, surprised, as if his own body had been making decisions without him. Then he looked back at you, and the kitchen noise faded once more, though this time it was only the two of you making the world small.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
The question was casual enough for anyone else to miss the tremor underneath. You heard it. The naked, waiting part. You thought of his hand shaking outside the door. Baba Vesna taking your face between her palms, of bread steaming in your fingers, of honey cake divided in two, of Milena saying he doesn't bring people home.
“I’m all right,” you said. “Are you?”
Valko smiled too quickly. “I’m alive.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
His smile softened.
For once, he did not joke immediately. It cost him something. You could see it in the way his fingers flexed at his side, reaching for mischief and finding courage instead.
“I wanted them to like you,” he said. “I wanted you to like them.”
“I do”
“I wanted…” He stopped, then laughed under his breath. “I don’t know. Something stupid.”
He looked towards the kitchen, where his family had resumed their noise without mercy. Mika was accusing Luka of stealing the larger piece of cake. Baba Vesna had taken down a tin from the highest shelf, probably containing either biscuits or secrets.
“Valko, stop hiding her. I have photographs.”
Horror returned to his face with magnificent speed.
“No.”
“Yes,”
“No photographs.”
“Naked baby photos,” Mika added.
Valko went pale. “You do not have those.”
Teta Marika’s voice drifted after him, serene and deadly. “We have everything.”
He grabbed your hand. “We’re leaving.”
You let him pull you three steps before Baba Vesna appeared in the doorway holding a small album to her chest.
“Sit,” she said.
Valko sat.
It was remarkable how quickly a wolf could become a grandson.
For the next hour, they showed you the evidence of his life.
Valko missing two front teeth and glaring at the camera as though betrayed by dentistry. Valko asleep under the table with one hand buried in a dog’s fur. Valko at thirteen, all elbows and outrage, holding a fish half his size while crying because he had to put it back.
There was Valko covered in mud, Valko wearing a paper crown, Valko with Milena’s arm hooked around his neck while he pretended to hate her and leaned into her anyway. Valko standing beside Baba Vesna in the garden, holding a basket of tomatoes like he had been entrusted with the fate of nations.
Each photograph was another small door.
You had known him in pieces: the grin, the hunger, the awkward tenderness, the jokes he threw like branches over deep water. Here was the rest of him. Here was the child who had survived becoming himself because these hands had fed him, scolded him, dragged him upright, and remembered his softness when he tried to outgrow it.
At some point, while everyone argued over whether the goat incident happened before or after the soup incident, Valko bent close to you.
“You don’t have to keep looking,” he murmured.
You turned a page.
A tiny Valko stared up from the album, holding a wooden spoon like a sword.
“Yes,” you said. “I do.”
He stared at you.
Then, very briefly, he rested his forehead against your shoulder.
It lasted only a second. A shy, exhausted surrender. No one commented on it, though you knew every person in the room saw. That seemed to be another house rule. They would mock the wound, yes, but they protected the pulse.
Later, when the cups were cleared and the album returned to its shelf of holy embarrassments, you stepped outside for air.
The yard was cold, dark and soft around the edges. Herbs grew beneath the window, yhe old trees leaned towards the house as if listening. Behind you, the kitchen glowed gold, laughter pressing against the glass.
Valko followed after a moment, closing the door carefully behind him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You looked at him. “For what?”'
“The interrogation. The photographs. Mika. The marriage question. The soup litigation.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Milena.”
“I like Milena.”
“That means she behaved.”
“She said she was being polite.”
He winced. “Then she liked you.”
You leaned back against the porch railing, and he stood in front of you with his hands in his pockets, rocking once on his heels like he wanted to come closer and had forgotten the law of his own body.
Through the window, you could see Baba Vesna pretending to wipe the table while watching you both with shameless interest. You lifted a hand and waved.
She waved back.
Valko turned, saw her, and groaned. “For the love of...Baba.”
“She loves you.”
“That's her usual excuse for crimes.”
“It’s a good one.”
He looked back at you, and the teasing left him slowly, piece by piece. Out here, with the house at his back, he seemed caught between the wild thing and the loved thing. The wolf and the boy in the paper crown. The man who had brought you to the threshold with shaking hands and still tried to joke like fear could be made harmless if he gave it a funny name.
“Did you mean it?” he asked.
“Which part?”
“When Niko asked if you were keeping me.”
The question came lightly, too lightly. A feather laid over a blade.
You reached for him.
This time, Valko did not hesitate. He came into your space at once, as if pulled by a string tied somewhere behind his ribs. His hands settled at your waist, careful at first, then warmer when you didn't move away.
“I meant it,”
His eyes searched yours.
“For tonight?”
“For longer than that.”
He didn't kiss you immediately. Somehow, that made it worse. He stood there and let the answer enter him, slowly, like someone opening the door to a room he had been told was empty and finding it lit.
Inside, Mika yelled, “Are they kissing?”
Valko dropped his forehead to your shoulder.
“Leave them. He is finally being normal.”
You laughed.
He looked at you then, and the last of his embarrassment broke open into something bright, something almost boyish
“Welcome home,” he said, very softly.
You touched his cheek.
Behind him, the old house breathed and creaked and held its golden noise. Inside, his family waited with tea, teeth, stories, and a place at the table already made yours.
His fingers parted you, making your vision blur into darkness.
"Fuck, Puppy ," his voice was fractured by your body's response. "You are ready."
Any remaining logic dissolved, leaving nothing but pure instinct.
"please..." you widened your legs to offer yourself completely.
When he settled himself firmly between your thighs it felt like an ancient design, where you were carved out just to fit against him.
His gaze locked onto yours, dark and territorial, sparking a thrill of surrender deep in your chest. His hand moved slowly, spreading one of your legs wider, eyes drinking you in as if he were starving.
"You belong to me. Every part of you," he growled, the authority in his tone making the ache between your thighs flare white hot. He pushed his fingers deep, opening you up until the tension felt sharp and agonizing, the rhythm of his touch pushing you exactly where you needed to go.
"Say it, say you are mine"
"Yours..." you whispered, and the sudden, cold emptiness when he pulled his fingers out made your entire body shudder.
"Such a good Pup," he said softly, tasting the slickness on his fingers without breaking eye contact, his lip curled just enough to expose the sharp points of his canines, grazing his own skin as he licked himself clean.
"There is nothing I want more right now than to feel your pretty clit against my tongue," his hand dropped between your thighs again to circle his thumb firmly against your swollen bud. "But you're not ready for that yet, are you?"
The tip of his cock caught against your opening for a few seconds and then he was sliding in. Your muscles clamped down, desperately trying to yield as he pushed further. The stretch felt almost impossible, filling every empty space, making your lower belly ache.
"God," he groaned "You...I can't...fuck..."
Every thrust pushing you toward an inevitable orgasm. Wrapping your legs tightly around his hips, you matched his desperation. You were almost there.
"Valko...imgonna...fuuu...please baby..."
The moment he heard you begging so desperately his deep thrusts stopped. He caught his breath, hips barely moving as his dick started to expand, stretching you so much you couldn't have pulled away even if you tried. "Beautiful girl... I've got you," he whispered against your forehead, the words dragged straight from his lungs. His arms locked around you "My mate. Mine."
Every nerve inside you felt pinned beneath him, leaving a thrumming ache that made it impossible to catch your breath. You tried to move your hips, tilting up against his pelvis just to try and ease the thick heat building between your legs. Your fingers dug hard into the tense muscle of his shoulders, your belly tightening until the pressure was too much to bear.
He was shaking against you, his chest crushing yours, every muscle in his body locking tight at the peak of his release. He twitched inside you and thick, warm cum flooded your insides, taking the last of your breath and pulling you straight into the drop with him.
You weren't dating Zayne for his pool, but it sure was an incredible bonus.
"It's so nice out today." You remark as you slip your sunglasses on, laying back onto the chair. Your eyes have barely shut when you hear the splash of Zayne slipping out of the pool. Immediately, you're grateful for the sunglasses hiding your hungry gaze.
Seriously, the guy could be a swimwear model with those washboard abs.
"Did you put on sunscreen?" He stands over you, blocking the sun. The sight nearly makes your mouth water, droplets tracing the planes of his abdomen.
"The bottle is too far away. Could you put it on for me?" He doesn't need much convincing, retrieving the bottle of sunscreen and joining you on the chair.
He starts at your legs, smoothing the lotion onto your skin. His touch is nice and cool on your warm skin, a sigh slipping out almost involuntarily. His motions pause for a moment, but then he continues on.
"Could you do my chest too? I'm tired now." The coy smile on your lips may give you away, but Zayne doesn't comment on it. Instead, his sunscreen coated hands slide up your waist and under your top, squeezing the soft flesh before deft fingers find your nipples and circle them.
"I-fuck-I d-don't think I need sunscreen there..." Your words trail off into a moan as he moves closer, settling between your open legs and pressing his bulge against your now soaked bikini bottoms.
"No? So you want me to stop?" He murmurs, face dangerously close to yours as he unties your top and tosses it aside.
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“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” You pout at Zayne as he helps you out of the car, careful to not let your floor length gown touch the ground. He raises a brow, amused.
“Talk you into it? You’re the one who bought them, remember?” He smirks, slipping his hand in his pocket. The mere action makes you tense in anticipation.
Okay, maybe wearing vibrating panties to one of Zayne’s fancy galas hadn’t been the best idea.
He doesn’t turn them on yet. No, instead he waits for the moment you sit down, when the vibrator is flush to your clit. You jolt, pressing your lips together and desperately holding back a moan.
“We should socialize.” The cheeky bastard is the picture of a doting boyfriend, pulling you to stand. He keeps the vibrations just low enough so you can’t cum, which is almost worse.
“Well, this is a nice surprise.” Valko’s voice over your shoulder makes you want to melt into the ground. You turn to face him, as does Zayne. His grin widens when he realizes you’re here together, something that still confuses you, but you've chosen to look past it.
“Hardly a surprise. Your company is Akso's biggest donator." Zayne comments, a hint of friendliness behind it. But perhaps his amusement is due to switching the level of vibrations up, nearly making your knees buckle.
"You alright?" Valko asks you, just a little too perceptive. His heightened senses have come in handy more than once, so you're familiar with how good he is at picking up the smallest sounds and sce-
Oh fuck.
He realizes what's going on the moment your brain catches up, his grin widening as he barks out a laugh, nose twitching.
"You two are certainly more interesting than I thought."
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cw jealousy, blowjobs, throat/face fucking 🍋🟩 disclaimer this is a tweaked repost from my old account :-) a warm-up for my upcoming @zaynezone workweek!
"D-darling—nnggh," Zayne whimpers as you take him deeper in your mouth, stretching your lips to accomodate his length.
You're knelt in front of him in his office, the doorknob frozen over with ice. He sits, flushed and chest heaving, while you hum around his cock, hollowing out your cheeks to give a harsh and illegally slow suck.
All Zayne wants to do is fuck your little throat until it holds him in place like a vice and see your expression choke up as you try to fit him entirely—he wants to watch you crumble, to grip your hair in his fingers and make you take it like the good girl you are.
But he doesn't. He doesn't.
Instead, he remembers your sultry words before you sunk down to your knees, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to his leaky cockhead.
"No touching me," you had purred, lips vibrating against his slit. He had sucked in a sharp inhale, fingers trembling as he listened to what you had to say. "Or touching yourself, for that matter. Let me show you what your patients are capable of."
And so it had started: the teasing smear of his pre on your cheek, fat tip slapping along your bottom lip once, twice, before you took him into your mouth. Now, here you were, slippery fingers jerking what can't fit down your throat, the column constricting around him just right and making his legs shake violently until—
Pop!
You pull off, a glistening rope of saliva connecting your plump lips to vein on the underside of his dick. Zayne lets out a strangled, almost desperate groan.
"Sweetheart," he manages, voice raw with need. "Please. Enough. Let me touch you."
"Hmm…" You pretend to think, eyes flitting to the ceiling while you absentmindedly begin to give him shallow, breathless strokes that leave him heaving. "But, Dr. Zayne, I'm just your patient. Shouldn't we maintain a more… professional relationship?"
Gasping out a huff, Zayne shakes his head. "Says the one with my cock in their mouth," he chuckles darkly, having his fill of your silly games.
Your boyfriend grips the nape of your neck with a familiar force, guiding your lips to his weeping cock. You gag on his length but quickly comply, relaxing your jaw to let his tip prod at the back of your throat, and Zayne could cum right then and there with how fucking warm you feel wrapped around him.
"So perfect." He admires your watery eyes, wiping away a runaway tear with a calloused thumb. "Now sit back and relax, like a good patient does."
His thrusts are slow but strong, making you gulp down his cock like it would be your last meal. There's so much spit that oozes out of your mouth, dribbling down your chin and landing to form a tiny puddle on the floor.
He pulls back so just the head rests against your bottom lip. Tap, tap, tap. With each smack of his swollen, mushroom tip, more precum leaks out, and you lap it up with hungry eyes—something that he takes heavy pride in.
You give a kitten suckle to his cockhead and he suddenly groans. "I guess I will, as long as my doctor can take good care of me in return."
Zayne's so close—you can tell in the way his balls are tightening up, thigh muscles flexing with restraint, and you give him a ditzy, cockdrunk smile. "You are going to take care of me, right, Dr. Zayne?"
"Y-yes, yeees," he lets out a long, drawn out moan, forcing your head back down on him with barely contained control. "Fuck, take aaallll of me, darling, just like that—haaaahh!"
His hips jerk once, twice, and then he's shooting creamy loads of cum down your waiting throat, bucking up weakly into your mouth when you just don't stop sucking. It's like you're trying to milk him for all he's worth, not letting a drop go to waste even as you pull off of him with a satisfied lick to your lips.
He looks down at you with heavy, lidded eyes, thumb stroking your jaw so tenderly you nuzzle into his palm. You're still basking in the warmth of his sticky release down your throat that you aren't ready for his sudden manhandling of you—heaving you up, up, up in his arms and pushing his papers aside to make room for you on his desk.
"Now," Zayne whispers huskily, pulling you in for a sloppy kiss to taste himself on your tongue. "I believe it is time for your doctor to finally attend to your needs. Wouldn't you agree?"
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