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NERD! ZAYNE TEACHING THE GUYS HOW TO MAKE A GIRL CUM USING YOU AS VISUAL AID😝
🔞MDNI🔞
*Yes, this is a fuck you to that bitter anon.
Part 2 here Part 3 here
"They are full of shit" Caleb wiped a stray drop of alcohol from his mouth with the back of his hand and glared at nobody in particular. "The girls on the third floor make up half that stuff for fun."
You were wedged in the middle, squeezed between Caleb and Rafayel on the edge of a mattress that groaned under the collective weight. Every time someone moved, the springs let out a pathetic little squeak. The alcohol was starting to feel like a warm, heavy blanket behind your eyes, blurring the room into soft edges, but it was definitely making you feel a little more brave. Or reckless. Probably both.
You’d know these idiots since freshman orientation. Two years of shared greasy takeout, late night study sessions, and brutal hungover Sundays. That messy stretch of friendship was the only reason you felt comfortable enough to let your filter slip.
"It's not just the third floor," you said, tracing a finger around the rim of your cup. "It's everybody. The nursing majors. The track team. Pretty much every girl I've talked to. They all said the same thing, that you guys look like you belong on a billboard, but fuck like clumsy horny dogs."
"A horny dog? Seriously?" Rafayel looked genuinely wounded. "I am an artist and a very attentive one."
"You think lighting candles counts as attentiveness."
"It contributes."
From across the room, Sylus remained focused on his phone.
"Let them talk," his thumb paused over the screen "The loudest complaints usually come from people who never say what they really want."
You laughed "That's what you're going with?"
Sylus shrugged.
"Fine. Caleb?" he immediately looked suspicious.
"What?"
"That girl from the lacrosse team you fucked last weekend..."
Caleb groaned. "Oh, come on."
"How do you know she actually finished?"
"Because she told me she did."
"And?"
"And she was loooooud."
You stared at him and saw his confidence falter slightly.
"Girls do that so you'll speed up and get it over with"
Caleb opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked toward the window, his jaw shifting. "She... she wrapped her legs around my waist the entire time. That means it was good, right?"
"That means she was trying to get more friction because you weren't hitting the right spots," you said turning your head towards Rafayel "What about you?"
Rafayel straightened. "What about me?"
"When was the last time you actually looked down to see what was happening instead of just listening to the noises she was making?"
Rafayel's face turned a bright pink that extended to the tips of his ears. "I can tell by the rhythm. The atmosphere shifts."
"The atmosphere doesn't make a girl cum, Raf," you laughed, the whiskey bubbling up in your chest.
Across the room Xavier finally lifted his head from the rug, his hair stuck out in every direction.
"I just do it until they tell me to stop."
The room went quiet.
"Xavi, that is not the reassuring answer you think it is."
"Oh." he considered that.
"See?" you said, pointing around the room. "None of you actually know how to make a girl cum, you just assume you did a great job because you're hot, and then leave them to finish the job themselves after you fall asleep."
"That's correct"
The words cut through the conversation.
Zayne didn't look up from his anatomy textbook, he just adjusted his glasses and continued reading for a few more second before lifting his eyes.
Caleb barked out a laugh. "Oh, here we go."
Zayne ignored him.
"Most guys operate on assumptions rather than observation."
"Listen to the expert," Caleb said. "A man whose dating life exists entirely in textbooks."
Zayne's expression didn't change. "I understand the theory better than you"
"Theory?" Caleb repeated.
"Anatomy, Caleb."
"That's a lot of confidence for someone talking in hypotheticals." Sylus teased.
Zayne hesitated "It isn't as complicated as people make it out to be. I can show you."
"Do it." the words left your mouth before you could calculate the weight of them. "Show them."
Caleb sat up straighter. Rafayel looked interested. Xavier was really awake now.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Sylus finally dropped his phone into his lap, his gaze locking onto your face, heavy and unblinking.
Zayne didn't blink either. A dark red flush crept from beneath the collar of his black sweater, staining his throat. He looked at your cup, then at the space between his own knees, his jaw working as he swallowed.
Shit Shit Shit
"We're... we've known each other a long time, this feels like we're crossing a line."
"She asked," Sylus stood, the leather chair groaning beneath him. He crossed the room to slide the deadbolt into place before he leaned against the door and folded his arms. "And the doctor says he has the answers. Let's see a demonstration."
------
The floorboards felt cold under your bare feet. Taking your clothes off wasn't nearly as smooth as moments like this looked in movies. It was awkward, rushed, and far too real. Your jeans caught on your ankles as you kicked them off, your bra strap twisting before you cleared it from your arms.
"Sit here," Zayne whispered. He was now sitting on the edge of the mattress, knees spread wide apart.
You moved into the gap between his thighs. His chest felt warm against your shoulder blades.
Caleb and Rafayel pulled two chairs forward and Xavier stayed on the floor, dragging himself closer until his knees almost touched your ankle.
Before moving anywhere else, Zayne clamped his hands around your waist. His palms felt warm against your skin, holding you steady between his thighs.
"The skin requires warming first, If you touch her when she's cold, the muscles contract. It closes the blood vessels."
His hands slid higher, the friction of his palms catching against your ribcage. He paused when he reached your breasts, using his fingers to lift and shape them without any sudden squeezing. He kept his touch frustratingly light, his thumbs sweeping in slow arcs across the base before flicking directly over the tight tips.
A gasp caught in your throat, slipping out as a sharp breath. You dug your fingers into his knees, squeezing just to keep from writhing away from his hands.
"Are those goosebumps?" Xavier asked from below before reaching out, his hand hovering an inch from your left knee before he dropped it back to the floor.
"Yes, but it's an involuntary reaction," Zayne leaned his head forward, his hair brushing against your earlobe. "It doesn't mean she's cold."
Caleb cleared his throat, looking down at his hands, then back at you.
The sudden loss of Zayne's touch on your breasts made you shiver, his hands already traveling down your abdomen to grip your inner thighs. He parted your legs wide, exposing you to the heavy stares of the room. Under the direct glow of the desk lamp, the skin of your inner thighs visibly trembled.
His knuckles dragged over your outer lips and he stalled there, his jaw tightening as he drew his hand back and stared down at the slight sheen—not nearly enough.
"She’s nervous and that's completely normal. Any friction here would just cause irritation."
"So you're stuck," Rafayel said. He was leaning so far forward his chest rested against his knees, his eyes wide and tracking every movement of Zayne’s hand.
"No."
Zayne brought his hand up to your face and pressed his middle and index finger against your bottom lip, forcing your mouth open. The scent of paper vanished under the wet heat of your mouth. "Wet them."
You took his fingers in, tongue curling around them. Zayne watched your lips close around his knuckles, his chest expanding against your back, before he pulled them out with a wet pop, a thin thread of saliva breaking between his hand and your mouth.
"You only need to do this once to get things moving," Zayne explained guiding his wet fingers back down between your thighs. "If a man needs to re wet his fingers or use lube over and over, it means he’s doing something wrong."
He pressed his slick fingers directly against your clit, rubbing an agonizingly perfect circle.
A sharp cry broke from your lips and he rested the heel of his hand firmly against your pelvic bone, using that grounding weight to steady his touch while his index and middle fingers began a slow, testing exploration of the skin surrounding the swollen bud. He moved in light crescent shapes, mapping the outer edges first without touching the center directly.
Your hips moved, trying to force his hand to hit your favorite spots, but Zayne held your waist with his other hand, keeping you still.
"Not yet," his voice was losing its stiffness "Look at how she reacts when I go near it. She's so sensitive right here. Such a good girl for letting you all see." The bastard knew about your praise kink. Of course he knew.
He changed the strokes to a firm downward motion along the sides before gathering the slick that was beginning to coat his knuckles and smoothing it back up. He watched your skin change color under his fingers, his thumb finally making direct contact with your clit, pressing down and tracing a tight, clockwise circle.
Your thighs twitched, knees trying to clamp shut around his arm.
"Don't hide," his thumb switched direction, drawing slow figure eight that dragged across the very top of the bud before dipping into the soft groove underneath. "Let them watch how wet you get when someone actually takes their time with you. You look so pretty when you're dripping like this."
Across from you, Caleb's hands were gripping his own knees so hard the fabric of his sweatpants strained. His eyes were wide and fixed entirely on the gloss of your skin where Zayne’s thumb was slicking the fluid back and forth, finding the exact weight that made your head fall back against his shoulder "She’s... she’s shaking..." his voice sounded rough and uneven.
Rafayel moved to the edge of his seat, his fingers tangling in the hem of his shirt, his face had gone from pink to tomato red "And the color is different..."
"Because the blood is pooling exactly where it’s supposed to," Zayne told them increasing the pressure just a fraction until you let out a broken whimper. "If you change the rhythm too fast, you lose the progress, so find the pattern she responds to, and you stay there."
From the floor, Xavier stared at the small twitches of your hole "She’s pulling in, like she wants to wrap around something."
Sylus stepped away from the door, his hands were out of his pockets now, his knuckles white as he watched Zayne’s fingers spread your folds apart, exposing the wet, pink interior completely "She's begging for it."
Zayne looked up at the four men watching.
"The manual rhythm is only the baseline, the tissue is highly receptive to temperature and texture. Anything you can execute with your hands, you can replicate, and enhance, with your mouth.
He brought his index finger directly to the very tip of your swollen clit, pressing with small, localized prods.
"If you use the tip of your tongue like this," Zayne explained, his finger mimicking the flicking motion against the sensitive bud, making your hips jump, "you target the isolated nerve clusters. It's high intensity and it forces the blood to the surface faster."
He then slid his index and middle fingers tightly together, flattening them against each other to create a wider, smoother surface. He pressed the flat length of both fingers firmly against your entire center, dragging them in a long upward stroke from your entrance all the way up to your clit.
"But when she gets overwhelmed, you switch," Zayne said as he repeated the stroke "You have to use the whole flat of your tongue like this. It dampens the sharp sting of the sensitivity while keeping the heat building. You alternate based on how much she's twitching."
He used his other hand to gently pull your lips apart "Look at the opening," Zayne's breath felt soooo hot against your neck. "When the nerves are active, the tissue swells. It opens on its own."
Behind you, something thick pressed firmly into the cleft of your ass. Zayne was completely hard. His glasses had slid down his nose, but he didn't take his hands away to fix them.
"Zaynie..." you moaned, your head falling back against his shoulder again. The sight of the guys watching you was winding the coil in your belly tighter and tighter.
"Tell them," Zayne ordered, his fingers digging harder into the top of your clit. "Tell them what it feels like."
"It's... it's so good," you sobbed out "I... Zayne, I need...fuck...."
Sylus moved closer.
"The internal contractions," Zayne told them, his words breaking as his thumb worked in a fast circle. "They will milk whatever is inside. Just one finger in. Now. Feel it."
"Now?" Rafayel stammered, his hand shaking as he reached out.
"Now!" you ripped the word straight from your chest,
They moved together, a crowded rush of limbs. Four fingers,all pushed into your wet pussy at once.
Your muscles clamped down in spasms. Caleb let out a low curse, his head dropping against your thigh as you squeezed his finger. "Fucking hell... tight little pussy."
"Keep your fingers still," Zayne's thumb was still holding pressure against your twitching clit while he kept your hips steady against his own shaking thighs. "Feel the rhythm. That's her release."
Rafayel didn't speak, his eyes were fixed on his finger buried inside you.
The silence returned slowly, punctuated only by the sound of you trying to catch your breath. One by one, the fingers withdrew, leaving your cunt open and drooling. You collapsed back into Zayne, your muscles humming with the aftershocks.
Four men stood around the bed, looking down at their wet hands. Zayne was breathing hard against your neck, one hand shaking visibly as he pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.
He cleared his throat, his voice cracking slightly "Are there... any other questions?"
Xavier raised his hand slowly to his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste the wetness on his knuckle, his eyes completely dark as he stared at your open thighs.
"Yeah," he said "Can you teach us how to make her squirt?"
୨୧ — You were drooling, eyes rolling back as you dug your nails into his shoulders trying to slow Valko down. Useless. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back as he drove into you, his name falling from your lips like a prayer between desperate pants.
“V-Val- hhahh- Val-ko- s'too- m'gonna- too m-much-“
Words? What were those? Your brain had turned to mush about three orgasms ago.
A whimper caught in your throat. Tears pricked at your lashes at the stretch, at being so fucking full, like he'd shoved your organs aside to make room.
“Hah-“ His voice broke, and you could feel every muscle in his body trembling, fighting something feral as his tail lashed wildly behind him. “Tryna be gentle but you-“
He fucked you like a beast anyway. Forehead pressed to yours, ears flat against his head, panting into your mouth. Your slick made the filthiest sounds every time he thrust home and when his teeth found your neck hard enough to break skin, the noise you made had his rhythm stuttering.
“Sorry- ngh- didn't mean-“ But he didn't stop. Couldn't.
His hand slid under your back, arching you up into him. The other pinned your wrist to the mattress. Blood smeared across your throat from his lips.
“That's it, that’s my good girl-“ Completely gone. Ruined.
You came screaming and do you think that made him slow down? Fuck no. He didn't slow down even a little.
“Again.” Barely a whisper. Begging. Pleading for just one more scream from those pretty lips…
“Valko- can't- no more-“
His ears drooped, this wounded little sound in his chest, “I know babe, m'sorry-“ His hips snapped forward anyway, “what’s a pup supposed to do? You just feel so good- cant- shit- can’t stop-“
Your cunt was a sloppy, ruined mess at this point- syrupy strings of your cum and arousal coating his cock, smearing creamy across your inner thighs. You could feel yourself dripping between your ass, making a puddle beneath you.
Then something big started pressing at your entrance.
You felt it before your sex stupid brain could process it- this thick, swelling pressure at your already stuffed hole. Stretching you wider. Wider. Too wide-
His knot.
It shoved inside with a wet POP and you shrieked, back bowing clean off the mattress, nails carving bleeding trenches down his spine. The sudden fullness -that fat bulge locking him in, plugging you up, pressing against every sensitive nerve- had your vision whiting out again. Your cunt spasmed around him, another orgasm cresting before the last one even finished, milking his knot in desperate fluttering clenches.
“Huh? What happened?” Total confusion. His ears shot up, head tilting, “You alright babe? Did I do something?”
“Your- your fucking knot- fuckfuckfuck-“ you choked out.
“What?” He blinked down at you, all golden puppy eyes while his monster sized knot split you in half, “What's wrong with it?”
“Ser -seriously? Sh’too- It's s’too big-“
“It is?” As he smirks he shifts his weight and you damn near passed out, “seems fine to me?”
You laughed -or sobbed, hard to tell- and it broke into a moan when he rolled his hips experimentally. You grabbed his hand and shoved it down between your bodies, pressing it against the bulge in your lower belly. Obscene. Fucking obscene.
“Valko.”
He looked down. Blinked. His tail started wagging. Actually wagging!
“Oh wow.” Like he'd found something mildly interesting, “That's pretty crazy.”
“YEAH.”
“Does it actually hurt?” He pressed against the bulge with genuine curiosity and your eyes nearly rolled back into your skull. Tail still going.
“Do you- hahh- do you seriously not know- how huge-“
“Dunno, never measured?” He dropped a casual kiss on your forehead, sweet as anything, while his fat fucking knot throbbed like it was trying to reshape your insides. “Always been like this. Annnnd those noises don’t really convince me you’re in pain.”
You were gonna fucking murder him. Right after you finished losing your mind on his cock.
He ground down into you and you came so hard you forgot your own name, pussy clenching around him like a goddamn vice.
“Oh- shit- shit-“ Finally cracking, his voice going high and whiney, “Squeezing me so tight, you’re gonna make me-“
He buried his face in your neck and came with a broken whine, and you felt it- pulse after pulse of hot cum pumping into you, filling you up til your belly rounded out even more. His arms caged you in, tail thumping against the mattress as he bred you full.
“S'good,” he slurred against your throat…
“Valko,” you whimpered, brain leaking out your ears., “M'so full-“
“Mm?” He sounded so pleased with himself.
Still absolutely clueless.
Way later -who even knows how long- he was still on top of you, weight braced on his elbows so he didn't crush you. His knot pulsed lazy and another warm gush filled you up.
“Hey,” he mumbled into your hair, and you could hear the grin in his voice.
“Mm.”
“So...” His fingers walked playfully up your side, making you squirm- which only made you clench around his knot and whimper, “You think my knot's big, huh?”
“Shut up.”
“Nah but like-“ He propped himself up to look at you, smirking, tail swishing, “You were really loud about it. Pretty sure the neighbors know now.”
“I hate you.”
“Mmhm.” He rolled his hips just slightly -enough to make you gasp- and his grin widened. “That why you're still milking my cock right now?”
Your face burned, “I- I can't- it's involuntary-“
“Sure it is.” He pressed a kiss to your cheek, nuzzling, “S'okay baby. I think it's cute how much you love my huge knot.”
“I never said-“
“‘S'so fucking big Valko,'”he mimicked in a breathy voice, and you smacked his chest while he snickered. “'Your knot Valko, oh my god-“
“I do NOT sound like that.”
“You kinda do.” Another lazy grind. Another gush of cum. His eyes glittered. “Wanna hear what else you said? Got real creative toward the end there.”
You shoved at his shoulder uselessly. He didn't budge, just laughed and buried his face in your neck, pressing smiling kisses to your skin.
“M'just teasing, babe” His tail curled around your thigh, “youre cute when you're embarrassed.” He nuzzled the tippy top of your head.
“I'm gonna kill you when your knot finally goes down.”
“Mm, that's fair.” He snuggled closer, entirely unbothered, “Gives me like twenty more minutes to annoy you though.”
His hips shifted again, lazy and deliberate, and the noise you made was mortifying.
The scent of the apartment hit him before he even reached the door.
That was always how it worked. Valko would clear the front door, shift his bag on his shoulder, and without thinking—without even meaning to—his chest would expand, pulling in everything. The sharp bite of the laundry detergent you both used, the faint trace of the citrus dish soap from the morning’s coffee mugs. The ghost of whatever you'd cooked that morning. And underneath all of it, quiet and constant and unbearably familiar, the warm specific sweetness of you.
Two years of this. Two years and it still stopped him on his tracks every single time.
To anyone who shared a class with him, Valko was the guy with half rimmed glasses, soft sweaters, neckband headphones around his collar like he'd forgotten they were there, a battered copy of whatever textbook he was working through dog eared on his desk. He took meticulous notes in handwriting that was almost too neat.
He called his mother every Sunday without fail, usually from the kitchen while something was already on the stove. He brought back containers of homemade food after weekend visits home and left them in the fridge with little labeled lids because he knew you'd forget to eat otherwise.
He was, by every reasonable measure, a gentle giant with a soft spot for his family and an embarrassing weakness for old equipment manuals.
The wolf underneath all of that was another matter entirely.
He'd stopped trying to logic his way out of it somewhere around month six of your lease. The obsession had settled into him quietly, the way water finds the shape of whatever holds it—gradual, total, and by the time he noticed, already everywhere. He loved the way you laughed when he miscalculated a doorframe carrying furniture. He loved that you used his arm like a headrest when you were tired without seeming to notice you were doing it. He loved that you trusted him with the small, unglamorous parts of your life—the bad days, the grocery runs at midnight, the moments when you needed someone solid nearby without having to explain why.
He told himself it was just closeness. That it was natural, living with someone this long. That plenty of people felt this way about their roommates.
He was lying to himself and he knew it.
You never noticed the small things. That was the part that made it simultaneously easier and worse.
You didn't notice the way his jaw tightened every time you mentioned Caleb's name in passing. You didn't notice that when he draped his coat over your shoulders on cold nights, he always took a moment longer than necessary to settle it there, his hands resting briefly on your shoulders, his nose dipping almost imperceptibly toward your hair. You didn't notice the way his whole body oriented toward you when you moved through a room, like a plant turns toward a window without deciding to.
Two years of this and you'd noticed none of it.
Caleb, though. Caleb was a different kind of problem.
The name sat wrong in Valko's mouth every time he heard it. Your boyfriend. The pilot stationed out in Skyhaven, the one who'd existed in Valko's life as nothing more than a name and a reason you packed a bag every other weekend. You always went to him. A wave from the doorway, a small oveñnight bag, the shuttle to Skyhaven. Back by Sunday night, sometimes Monday morning if the transit ran slow.
Two years, and Valko had never once seen him. Fine. He could work with that.
What he couldn't work with was the scent. Or rather, the complete absence of it.
It defied every instinct he had. A man who kept a woman—who spent weekends with her, who held her hand and her body—should leave something behind. It was a biological fact, not a sentiment. Every time you came home from Skyhaven, Valko would brace for it. Would stand in the hallway with his teeth ground together preparing to smell another man all over you.
Every single time, there was nothing.
Just you. Clean and warm, like you'd spent the weekend alone in a hotel and not with someone who was supposed to love you. No territorial overlap. No claim. Nothing.
It didn't reassure him. It made him furious. A man who loved you would mark you without even trying—it would just happen, the natural consequence of closeness and time. The fact that it hadn't happened said something.
He doesn't know what he has.
Since Caleb clearly wasn't going to handle it, Valko had decided— without discussing it with anyone, including himself—to handle it instead.
It had started small. Sitting on your side of the couch when you were out because "the lamp was better over there". Leaning in your doorframe a beat longer than necessary. Gradually, the apartment had become his in ways that only his own nose could confirm. Your throw blanket carried him now. The pillow on the left side of your bed—your side—carried him. He'd lie across your mattress on the afternoons you were in seminar, shoulders rolling slow against the sheets, transferring the scent from the back of his neck and the inside of his wrists onto everything you'd touch when you slept.
He wanted to be the reason the room felt safe to you, even if you'd never know why.
The laundry had come later. He'd started folding yours without being asked because it was a practical thing to do, a completely normal roommate thing—and if his hands slowed over certain items, if he stood in the laundry room for longer than strictly necessary with warm shirts pressed to his face, that was between him and the four walls.
He wasn't proud of the drawer.
Your scent there was undiluted, something the rest of the apartment couldn't match—private, concentrated, intimate. The first time he'd opened it he'd been looking for your spare key. He'd stood there for a long time, glasses pushed up into his hair, one hand braced on your dresser, taking slow careful breaths and trying to remember what reasonable behavior felt like.
He'd gone back to his room. He'd thought about you.
He'd told himself it would clear his head.
It had not cleared his head.
Two days ago he stood in front of your closet with his heart going faster than he wanted to admit.
You'd been out getting groceries. His hand moved through your dirty clothes on autopilot, past the jeans, past the sweaters, until his fingers closed around silk.
Soft. Warm from being buried against other fabric. Almost nothing against the width of his palm.
He lifted them to his face before he'd fully decided to.
There was your scent, the core of it. He stood there breathing it in with his eyes closed and his chest heaving, and then, he searched. Every thread. Looking for any trace of another man underneath yours.
Nothing. Just you. Entirely unmarked you.
The growl that came out of him was low enough that only he could hear it.
Something about that absence sent a rush of heat down his spine that he wasn't prepared for. His back had found the closet wall.
He couldn't stop himself.
One hand kept the silk pressed to his face. The other worked fast around his cock, his jaw tight, breathing controlled through sheer habit. He'd imagined you beneath him, his weight pinning you into the mattress, his teeth finding the curve of your shoulder, his scent finally, permanently replacing the nothing that Caleb had left behind. When he came it was blinding and quiet, his head dropping back, his whole body shaking with the force of it.
He'd cleaned up carefully. Returned everything. Walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on like a normal person.
He was a patient man. He was methodical. He had excellent grades and he called his mother on Sundays and he was going to wait for the right moment. But the conclusion had already been reached, somewhere in the back of his skull where logic and instinct lived side by side.
He was going to take you. It was a matter of time. He was just waiting for the right moment to show you that a real man didn't leave his woman smelling like an empty room.
--------------------------
The July heat was suffocating. Valko had been inside an exam room for two hours and his brain felt wrung out like a dish cloth. His glasses had fogged twice on the walk from campus, he was looking forward to the AC. He was looking forward to you.
It was a Friday so he'd stopped at the bakery on the corner. Two cinnamon rolls, extra cream cheese frosting. He had them in a plastic bag hooked over two fingers.
He reached the door and stopped. His nose twitched.
The scent of the hallway was wrong. Not dangerous, just wrong.
Valko's brow creased. He put his glasses back on.
He unlocked the door slowly, the click of the mechanism very loud in the quiet hallway, and pushed it open.
The air inside hit him all at once.
He stopped moving. His hand stayed on the doorknob, grip tightening by degrees until the metal pressed hard into his palm, and he stood in the entryway and looked at his living room like a man trying to solve a problem he hadn't been told existed.
There was someone on the couch.
Long legs stretched toward the coffee table. Dark tactical jacket, sleeves pushed up, the kind of build that came from actual use rather than a gym.
And tucked against his side, head on his chest, hand flat against his collarbone—
You. Laughing at something he'd just said.
Caleb.
Valko's mind was still trying to catch up. His instincts weren't waiting.
The heat that moved through him was immediate, flooding from his chest out, his vision sharpening at the edges the way it did when something in him decided a situation required full attention. His breathing stayed controlled—barely, through discipline and nothing else—while every animal thing in him was screaming to move forward. To put himself between you and the man currently comfortable in a space he had no right to be comfortable in.
My couch. The thought was irrational and he knew it and it didn't help. My apartment. My—
As if feeling the shift in the room, Caleb's head turned.
His eyes found Valko's across the space with a directness that said he'd known someone was there before the door finished opening. Dark eyes, calm, taking in Valko's full height and the white knuckled grip on the doorframe.
He didn't look away.
Neither did Valko.
You sat up, something lighting in your face when you saw him. "You're home early." You smiled, easy and warm, completely unaware of the temperature of the room. "Valko, this is my boyfriend Caleb. Caleb, this is my roommate, Valko."
Caleb stood up and extended his hand. He was tall—nearly matching Valko’s height—but where Valko was built like an immovable wall of muscle, Caleb possessed the lethal, agile grace of a feline.
Valko crossed the room and took it.
"Good to meet you," Caleb said. Flat. Even.
And the bottom dropped out of everything he thought he understood.
The scent hit him the second their palms connected, not foreign, not the aggressive territorial brand of another man he'd been grinding his teeth against for two years. It was you—your exact scent, the one Valko had spent two years cataloguing down to its smallest note—but run through something else entirely. Deeper. Heavier. Amplified through the biology of a dominant male until it had become its own thing, something that pressed into Valko's lungs like a hand against his sternum and didn't let up.
Caleb smelled like you the way a home smelled like the people who lived in it.
Two people did not share the same biological signature. That was not how any of this worked. Unless—
His brain didn't finish the thought. His body had already moved on without him.
The heat he felt all over his body was not aggression. That was the part that made no sense, the part that his wolf had no framework for because this wasn't a territorial response. This wasn't the hot, focused anger he'd been bracing for every time he imagined finally meeting the man who had you. This was something strange and considerably more humiliating, a frequency he hadn't known he could receive, vibrating straight through the bones of his hand where Caleb's grip still held.
His cock hardened so fast his vision went momentarily white at the edges.
He couldn't stop it. Couldn't reason with it. Two years of wanting you, of your scent living in the back of his throat like something he'd swallowed and never fully digested—and now here was this man, wearing you like a second skin, your sweetness wound so completely through his scent that Valko couldn't separate the two. Couldn't find where you ended and Caleb began.
It was the most overwhelming thing he had ever experienced. His knees felt weak.
Caleb's grip tightened.
His eyes hadn't moved from Valko's face. Valko watched the shift happen—the smile staying but changing underneath, becoming something quieter and darker. He'd clocked the pupil dilation. He'd clocked all of it.
"Something wrong?" Caleb asked
Valko could not breathe. The apartment was saturated with your/his scent and his body was making decisions he hadn't authorized, and he was going to do something catastrophic if he stayed in this room for another ten seconds. He didn't know what but he didn't want to find out.
He pulled his hand back.
"I forgot—" His voice came out completely unrecognizable. He didn't look at you. Couldn't. "The lab. I left something. I have to—"
He was already at the door. He had no memory of crossing the room.
The hallway air hit him cold and he kept walking, down the stairs, out into the July heat that suddenly felt like nothing compared to what he'd just left behind.
ᯓ★ your scent turns valko on at the worst times:: PT 2
₊˚⊹ᰔ summary: you take your poor boyfriend to the bathroom for a quickie <3
part 1 here!!
"You're insane. My family is right outside," Valko huffed, but he still let you push him up against the wall and unfasten his belt.
"You're the one that's had a boner for five minutes and keeps giving me puppy eyes," you countered, your eyes flicking up to his as you tugged his jeans down.
His ears flattened against his head, a small blush spreading across his face.
It was so odd seeing him like this—all flustered. If you did this anywhere else—in his office, in the middle of a party, during one of his calls—he'd be losing his mind. Now, he was being all shy.
"I'm just taking care of my puppy."
His cheeks grew even hotter at the pet name. "You're a tease."
"You like it," you replied, smiling when his jeans hit the floor with a quiet fwump, leaving him in just his boxers.
You palmed him through the fabric, feeling the way he was practically leaking through. "All this from just smelling me?"
You didn't know what came over you. You were at his family home for fuck sake, but something about Valko made you stupid and vice versa.
"Yeah. Just… just be quick."
"Mhmm."
You took him out of his boxers. There was a bead of moisture welling at the tip, his length twitching with a desperate need for release.
You started careful, trying to catch the right rhythm. When you found it, he let out a half whine, half groan into your shoulder. "Yeah, just like that."
He gripped your hand, forcing you to squeeze him tighter. "Faster. Please."
You obliged, keeping your gaze on his. He squeezed his eyes shut, his shoulders tensing at the stimulation.
"Feels good?" you cooed.
He bit back a small whimper. "Yeah—feels really good. Don't stop—" His tilted his hips, chasing the friction of your hand.
Your palm was growing slick with his mess, his stomach dipping every time your fingers grazed over that sensitive spot on the underside of his cock. "Right there, right there—Fuckk," he gasped, his voice strained.
The rhythmic thump thump thump of his tail filled the quiet room. His ears twitched, the sensation of you fisting his cock making his vision blur for a second.
You felt as his free hand shot out to grip the nape of your neck and pulled you in for a messy kiss. He groaned into your mouth, his dick twitching in your grip.
He'd been sitting in the living room for several minutes, trying to will his boner away. Every time he shifted, his jeans rubbed against his dick in a way that made heat twist in his gut. Now that you were touching him, it felt too good. You drove him to the edge embarrassingly fast.
"You're right there, aren't you, puppy?"
Valko gave a needy nod. "Yeah, I am. Hnngh… Make me cum. Please make me cum." He shoved his face in your neck, inhaling shakily, his hips stuttering into your fist.
He was desperate, his breath uneven. You felt the base of bit cock starting to swell. You probably should've stopped at the point, but you didn't.
Valko gave a few more frantic thrusts into your hand before he was coming with a whine. Your fist was covered in hot, pearly strings of his release.
He stayed in your neck for a minute before pulling back to look between your bodies. "Fuck…" he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut with an irritated sound.
You followed his gaze downward and— "Oh, shit." The thing about werewolves—quickies usually didn't solve their problems. If anything, it only made the problem… bigger. His knot had swelled, pulsing in rhythm with his ragged breath, even more unsatisfied than before. "I'm so sorry, I totally forgot—"
Valko groaned, his ears pinned back against his head as he leaned forward to rest his forehead against the top of your head. "It's fine." But his tail flicked behind him, more wired than before. "Now, instead of uncomfortably sitting in the living room, I can uncomfortably sit in the bathroom."
You blinked up at him, your lips pursed in a frown. "Val, I totally forgot your dick does… you know, that."
He let out a strained laugh. "Yeah. I did too for a second."
"…Want me to stay..?"
"Please don't. Just looking at you is making me lose my mind. Just wash your hands and go back."
"Val—"
"Seriously," he huffed, his voice caught between a grunt and a whine. "You're gonna make me hard again."
"Okay, okay!"
"And be cool."
"Okay."
a/n: okayy. anyway, i'm still working on my other requests :) working out with him is next!
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you don’t even know why you say it. you’re not the praising type. not really. you tease. you moan. you beg sometimes when he makes you—when he’s in one of those moods, all pushy and mean, telling you to use your manners, sweetheart, like he isn’t already two fingers deep and spreading you open slow just to watch your eyes roll.
and sylus isn’t the kind of guy who needs it either. he’s cold. not just at work. always. cold voice, cold hands, cold look over his shoulder like he’s already ten steps past you in his head. nobody phases him. nobody cracks him. nobody gets to touch him and see him at the same time.
but you do.
and he lets you.
and right now—he’s letting you fuck him soft and slow, chest to chest, mouth to mouth, your hips rolling lazy on top of his while his hand’s curled low around your ass, guiding you, controlling you even when you’re the one on top. that’s how he likes it. how he needs it.
so maybe it’s that. maybe it’s the look on his face. maybe it’s the way his brows are twitching together, like he’s fighting something off—like if he lets you go even a little harder he’s gonna say something stupid, something real.
you’re already gone. you feel too good. you’re too wet. you’re not thinking. so you say it. “you feel so good, sylus.” just like that. soft. breathy. like you mean it. and the second you do—he freezes.
not all the way, not like he’s pulling back. more like he’s startled. like you hit something he didn’t know was there.
“…what?”
you blink down at him, rocking slow. “i said you feel good—”
“don’t.” his voice is raw. strained. quiet like it’s been scraped thin.
you laugh a little, teasing. “what, i’m not allowed to praise you now?”
“no,” he mutters. “you’re not.”
but he’s gripping you harder. his thighs are trembling. he’s looking at you like he’s pissed, but underneath it—underneath that perfect, surgical composure—he’s wrecked.
and you know why. you know him. you know this man who never needs anything, who never lets anyone in, who fucks you like he’s punishing himself for liking it—and now you know what breaks him.
“baby,” you whisper, soft as sin. “you’re so deep. you’re so good to me—so fucking good—”
his breath hitches. he shudders. his grip goes punishing and he grits through his teeth, “shut up,” but it’s not mean. it’s not real. it’s desperate.
so of course you don’t. of course you ride him slow and stroke his face and kiss his jaw and say, “you make me feel so good. you’re perfect. you always take care of me. nobody fucks me like you do—”
and that’s what does it. that. right there. because suddenly he’s groaning into your mouth like he’s never cum before in his life, like you’re fucking wringing the soul out of him with every word, every grind, every good boy whispered between your kisses.
he bucks once. spills deep. and he goes completely still underneath you, eyes wide, lips parted, chest heaving while he shoots every last drop into you without warning, without even knowing it’s happening until it’s too late, until you’re clenching around him and stroking his hair and smiling down like you knew this would happen all along.
you kiss his cheek. he doesn’t move.
“fuck,” he breathes. “you—fuck. don’t ever say that again.”
the old fan in caleb’s room turns in slow circles above you both, pushing warm night air across the bed like it’s trying to cool something that refuses to be cooled. you’re sitting cross-legged on his mattress, a little ways from him, picking at a loose thread on your sleep shorts. the question has been sitting on your tongue for nearly fifteen minutes now.
you finally blurt it out, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. “caleb, if he tries to kiss me tomorrow night… what am i supposed to do?”
he goes perfectly still. for a long moment, the only sound in the room is the low mechanical hum of the fan. inside his chest, something sharp and ugly coils tight. some stupid guy leaning in, thinking he has any right to taste you? the image makes caleb’s jaw ache. he forces his voice to stay even, almost lazy.
“you don’t have to do a single thing,” he says carefully. “consent matters more than anything else. there’s no timer on this stuff. if you’re not ready, you tell him no. he can deal with it or he can leave. simple.”
you nod, but your fingers keep worrying the thread. “i know. i just… what if i want to kiss him? what if i’m awful at it and i make it awkward?”
caleb’s hand tightens around the blanket beside his thigh. he stares at the far wall for several heartbeats, breathing slow through his nose. “you’re not going to be awful,” he says, quieter.
“but how do i know for sure?” you look up at him, eyes wide and genuinely anxious. “i’ve never kissed anyone. not like… properly. i don’t wanna mess it up.”
another long, heavy silence stretches between you. he rubs a hand down his face, then drops it. “you really want advice?”
you nod, chewing the inside of your cheek. he exhales, “i could show you. just the basics. so you’re not overthinking it tomorrow.”
your heart stutters hard. heat floods your face. deep down, yes — you have wanted this for longer than you would ever admit out loud, but you keep your voice small. “just practice? like… a couple of kisses? nothing weird?”
caleb’s eyes flick to your mouth, then away. “yeah. just practice.”
he shifts closer on the bed until your knees are almost brushing. the space between you suddenly feels fragile, like it might shatter if either of you breathes wrong. “okay,” he murmurs. “first one is easy. no pressure at all.”
he leans in with agonizing slowness, giving you every chance to pull back. his lips brush yours in the gentlest, softest peck. barely any pressure. just warmth. he lingers for two full seconds, then eases away.
you touch your own lips without thinking. “um… where should i put my hands?”
“wherever feels natural,” he answers, gaze steady on you. “my shoulders. my chest. you can even leave them in your lap if you want. no rules.”
you hesitate, then rest your hands lightly on his shoulders. the muscle under your palms is warm and tense.
“good,” he praises softly. “want to try it again?”
you nod, and this time, the kiss lasts three seconds. his lips are fuller, warmer. when he pulls back, you feel yourself leaning forward the tiniest bit, mouth chasing his.
“was that better?” you whisper.
“yeah,” his voice has a new roughness under it. “you’re doing fine. want to try tilting your head just a little?”
“can you show me how?”
he lifts one hand, slow, and cups your jaw with careful fingers, tilting your head a fraction. the next kiss is still closed-mouth, but it lingers longer. five seconds. you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. when he finally draws back, his thumb strokes once along your cheekbone.
“better?” he asks.
your pulse is louder in your ears now. “yeah… one more? just so i remember the angle?”
caleb’s eyes have gone darker. he wets his bottom lip without meaning to. “alright,” he says. “one more.”
his lips part the smallest amount against yours. you feel the brief, warm touch of his tongue against your lower lip before he catches himself and pulls back, breathing a little harder.
“sorry,” he murmurs, forehead almost touching yours. “that’s… we don’t have to go there if you’re not comfortable. he better not be kissing you like that on the first date.”
you’re quiet for a long second, heart hammering so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. then, barely louder than a breath, “show me anyway?”
caleb’s eyes darken another shade. he stays perfectly still for several heartbeats, like he’s giving you one last chance to take it back. when you don’t, he exhales shakily and cups your jaw again, thumb stroking slow along your cheek. “okay,” he murmurs. “just a little.”
this time, when he leans in, his lips part against yours right away. the kiss is still gentle, but wetter. warmer. his tongue brushes your bottom lip in a slow, deliberate swipe, asking for permission. you part your lips without thinking and he slips inside, just the tip of his tongue touching yours—soft, careful, testing.
he pulls back after only a few seconds, forehead resting against yours, breathing a little heavier. “like that,” he whispers. “not too much at once. you okay?”
you nod, dazed, hands tightening on his shoulders. “uh huh. kiss me again? don’t think i’m getting it.”
caleb lets out a quiet, strained sound that might have been a laugh, his thumb still stroking your cheek like he can’t stop touching you. “sure, pips. again.”
he kisses you once more, open-mouthed from the start. this time, his tongue slides against yours more confidently. slow, warm, exploring, the kiss is wetter than the last, lips sliding together with soft, obscene little sounds. when he tilts his head the other way and deepens it, you make a tiny involuntary noise into his mouth.
he pulls back again, barely an inch, lips still brushing yours. “good?” he asks, voice hoarse.
“mhm,” you pant against his lips. “what do i do with my tongue? i feel like i’m just sitting there.”
his eyes flutter half-closed. “you can move it too. lick into my mouth. play with mine. whatever feels good.”
you hesitate, then lean in yourself this time. it’s clumsy at first, but he meets you halfway, letting you explore. tongues sliding, slow and curious. he groans softly when you shyly lick into his mouth, the sound vibrating against your lips. when you break apart again, your faces are only inches away, both of you breathing harder. a thin string of spit connects your bottom lips for a second before it breaks. you lean in for more before you can overthink it.
he pulls you a little closer by the waist this time, until your knees are pressed against his thigh. the next kiss is deeper, slower, filthier. his tongue strokes against yours in long, deliberate slides. lips suck gently, then harder. the wet sounds of your mouths moving together fill the quiet room as the kisses start to blur into one another.
every time you pull back to breathe, he follows—chasing your mouth, sucking on your lower lip, licking back inside like he can’t stand even a second apart. his hand stays cupped around your jaw, thumb stroking, while the other rests heavy on your hip. you’re both flushed, both breathing through your noses because neither wants to stop long enough to pull away properly. the kisses grow messier, spit-slick and desperate. soft little whimpers slip from you between kisses and he answers every one with a low groan, tongues tangled.
caleb tilts his head the other way and kisses you even deeper, tongue sliding and curling against yours in filthy, rhythmic strokes. spit coats your lips, drips down your chin onto his. you’re both a mess and neither of you cares. you just keep licking into each other’s mouths like you’ve been starving for this exact taste for years.
he groans long and low when you suck on his tongue in return. the sound is so raw it makes you clench around nothing. he pulls you fully into his lap, hands gripping your hips as he kisses you like he’s been dying for the chance to for years. your tongues slide and curl in long, wet strokes, lips smacking obscenely with every tilt of your heads. he sucks on your tongue, licks deep into your mouth, groans low and broken when you do the same. your hands are tangled in his hair, tugging gently, and he answers by rocking you against his thigh, the hard line of his cock pressing against you through his sweatpants while he keeps devouring you.
when you finally break apart, you’re both panting hard, foreheads pressed together, lips shiny and swollen and connected by thick strands of spit. caleb’s eyes are nearly black, his breathing ragged. he brushes his thumb over your wet bottom lip, voice hoarse and wrecked. “think you’ve practiced enough for tomorrow?”
you don’t answer right away. you lean in and press one last kiss to his mouth, tongues swirling one final time before you pull back.
caleb stares at you, chest heaving, like he’s two seconds from dragging you back in. “did so good, pips,” he whispers, thumb still stroking your lip. “you’re gonna do just fine tomorrow.”
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The late afternoon sun slanted through the living room window of the apartment Caleb shared with his childhood friend, casting long, warm shadows across the plush grey carpet. Caleb was pacing, a restless energy vibrating off his tall frame. He’d changed out of his flight jacket into a simple white t-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders and chest, paired with black joggers. His usually friendly, open face was a mask of troubled concentration, his striking purple eyes fixed on some invisible point on the floor.
A firm knock at the door broke his rhythm. He stopped, ran a hand through his dark brown hair, and forced his expression into something more neutral before pulling the door open.
Zayne stood on the threshold, a picture of stoic composure. At 6’1”, he was nearly Caleb’s height, but his presence felt more contained, a quiet intensity wrapped in a perfectly tailored, neutral-toned three-piece suit. His silver wire-frame glasses gleamed in the hallway light, and his hazel green eyes assessed Caleb with a surgeon’s precision.
“Caleb,” Zayne said, his voice a low, even baritone.
“Zayne. Hey.” Caleb stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”
Zayne entered, his gaze sweeping the tidy living space. “You said you wanted to talk. Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, fine. Gran’s out with her book club. Y/N…” Caleb’s voice hitched slightly. “Y/N went grocery shopping. Should be back soon.”
Zayne didn’t move further into the room. He simply stood, watching Caleb resume his pacing. “You’re lying,” he stated flatly, not unkindly. “You’re wound tighter than a spring. What’s wrong?”
Caleb let out a sharp, frustrated breath, his shoulders slumping. The cheerful, protective mask he wore for the world crumbled, revealing the darker, more intense worry beneath. He stopped pacing and faced Zayne, his purple eyes earnest and shadowed. “It’s about Y/N.”
Zayne’s expression didn’t change, but a subtle tension entered his posture. “What about her?”
“I… I want her, Zayne.” The confession was raw, ripped from him. “Not just as my friend. Not just as the girl I grew up with. I want all of her. I want to kiss her until she forgets her own name. I want to make love to her until she’s crying my name. I want to feel her, every inch, and I want her to feel me.” He dragged both hands down his face. “And I have no fucking idea how to do any of that.”
A beat of silence passed. Zayne removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Caleb…”
“I’m inexperienced,” Caleb blurted out, the word tasting like ash. “I’ve had chances, okay? Plenty of them. But it never felt… it was never her. So I never… I didn’t…” He gestured helplessly. “I don’t know how to make it good for her. I don’t know how to touch her, how to kiss her, how to… fuck, Zayne, how to move. I’m going to ruin it. I’m going to scare her or hurt her or be so bad she’ll laugh, and I can’t have that. I can’t lose her because I’m a fucking virgin who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
Zayne watched the torrent of words, his scarred hands sliding into his pockets. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
“Because you’re not.” Caleb took a step closer, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “You’re experienced. I know you are. I’ve seen the way women look at you, even with that icy demeanor of yours. And I know… I know you care about Y/N, too. In your own way. So please. Please. Teach me.”
Zayne’s jaw tightened. “That’s a terrible idea, Caleb.”
“It’s the only one I have!” Caleb’s voice broke. “I can’t ask anyone else. I can’t go to some stranger. This… this need is because of her. It’s for her. It has to come from someone who understands that. Someone I trust. Please, Zayne. I’m begging you. Show me how to kiss her. Show me how to touch her. Show me how to make love to her so she never wants anyone else.”
The plea hung in the air, thick and charged. Zayne closed his eyes for a long moment, his disciplined mind warring with the sheer, illogical weight of the request. He thought of Y/N, of her bright smile, her fierce spirit, the way her curves filled a room with a warmth that even his clinical soul craved. He thought of Caleb, his adopted brother in everything but blood, standing on a precipice of his own making, terrified of falling.
When Zayne opened his eyes, a decision had been made. A dangerous, irrevocable one. His gaze was hooded, unreadable. “You understand this is purely instructional. A clinical demonstration.”
Caleb nodded rapidly, a flicker of hope igniting in his eyes. “Yes. Clinical. Absolutely.”
“And you will follow my lead. Exactly.”
“Anything.”
Zayne took a slow breath, then gestured to the space in front of him. “Stand here.”
Caleb moved, his body thrumming with nervous energy. He stood before Zayne, who was a fraction shorter but somehow seemed to dominate the space.
“The foundation is the kiss,” Zayne began, his voice taking on a detached, lecturing tone that was at odds with the intimacy of the topic. “It’s not just lips meeting. It’s communication. Anticipation. Control.” He reached up, his scarred fingers surprisingly gentle as they cupped Caleb’s jaw, tilting his head slightly. “You start soft. A question.”
Before Caleb could process the touch, Zayne leaned in and brushed his lips against Caleb’s.
It was a whisper of contact, dry and chaste, lasting less than a second. Caleb stiffened, a jolt of pure, unexpected sensation shooting down his spine. Zayne’s lips were firm, cooler than he’d imagined.
“You feel her response,” Zayne murmured, his breath ghosting over Caleb’s mouth. He didn’t pull away fully. “If she yields, you continue.”
He kissed him again, a fraction harder, lingering. This time, his lips moved, a slow, deliberate press that coaxed Caleb’s own to part on a shaky inhale. The scent of Zayne—clean linen, antiseptic, and something uniquely, deeply masculine—filled Caleb’s senses.
Zayne’s tongue traced the seam of Caleb’s lips. “If she opens for you…” he whispered, and then his tongue slid inside.
Oh, fuck.
Caleb’s mind short-circuited. The kiss deepened from clinical to consuming in a heartbeat. Zayne’s tongue was hot and skilled, exploring his mouth with a confident, sweeping intensity that left Caleb dizzy. He’d never been kissed like this—never been taken like this. A low, involuntary sound vibrated in his throat, and he felt Zayne’s fingers tighten minutely on his jaw.
Zayne pulled back, his own breathing slightly uneven. His eyes were dark, the hazel almost swallowed by green. “That’s… one way. You lead. You set the pace. You learn what she likes by what she does back.”
Caleb just stared, his lips tingling, his cock already thickening painfully against the fly of his joggers. “I… okay.”
“Now,” Zayne said, his voice dropping another octave, losing some of its clinical edge. “Touching. You don’t just grab. You build.” His hands left Caleb’s face and slid down, over the hard planes of his chest. The touch was deliberate, mapping. “You start here. The shoulders, the chest. Let her feel your strength, but also your restraint.”
His palms rubbed over Caleb’s pecs through the thin cotton of his shirt, fingers brushing against his nipples. Caleb gasped, the sensation shockingly direct. Zayne’s thumbs circled the hardening nubs, applying a firm, rhythmic pressure.
“Breasts are incredibly sensitive,” Zayne continued, his tone now a hypnotic murmur. “For women, even more so. You pay attention to them. Worship them.” To demonstrate, he leaned in again, but this time his mouth went to the side of Caleb’s neck. His teeth grazed the tendon there, not biting, just a hint of pressure, before his tongue soothed the spot. Caleb’s head fell back with a choked groan.
“You use your mouth. Your teeth. Your tongue. Everywhere.” Zayne’s lips traveled down, over the collar of Caleb’s shirt, to the swell of his pectoral. He mouthed at the fabric, his hot breath seeping through. “You make her feel desired in every inch of her skin.”
He hooked his fingers in the hem of Caleb’s white shirt and pulled it up. Caleb, moving as if in a trance, raised his arms, letting Zayne strip the shirt off and toss it aside. The cool air hit his heated skin, pebbling it. Zayne’s gaze raked over him—the well-defined chest, the taut abdomen, the trail of dark hair leading into his joggers.
“Good,” Zayne breathed, and the word was no longer clinical at all. It was thick with approval. He placed both hands on Caleb’s bare chest, splaying his fingers wide. “You feel the heat. The life.” Then he bent his head and took one of Caleb’s nipples into his mouth.
“Fuck!” Caleb cried out, his hands flying up to tangle in Zayne’s neatly styled black hair. Zayne’s mouth was wet, hot, insistent. He sucked the nub hard, his tongue flicking over it rapidly, before grazing it with his teeth. A sharp, delicious pain-pleasure speared straight to Caleb’s groin, making his hips jerk forward. Zayne switched to the other nipple, giving it the same devastating attention, sucking and biting until it was a tight, aching peak.
“See?” Zayne rasped against his skin, his lips glistening. “You reduce her to this. To sensation. To needing more.” His hands slid down Caleb’s sides, over his hips, and gripped the waistband of his joggers. “Now, you go lower.”
In one smooth motion, he pushed both the joggers and the boxer briefs beneath them down Caleb’s legs. Caleb’s cock sprang free, fully erect, thick and flushed, curving up towards his stomach. Pre-cum already glistened at the slit.
Zayne’s eyes locked on it. A muscle ticked in his jaw. He sank to his knees.
“Zayne, wait—” Caleb started, but the words died as Zayne’s hand wrapped around the base of his shaft.
“This is part of it,” Zayne said, his voice a guttural rumble that seemed to vibrate through Caleb’s very bones. He leaned forward, his breath washing over the sensitive head. “Using your mouth. Making her wet. Making her ready.”
And then he took Caleb into his mouth.
The heat was instantaneous, overwhelming. Caleb shouted, his fingers clenching in Zayne’s hair. Zayne’s mouth was a slick, tight heaven, his tongue pressing firmly along the underside of Caleb’s cock as he took him deep, his nose brushing the coarse hair at the base. He didn’t bob or move with frantic energy; he worked with a slow, devastating expertise, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard as he pulled back to the tip, then plunging down again, taking him all the way.
“Gah! Oh, god… Zayne… fuck…” Caleb babbled, his thighs trembling. The wet, hot suction, the visual of Zayne—stoic, composed Zayne—on his knees, lips stretched around his cock, was the most erotic, mind-destroying thing he had ever witnessed. Every pull of Zayne’s mouth sent jolts of fire through his balls, up his spine. “S-so good… ah!”
Zayne pulled off with a soft, wet pop. A string of saliva connected his lips to Caleb’s glistening head. “You learn her taste,” he said, his voice roughened. He leaned in again, not taking him back in, but licking a broad stripe from root to tip, swirling his tongue around the swollen crown. “You learn what makes her moan. What makes her hips buck.” He sucked just the head back into his mouth, his tongue probing the slit, and Caleb nearly came right then, a white-hot surge racing up his shaft.
“Stop, stop, I’m gonna—!”
Zayne released him immediately, standing up in one fluid motion. He was breathing heavily now, his glasses slightly askew, a flush high on his cheekbones. His own evident arousal pressed against the fine wool of his suit trousers. “Control,” he panted. “You have to maintain control. Her pleasure comes first. Always.” He undid his own belt and fly with quick, efficient movements, pushing his trousers and briefs down just enough to free his own erection. It was thick, veined, impressive, the head a dark, angry red.
“Now,” Zayne said, stepping closer. “The main act. You don’t just push inside. You prepare her.” He spat into his palm, a crude, shockingly hot gesture, and reached between them, wrapping his slick fist around both their cocks. Caleb cried out at the contact—the rough friction of Zayne’s hand, the hot slide of their lengths together. Zayne began to pump, his grip tight, his rhythm relentless.
“You stroke her, touch her, get her so wet she’s dripping,” Zayne growled, his forehead falling against Caleb’s shoulder. His other arm wrapped around Caleb’s back, holding him close as he worked their cocks together in a slick, filthy rhythm. The sound was obscene—a wet, rhythmic shlick, shlick, shlick that filled the quiet room. “You make sure she’s open. Ready for you.”
Caleb was lost, utterly consumed. He buried his face in Zayne’s neck, smelling his scent, feeling the scratch of his stubble. His hips pumped helplessly into Zayne’s fist, his cock sliding against Zayne’s, the dual sensations of friction and the hard, hot length alongside his own driving him to the brink. “Fuck… I can’t… it’s too much…”
“Then you enter her,” Zayne whispered harshly into his ear, his voice like gravel. “Slow. You push in that first inch and you stop. You let her feel the stretch. You let her adjust to your size.” He punctuated his words with a sharp twist of his wrist, his thumb smearing pre-cum over both their heads. “You watch her face. You listen to her sounds. And when she’s ready, when she begs for it, you go deeper.”
He sped up his hand, his own breath coming in ragged pants now. “You find a rhythm. Deep, steady strokes. You aim for the spot inside that makes her see stars.” He was fucking his own fist now, using Caleb’s cock for leverage, the pace turning frantic, brutal. “You feel her tighten around you. You hear her cries get higher, desperate. And you don’t stop. You fuck her through it. You give her everything you have until she’s screaming your name and coming apart on your cock.”
His words were the final trigger. With a broken, guttural shout, Caleb came. His orgasm ripped through him like a detonation, blinding and absolute. Thick, white ropes of cum shot out, splattering across Zayne’s hand, his own stomach, the space between them. He convulsed, his body seizing as pulse after pulse of intense pleasure was milked from him by Zayne’s relentless grip.
Zayne didn’t stop. He watched Caleb fall apart, his own control fraying. The sight of Caleb—the golden, popular, protective friend—reduced to a shuddering, moaning mess by his hand, his mouth, his instruction, was too much. With a low, choked groan, Zayne followed him over the edge. His cum joined Caleb’s, a hot, additional rush that coated his fingers and spattered against Caleb’s abdomen in heavy spurts.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their harsh, panting breaths and the wet, sticky mess between them. Zayne slowly released his grip, his hand trembling slightly. He took a half-step back, his expression unreadable again, though his lips were swollen and his eyes were dark with spent passion.
“That,” Zayne said, his voice hoarse but regaining a sliver of its usual composure, “is the general idea.”
Caleb could only nod, his body still humming, his mind a blissful, empty static. He looked down at the evidence of their “lesson” splashed across his skin. Holy shit.
Zayne pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket—crisp, white, absurdly clinical—and began to clean his hand with meticulous care. He then handed it to Caleb. “Clean up. Y/N will be back soon.”
The mention of her name was a bucket of cold water. Caleb took the cloth, wiping himself clumsily, his movements sluggish. “Right. Yeah.”
Zayne tucked himself back into his trousers, fastening them with precise movements. He adjusted his glasses. “We should… continue this elsewhere. My apartment. It’s more private. We can… discuss technique further. If you’re serious.”
Caleb nodded, pulling his joggers back up. “I am. I’m serious. Thank you, Zayne. Really.”
Zayne just gave a curt nod, already heading for the door. “Five minutes. Don’t be late.”
As the front door clicked shut behind Zayne, the apartment fell into a heavy, charged silence, thick with the scent of sex and sweat.
In the hallway closet, hidden behind a slightly ajar door, Y/N stood perfectly still. Her dark, beautiful face was flushed, her lips parted. Her heart hammered against her ribs so loudly she was sure it could be heard in the next apartment. The phone in her hand was still recording, the red light a tiny, accusatory dot in the dimness.
She had come back from the store ten minutes ago, had heard the low murmur of voices, and had frozen when she recognized the tension in Caleb’s. Curiosity, and a darker, more possessive thrill, had made her silently open the closet door and press record, her phone camera peeking through the gap. She had witnessed every second. The kiss. The touching. The devastating blowjob. The mutual, frantic handjob that had left both men gasping and spent.
And she had touched herself the entire time.
Her free hand was still tucked into the waistband of her leggings, her fingers slick with her own arousal. She had rubbed her clit in fast, tight circles, matching the rhythm of Zayne’s hand on Caleb’s cock, biting her own lip to stifle the moans that threatened to escape as she watched the two men she cared for—the cheerful protector and the stoic surgeon—unravel each other. She had come silently, violently, her inner walls clenching around nothing as Caleb had shouted his release, her own juices soaking through her underwear.
Now, she stopped the recording and saved the file. A secret. A treasure. Her breath finally eased, a slow, satisfied smile curving her full lips. She could still taste her own pleasure on her tongue. She could still feel the phantom echoes of their motions in her own body.
She heard the front door open and close again—Caleb leaving to meet Zayne. She waited a full minute before slipping out of the closet, her body humming with illicit knowledge. She walked into the living room, the scent of their sex still hanging in the air. She didn’t open a window. She breathed it in, deep and possessive.
Her phone felt heavy in her hand. She brought it to her chest, a slow, wicked excitement building low in her belly. This video… this was for her. For her pleasure. For the nights when she was alone in her bed, thinking of her childhood friend with the purple eyes and his dark, obsessive love, and the cold surgeon who hid a furnace of passion beneath his suits.
She was still standing there, lost in the vivid, pornographic replay in her mind, when her phone buzzed. A message from Caleb.
> Hey Pipsqueak. Had to run an errand with Zayne. Left your favorite spicy chips on the counter. Don’t wait up.
She read the message, her smile widening. Pipsqueak. His old nickname for her, usually dripping with affectionate teasing. Now, it felt different. Loaded. It made her thighs clench.
“Don’t wait up,” she whispered to the empty room, her voice a husky promise. “Oh, I won’t be sleeping, Caleb. Not for a long, long time.”
She headed to her bedroom, the video file a burning secret in her palm, already planning her first viewing.
Daddy Qin Che | 6.2k words
dilf qin che takes you in off the street, and he resists his desire for so long that when he finally gives in, he's feral
cw: daddy kink (seriously, he's a father figure), age gap (no age mentioned but mc is 20s and he's 40s in my head), size difference, belly bulge, pussy inspections, guilty dilf, sloppy and messy and deranged
You'd been alone as long as you could remember. You owned nothing but whatever you could fit in a small worn backpack you found in a park years earlier, and no one had ever loved you. Every day was a fight. That’s how he’d found you: in an alley on the n109 zone, gripping one of the shoulder straps of the bag carrying all your worldy posessions, and screaming at the top of your lungs. Every single day was a fight.
He watched you thrash and scream, anchoring yourself down, using your entire body weight to resist. Your attacker drags you along behind him for a few metres, like your desperate fight was nothing but a mild nuisance, and then, when he’s had enough , he turns and raises a knife to end your fight once and for all. A red mist scoops him off his feet and into the air, and your scream is abruptly cut off as you fall back hard into the pavement, gripping your backpack in your arms.
When your rescuer leaves the shadows and approaches, you scramble backwards, clutching that little battered bag like it contained riches. He crouches down. “I won’t touch your treasure, sweetheart. I’ve got more than enough of my own.”
Months pass, and then years, and it becomes less and less clear why the silver-haired man—who could kill without lifting a finger and had the reputation to match—deigned not only spare you from certain death, but to drag you back to his cave and give you a home. And a home was what it was. You'd have been happy if he did truly like in a dark dank cave, as long as it was safe and secure, but you'd very quickly learned that was not what was on offer.
He was decades your senior and struck fear in anyone who was unfortunate enough to find themselves before him. He was also wealthy enough to obtain anything his heart desired, and you—a nobody, with nothing to offer him at all—found yourself living under his roof, under his care, and slowly realising you might be the one thing in the world he treasured above all else.
"Isn't it pretty?" you ask, twirling your flowing skirts for him again.
"Mm," he hums, leaning back in his lounge chair. "Very pretty."
"It's almost too pretty to wear..." You smooth your hands down over the delicate bodice, a pretty pale shade of pink. "What if I spill something on it?"
"I'll buy another," comes his lazy reply. He takes a swig from his glass, and you catch the broken skin across his knuckles.
You take a few small steps and fold yourself onto the carpet at his feet carefully, being sure not the tear the pretty skirt. "Why?" you ask, looking up at him.
His brows twitch. "Why not?"
"What if i ruined that one too?"
"You think I can't afford to buy a thousand more?"
You fiddle a little with the delicate lace. "But you buy me so many pretty things."
He looks down at you, a silver lock falling over one of his dark red eyes. "You've noticed," he says, amused.
You lift yourself up onto your knees and shuffle forward slightly, enough to rest your hands on his knees. His fingers tighten on the glass and then relax. He lowers it to the small table beside him. "What do you want? You know I like when you just ask."
You shake your head. "I don't want anything."
He cracks, his lips curving into a small smile. "Oh?" His head tilts a little.
You shuffle your knees along the carpet a little more, forcing his knees apart to make space for you between them. "Nothing you can buy," you clarify.
When you look up at him, his eyes are fixed on one of your hands, resting on his thigh.
"What happened to your hands, daddy?"
His eyes snap to yours. You'd used the word for the first time only a few months earlier. You'd been nagging about something, trying to get your way. It'd slipped out without thought, and you'd both frozen in place in the seconds afterwards. Then he'd relented to your demand and made no mention of it. So again, and again, you'd hung off his arm and 'please, daddy?' had slipped past your lips, and you found yourself entirely unable to stop. It felt right. And it seemed to work in your favour, too.
You reach for his hand so you can inspect his knuckles. "Why haven't you healed them?" you ask.
"They're a reminder."
You tilt your head in question, a habit you'd picked up from him without notice.
"Someone said something today that I really didn't like, and I want to remember how much I hurt them.” He takes his hand from yours and tucks some loose hair behind your ear. "So I don't go back and kill them. I need them alive for now."
"Is that why you kept me? You need me alive for something too?"
He laughs. It jostles you a little against his legs. Then his muscles relax, and it's clear that's all the response he'll be offering.
You stare at a precariously loose button at his navel, frustrated in your years' long failure to understand why someone like him would take in, and spoil, someone as entirely useless and insignificant as you.
"Tell me what you want that I can't buy," he asks after a moment of your silent brooding. "You're pouting."
"Tell me why you saved me."
He looks immediately amused, which makes your mood worse. "I only helped a little."
You close the final gap between your body and the edge of the lounge. You’re now well and truly wedged between his legs. "Answer me properly or I won't talk to you for a week."
His head tilts. "A whole week?" He smooths down your hair. It feels a lot like being soothed with a pet on the head, as if you were a needy dog desperate for their owner’s approval.
Your mood worsens. "A month."
His lips twitch, a clear attempt to hold back a smile. "Now it's getting serious." He pats the armrest. "Come here."
When you hesitate—stubborn resistance he was all too familiar with—that same red mist that had killed your attacker all those years ago gently scoops you up and drops you exactly where he'd instructed you to sit. He gathers your legs and tucks your feet between his thighs, keeping you securely balanced on your perch beside him.
You expect him to take his hands off you and let the way your feet wedge under one of his thighs be your security. He hardly ever touched you unless absolutely necessary. It was such a rarity that you’d long since concluded that he didn't like to be touched in general. But one of his hands stays wrapped around your bare calf now as he starts to speak. You indulge in the rare treat.
"I was passing by, and I heard your screams. It was clearly an unfair fight. Didn't I do what anyone would? I'm not a monster, am I, sweetheart?"
You frown. "No, you didn't do what anyone would. You took me home and put me in the biggest room here and bought me anything I asked for."
His lips curve and his fingers tighten a little around your calf. "Aren't you happy here?" His thumb moves against your skin under your skirts, caressing. "With me," he adds.
"You've helped other people... in unfair fights."
"Mm."
"But you didn't bring them home."
"No."
"So why me?"
His hand moves up enough to brush against your underskirts, just below your knee. "Sometimes... I come across things––things that catch my eye––and I decide I want to bring them home... and keep them… and make them mine. You know I collect shiny things."
You lift your feet from between his thighs, and before he can intervene, you fall into his lap. His hands hover awkwardly in the air for a moment, like he'd been about to catch you and either failed to get their fast enough or stopped himself. You know him so well, that you know his next move will be forcibly removing you. And so, just as his muscles twitch—
"Am I a shiny thing then, daddy?"
Success.
He's still.
You reach toward his face. His hand snaps up to grip your wrist.
“Your hair is in your face,” you grumble.
His wrist loosens, freeing you, and when you gently move aside the hair that falls over one of his eyes a little, it reveals the glow forming—the same glow you'd seen the first time that word slipped past your lips and every time since.
"Yes, little one. You're shiny. Hop off now."
His voice distracts you from the allure of that red glow. You tilt your head. "Why?"
"You'll damage your dress."
"You can buy me another."
He doesn’t respond, and that loose shirt button catches your eye again. You focus your attention on it, rolling it between your fingers. It's so loose it causes the fabric of his black dress shirt to part a little, giving you a peak of his belly underneath. You’d seen him shirtless more times than you could count. He had a habit of strutting around the place with a towel around his waste. You could imagine how he must’ve looked when he was closer to your age. You imagine all that muscle that sits on him like a bulk and brute strength now might’ve been a little leaner. He would’ve always been tall, but maybe not quite so… big.
"I am happy here... with you." Your shyness isn’t disguised in your voice at all, so you decide you should be brave and look at him, to make sure he understands you mean it. But when you do… your fingers slip, snapping the thread and tugging that little button completely free. You gasp. A tiny little breath of air. An involuntary response to the blazing glow looking back at you—brighter than you’d ever seen it before.
"I won't hurt you, baby," he says, clearly interpreting your surprise as fear.
"Your eye."
"Mm, I know. You should get off now."
"Why does it do that?"
His brows twitch, then his lip, and then his hand resting beside you—like a shock travelling through his all his nerves. "Please, get off," he says finally.
You're transfixed: by his eye, by the tension in the thighs you rest on, by the uncharacteristic plea that escapes his lips when you know very well he has the power to lift you from him, both using his muscles or his evol.
Adjusting in his lap a little, you lean closer, like getting a better look might reveal the secret to his glowing eye. It draws you in, tempting you with its secrets. "It happens when I call you daddy," you mutter, problem-solving aloud. "Is it like a mood ring? Are you happy or angry?"
His chest rises and falls more rapidly than usual, and you're almost ready to jump off, thinking maybe he was in pain. But then, "...Happy," he confesses.
You can't help the grin that lights up your face. You fall into him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He's tense, and his arms don't wrap around you in return, but after a moment, he relaxes. "You never said," you mumble into his neck. "I thought you were embarrassed... or that you hated it..." Nuzzling into his neck, you find yourself quickly rambling. “Doesn’t it feel so right? It felt like I was yours all along. I never knew it was possible to feel this safe, and loved, and… happy.”
He's quiet, and your chests rise and fall together, and the dress you were in love with minutes earlier now feels like a big mess of fabric serving no purpose but to cordon you off from him. You want to be closer.
You nuzzle into his neck some more, inhaling his scent—his warmth and protection and safety and love... love... "I love you, daddy," you mumble.
He's still... and quiet... and then he turns, and with his lips against your temple, he inhales deeply.
You sit up so you can see his face again, trying to stick as close to him as you can. "Do you love me too?"
"Mm, more than anything."
A spark of heat shoots through your body: pure joy. You rock a little in his lap, keeping your arms around his neck, securely latched on. His expression doesn't match yours at all. He still looks a little pained, and it makes even less sense now than it did before.
"What's wrong?"
"Go get ready for bed, I'll come say goodnight."
You frown, and your fingers play with the hair at the back of his neck, much like you had with the lace on your dress and the button on his shirt. "Are you sick?"
"No."
Your fingers still. "You don't like me touching you?"
He doesn't answer.
You arms drop from his neck. "Are you... You just said... You don't love me?"
His hair falls back over his eye. "I love you."
"But I love you and... I want to be close to you... and touch you. So... you don't love me the same?" You fiddle with the edges of his shirt where the button should’ve been holding it together. His bare skin peaks at you, and you slip one little finger past the gap. The moment your finger meets his warmth, his hips jump so violently you're forced to grip onto his shoulders for support.
"Daddy loves you," he breathes as his chest rises and falls heavily. He almost sounds… afraid? It's such a foreign tone for him that you're stunned into silence. "I want to touch you and be close to you, too. So much. So, so much. It's not right. I can't touch you, mm? And you shouldn't touch me."
"Why?"
His hands grip the armrests. "That man I still need alive—the one that said something I really didn't like—he’s only alive because I have self-control. Lots, and lots, and lots of self-control. He said something about the thing most precious to me in this world and he's very, very lucky that I’ve spent so many years building all that control. As are you."
Your brows pull together, and you blink rapidly, processing.
He leans forward a little, arms still pinned beside you. "Daddy wants to do bad things. Bad things to men that mention your name..." His nose brushes your neck. "...and bad things to you." He falls back. "So I can't touch you, and I need to leave my knuckles bloody. Those are the rules."
Your heart flutters rapidly with the revelation he feels the same way. You're so fixated on that, that you entirely skip over the part where he says he can’t. Can't isn't the same as want. And all you care about is the want.
"Touching me isn't a bad thing,” you mutter, doing your best not to pout.
His hand balls into a fist, then it relaxes. "I'm too old for you, you know that.”
"But I love you."
"Those are the rules,” he says again, final.
"So only someone younger can touch me? I should just go find someone my age without your stupid rules?"
He leans forward. He’s large enough that you have to look up at him, even as you sit perched on his thighs. "No," he says simply, calm, final. "Daddy can't touch you, and neither can anyone else."
"That's not fair."
He moves to touch your lips, pausing just before he makes contact. Control. "Don't pout."
You grasp his wrist before he can lower it again. "What about me touching you? That isn't in your rules. Besides, you can't tell me what to do."
"Go to bed."
"No."
"I can make you."
"But you haven't." You wiggle in his lap. "You keep telling me to get off, but you haven't even tried to make me. Why haven't you made me get off, daddy?"
You bridge the small space between his hand and your lips, placing a delicate kiss to his broken knuckles. "It would be easy. I’m so much smaller than you. You could make me get off you, and you could make me stop touching you, and you could lock me in my room and never look at me so you never think about doing bad—"
"Go to bed."
His hand is relaxed in your grasp, a passive limpness that lets you select the finger you want and guide it to your mouth. It brushes your lower lip. "It's okay, daddy. I understand. It's not bad if you don't do anything, right? You don't have to touch me." His finger rests between your lips as you speak.
He watches as you part them a little and touch it with your tongue.
One little kitten lick: a test. Then another. And then, slowly, you guide his finger into your warm mouth. It rests on your tongue for a moment, and then it twitches, a slight press down into your wet warmth. Approval. Your lips seal around him, and you suck, and twirl your tongue around him and gently guide him in and out.
He watches, transfixed. Having his attention entirely on you was enough to have you giddy any other day, but right now... it's enough for you to squirm... to make a little sound with his thick finger filling your mouth. His fingers are so long that you can’t manage the whole thing. At one point, you try, and when you gag a little, he tries to pull away. It’s more a reflexive flinch than any real attempt to stop you. You know you could never fight any actual attempt to take back control.
He lets you catch his hand. “Sorry, daddy. It’s too big. I just wanted to try.”
As you resume your mission, his chest rises and falls in heavy uneven breaths. Any second he could stop you. You keep reminding yourself that he could stop you without so much as a twitch of a muscle. Still, he says and does nothing. Even as you begin to roll your lips in his lap, still suckling on his finger, making small sounds that vibrate through his hand. He says nothing. He basks in your wet warmth, a captive audience and a passive participant.
When you're done with one finger, you start on the next, and in a patient game of wills, you suckle and whine and rolls your hips… until finally, he speaks.
"You're wrinkling your dress."
You pull his thumb from your mouth with a pop. Did he want you to stop? You knew he didn't care about the dress. You’d thought it was in the way when you climbed onto him. It was a barrier between you. Surely he didn't mean...
"Should I... take it off?"
"To look after it."
You nod, joining his game of pretend. Ignoring that he'd just told you he could buy you a thousand more. Hesitation halts you just as you start to climb off him. Was this a trick? Would he stand and hurry away and never give you this chance again?
That unruly lock of hair still flops down over his face to cover his eye. He doesn't grab you when you reach to move it this time. And when you do, his eye is impossibly bright. A silent reassurance, you keep your focus on that glow as you climb backwards off him and reach for the small hook and zip at the side of your bodice.
You gain confidence the longer he sits there, unmoving. There's no sign this is a trick. So by the time you manoeuvre out of the dress and leave a pile of pale pink fabric at your feet, you're practically trembling with anticipation.
Standing before the man that rescued you, far older and wiser and stronger, you've never felt more vulnerable. Even on the night he rescued you, your adrenaline kept you protected from this feeling: like you might be prey.
Your hair tickles your bare nipples as it falls over your shoulder, and you are grateful you at least left your underwear on when you rushed to try on your pretty new dress.
He sits there, knees parted, eyes tracking up and down your body like he's studying, inspecting. His hand drops to his thigh, flat. He doesn't lift it again. It’s not an inviting pat. That would leave no plausible deniability. But you know what he's asking anyway.
This time, when you crawl onto him and settle onto his warm thighs, there's no barrier of tulle and puffy skirts. You can settle right up against him. And he's warm. So, so warm. That's what he's always been: warmth and home and protection. So you wrap yourself around him, pressing yourself as close as you can, and you bask in him.
Just for a little while.
You can't even bare to move away when you speak, letting your lips brush against his skin where you rest in the crook of his neck. "No one's ever cared for me before. I only ever remember being alone. You're more than I ever even dreamed of." You nuzzle into him, humming with contentment. "You're so good to me, daddy."
"You would be in bed right now if I was good to you, sound asleep, not… naked in my lap."
"But I like it. It's what I want." You kiss his skin gently, a brush of your lips more than anything. "Don't you like it? Aren't I pretty?"
His shoulder jostles you a little, enough to tell you he's lifted his arm and then placed it back down again. Control. You sit up so you can see his face, attempting to prompt an answer from him.
He has that pained look again.
You brush your hair over your shoulder, preventing it from covering you at all. Then, keeping your eyes on his face, you cup your breasts in your hands. "They aren't pretty?” You pout. “Is there something wrong with me?”
His eyes are stuck on yours. He hasn't let them drop. They flutter and he blinks rapidly a few times, like he might have dust or an eyelash in them.
"Daddy? Won’t you check my titties for me? Pretty please?"
He sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and his eyes drop.
You let your thumb flick over your nipple, then your remove your hands and lift yourself up on your knees, bringing your chest up closer to his face.
They're so close, his warm breath tickles you.
He’s still. You bask in the feeling of his breath against you as you wait patiently.
Then, "Let daddy check..."
His hand lifts from it's position on the armrest, and you're sure he'll hesitate and move away again. He cups your breast with the tiniest pillow of air between his skin and yours, like he's imagining the weight of it in his palm.
His lips part, and his brows furrow. Pain.
"It's okay if it's me that touches..." you mutter, and without giving him a chance to move or process your intentions, you fall slightly forward, meeting him. His hand hardly so much as twitches as your breast rests in his warm palm. His fingers press a little firmer with each breath you take, lifting your chest, filling the spaces between his fingers.
Then, in a little moment of impatience, you grab his hand and press it against you properly, squeezing. "It's me touching," you breathe as you guide his hand over you. He lets you, and it makes your head spin. "You're just checking for me. Just making sure I'm all healthy. You’re the best daddy in the world."
He makes a sound. It might be a word. You miss it, distracted by his thumb. It moves. He swipes it across your nipple.
"...Need to check."
You hear him this time. It's a mumble, almost slurred, and then he's tugged you closer and his wet lips are wrapped around you. You're dizzy, incapable of processing the reality of his hot warm mouth suckling at your tits like he's hungry. He's gripping you now, firm hands holding you close and squeezing and groping at your tits as he alternates between each one.
"My sweet girl," he slurs. "Letting daddy taste your pretty tits... so, so sweet..." he hardly gives himself time to breathe. His tongue laps at you in apology each time he sucks a little hard––each time his teeth make small indents into your skin when a growl builds in his throat and culminates in a desperate bite.
You squeeze your eyes shut as he devours you, attacking your tits with his mouth in a carnal brutish frenzy. You shiver and tremble as the cool air hits where his spit glazes your soft skin. You hold his head against you, fingers tangling in his hair. Words pass your lips in broken thank yous and pathetic little pleas.
He's so relentless that when he eventually detaches, he's entirely breathless, resting his head against you as he recovers. "I shouldn't..." he mutters. "I can’t..."
You lower yourself back into his lap and cup his cheeks in your palms. "Can I have a kiss?"
He shakes his head, half-hearted. "Can't..."
His glowing eye pulses, beckoning. "I want your tongue in my mouth, daddy. I want all your warmth." You lick at his lower lip, just with the tip of your tongue. "You always give me what I want..." Another lick. "You're so good to me."
The next lick comes with a surprise. His own tongue darts out, meeting yours, slippery and wet. You lick at him again, and he meets you. And then you rest there for a second, your tongue resting against each other, breaths mingling.
It's because it starts this way, that when your lips finally meet, it's all tongue and spit and mess. You lap at each other, and you imagine he might be convincing himself that this is too far departed from the textbook example of a kiss to be defined as such. He's not kissing you. He's playing with your tongue and your lips brushing together is simply an accidental consequence of this other unnamed activity. It alternates between this messy depraved licking and slurping, and a firm desperate invasion, accompanied with his hands holding your head firmly in position. You whimper as he fills your mouth, and a low sound rumbles from his throat in reply.
His hand wraps around your hip at some point, and he pushes you down against him as he invades your mouth. It seems he somehow gets bigger as it goes on. Like he grows into his full size as he loses his inhibition. You very quickly feel like your control over the situation is slipping away, and you find your muscles relaxing as a consequence. This was how it should be.
When he grips you at both hips, you're entirely pliable, and you let him roll you against himself with no resistance at all. The cold buckle of his belt reminds you how entirely clothed he is compared to your nakedness. "Can you feel daddy?" he breathes into your mouth. "There..." he grinds you against him, fingers digging into your skin hard. "Feel it..."
It must hurt. He strains up underneath you, confined by his dress pants. You nod.
"That's yours," he slurs against your lips. "Belongs to you, little one."
"Just for me?"
"Mm... Always gets like that for you..."
"Always?"
"Daddy has been so good, baby. For so long."
He pushes you back, down his thighs a little and you watch as he expertly undoes his fly and releases himself through it—belt still fastened.
He's leaking. You resist the urge to reach out and touch the drippy tip. He doesn't touch it either. It sits up against his still buttoned black shirt and twitches.
That's all the time you have to process seeing him for the first time before he's tugging you back up against him, cock trapped between you.
"Do you wanna know what daddy thinks about?" He kisses your forehead, and when you nod, he cups your cheeks and gently strokes his thumb against your warm skin. "When you wear your pretty dresses, and you're all happy and bouncy, you thank me so sweetly, I think about following you back to your bedroom and helping you take them off… and letting you thank me in ways you shouldn't..." He tugs you closer, letting his leaky tip smear a little wetness on your belly. "...You’d lie back and spread your legs and invite daddy inside your sweet little hole..."
“That sounds nice,” you purr.
He sighs, caressing your cheek. “You’d like that?”
You nod, eager. “Can we go to my bedroom now?”
A flicker of that same pained look, and then he’s scooping you up and carrying you through to where you slept: the only other room in the long hallway that led to his own. You couldn’t get to your room without walking past his own door. You’d always liked it. It felt safe, secure. Something you never had before he found you.
You’re jostled up his chest as he walks, and when you’re lowered back down a little, a firm warmth rests up against your ass. He pauses just outside your door. “Could just do it here,” he says against your temple. His voice is low, but it’s not quite a whisper. “Could hold you up against me and drop you down onto me. Maybe I’d carry you around like that, hm?”
You squeeze him harder, attempting to wiggle impossibly closer.
“I’ve thought about it,” he continues as he turns the doorknob, holding you against him with one arm. “So, so many bad things.” With a few strides into the room, he’s at your bed. “Let go.” You refuse, digging your heels into his back as you cling. “Don’t you want daddy to check your pussy? Be a good girl for me, hm?”
Slowly, you release, and he lowers you onto the bed and flips you onto your belly. The bed dips as he sits down at the edge, and then you’re being partially tugged over him. You rest on your belly with your elbows against the mattress, blind to the way he has your ass in his lap and his arm around your waist so he can position you exactly where he wants.
His big, warm hands move over your ass a few times—circular movements like he’s trying to warm your skin—and then they dig into you, groping and kneading. “Oh, baby. We should stop. I’m really too old for you. I’ve been so good for so long. I’m like your—”
“Dad?”
His hands pause, one finger resting on the strip of fabric covering your cunt. “Don’t say that.”
You push your hips back, seeking him out. “It’s okay, daddy. I belong to you. You have to inspect me like you do all your shiny things.”
His finger taps against your hole over the fabric.
“You took me home because you knew I belonged to you,” you continue as he silently prods at you. “I’m yours, daddy. Me and my pussy. Won’t you have a look?”
He continues stroking over the fabric. “Shouldn’t take them off,” he mutters. Then his finger slips beneath the fabric. “If we leave them on it’s okay.” He may as well be talking to himself. You’re too busy squirming and grasping at your blankets. He strokes and prods at you under your damp underwear, a blind investigation of your already slick and throbbing cunt.
He’s grabbing at your cheeks, pulling them apart. He’s muttering something. And then he’s tugging at the fabric until it bunches up and presses between your lips. He messes with it so much you may as well be entirely bare. It’s an illusion of safety. He plays with you until your hips are jumping in his lap and you’re begging for something. By the time he’s experimenting with the tip of his finger in your clenching hole, the underwear is entirely tugged to the side. “Sweet girl…” he sighs. “It’s trying to suck me in… it’s so naughty…”
You whine, “Hungry, daddy.”
“Mm,” he hums. “Hungry.”
He settles himself at the side of the bed, kneeling, and tugs you closer. You’re still on your belly. “Fine if these stay on,” he mutters just before his tongue dips into you. That’s the only warning you get before he’s lapping and sucking and kissing your pussy like he had your mouth before. It’s starvation confronted. Desperate and ravenous. And the sloppy, shameful slurping sounds have you gripping the sheets and biting into your arm.
“This is what daddy needed.” His nose digs into you as he laps at you, and he grips your ass like he’s worried you might squirm away. “Don’t move.”
You obey. You’re jelly. You have no desire to move at all.
The soft clinking of metal and fabric hitting the floor joins the sounds of your shared heavy breathing. And then, without warning, a large, comforting warmth surrounds you. He lowers just enough of his weight onto you to prevent you moving at all. His breath tickles your neck when he speaks. “Gonna feed you now, baby. Just tell me what you want.”
You whine.
“Tell me,” he commands, a little rumble attaching to the last syllable. “You know I like when you tell me.”
You suck in a shaky breath. “I’m empty…”
“Poor baby,” he coos, kissing your cheek.
“Want… want you to fill me up, daddy.”
His finger prods at your twitchy entrance. “Here?”
You wiggle under him.
“Daddy always gives you what you want.” His tip pushes at you. He guides it around your mess, a slick mix of you and him. “Don’t I?”
You nod and grab at his arm. A little push against your throbbing hole. A groan. “You’re sucking at me, pretty baby. I feel you. Trying to pull me inside. Greedy little thing wants her daddy’s cock deep in her belly?” He sucks on your neck, rolling his hips just enough to play with his tip just inside you, teasing. “Your underwear is still on, don’t worry. It’s okay. This is okay.”
He bites into you as he finally presses inside, filling and filling and shoving your walls apart to make room. “Tell me it’s okay,” he gasps into your neck when he finally stills, smothering you inside and out.
“You’re inside me.”
He breathes heavily into your ear for a moment, completely still. Then he uses his arm around your shoulders and chest to pull you back up against him as he sits back on his heels. “Fuck... That’s right. I’m deep inside. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
You look down at the small lump in your stomach, evidence of his hot, thick presence inside you. “Love you.” It leaves you like a sob.
“Daddy loves you too, sweetheart. So, so much. Feel it. Feel how much he loves you, yeah? Can you feel it?” He drags you off him a little, lifting you like you’re weightless, and he sinks back in. Over and over again. You’re slack, pulsing around him as he moves you. “I can feel your love. Sucking at me and hugging me tight. Can feel how much you love me. Tightening up when I try and leave, hm? Daddy can stay inside you. I can bury my drippy cock deep inside you when I say goodnight, hm? You can fall asleep on daddy’s cock from now on, baby. I’ll look after you. I’ll warm you up inside too. Keep you nice and warm and cozy so you can sleep.”
He presses you back down into the mattress, and the way he grinds into you has you entirely non-verbal. Breathing is your priority. Catching your breath between sobs and whimpers and kisses as he turns your head and invades your mouth. Panting, broken, grumbled words make their way into your ears occasionally. He calls you his good girl. He tells you you’re warm and sweet and perfectly shaped for him. And you are.
Somehow.
He’s so big that you can’t imagine how he fills you so perfectly. But it’s the most perfect satiating fullness. He drives through your walls like he’d carved them out himself and was finally coming home. It settles it for you: he took you home because he knew you were his. Made just for him. You’d never question it again.
And when he’s on his back and bouncing you on top of him, he watches where you join and his eye glows through the damp silver hair that falls across his face. “Tell me what you want,” he groans out as he holds you down to his base and rolls your hips back and forth against him with an almost bruising force.
“Daddy’s cum,” you mewl.
His jaw clenches, and then he pulls you down against his chest and ruts up into you with an animalistic feral intensity. The sounds of your skin slapping together tells you just how impossibly wet and messy you are now. But it’s okay. He’ll fill you up with his warmth, and he’ll hold you to his chest and tell you he loves you, and then he’ll take care of you better than anyone else ever could, like he always had.
He eyed you warily as you sauntered into his home office, that all too familiar gleam in your eye and tiny smirk telling him you were up to something. He just couldn't quite put his finger on what it was this time.
"Zaynie, baby..." you said, producing a damp wipe from behind your back like a magician unveiling a trick. "Could you wipe your handsome face, please?"
Instinctively, Zayne's hand shot to the corner of his lips, thinking that he had crumbs from the pastry he'd indulged in earlier. "Do I have chocolate on my face?" he asked, grabbing the wipe from your outstretched hand.
"Just wipe your whole face"
He complied, and when he was done, he looked at the spotless wipe and saw that there were no chocolate stains. He looked back up at you with suspicion in his eyes.
"Thank you, Z," you chirped, taking the wipe from him and tossing it into the bin beneath his desk. ""I just wanted to make sure my seat was spotless for later."
The grin on his face was instantaneous, the moment you tried to slip away, giggling, he grabbed your wrist to pull you back onto his lap.
"It's clean now, Y/N," he said with a chuckle, his arms wrapping around your waist to keep you in place. "No need to waste that wipe, now is there?"
Sitting beside him on the sofa in his office, you started to copy his meticulous cleaning. As he focused intently on disassembling and wiping each part of his gun you began to wipe his face.
He glanced up just for a second when he felt you wiping across his forehead, then his eyebrows, before trailing down to his cheeks. "Do I have something on my face, sweetie? I showered not too long ago" he asked, not pausing his task.
You just smirked and shook your head. "Mhhhm, not really" you replied, wiping his chin and around his lips.
"Then why are you wiping my face?" he inquired, finally setting down the gun to look at you quizzically.
You giggled, fighting back a loud laugh "Hold on, Sy," you teased, now focusing on the bridge of his nose. "This is a very important spot. Don't move."
"Kitten..." he warned, but you could hear the amusement in his voice.
"Almost done," you assured, giving his lips a quick peck once you finished your grooming session. "There. Thank you for letting me clean my seat for later" you quipped with a wink.
Your laughter rang out as you made a run for the bedroom, thinking you had caught him off guard. However, you only made it halfway there before you felt his evol wrap around your body. "Not so fast, kitten. Come and sit down."
"Hey, I'm not sure about this stuff, cutie. I have my own skincare routine, ya know? Can't just mess around with random products"
"We gotta hurry, Raf. I already set aside some time for the exhibition today and... oh, for gods sake, will you hold still? I'm trying to spread this cream evenly on your face!"
Rafayel huffed, but let you finish, checking his watch impatiently. "We're so going to be late for the exhibition" His eyes kept darting back to you, he knew that look on your face, you were up to something.
You just laughed off his complaints, wiping the last of the cream from your fingers. "All done" you said with a grin. "I just had to make sure my seat was EXTRA clean for tonight."
No reaction, just a deep flush on his ears as the words sank in, then he pulls out his phone and dials Thomas's number.
"Rafayel don't tell me you..."
"I'm gonna be late, but I'll be there" he says before the other man can say anything else and hangs up, tossing the phone onto the bed. Then he's on you, strong hands gripping your hips as he lifts you effortlessly.
"Why are we...wait, Raf, put me down!"
"No, cutie. Your seat is already EXTRAAA clean, use it"
You felt bad. You always did before pulling a prank on him, but his grunts and sweat reminded you of the previous night. Unable to resist teasing him, you grabbed your face wipes and approached him while he was doing his push-ups.
"Hey pips, I'm almost..." Caleb started to say before you started wiping his face "What are you doing?" he asked, never losing rhythm, even as you began wiping away the beads of sweat.
"I'm wiping your face, dummy," you explained with a playful grin, enjoying the way his muscles flexed with each pushup.
Caleb, slightly out of breath managed a teasing smile in return. "No need, I'm almost done, baby. I'm going to take a shower anyway" he pointed out logically.
"Oh, I know that," you whispered leaning in closer "I just want to make sure my seat is clean for when you're done."
The moment the words left your lips, Caleb's left hand slipped on the floor, causing him to crash face first into the ground with a sharp grunt. The suddenness of it made your eyes widen in concern, your laughter dying in your throat.
"Oh my god, Cay! Are you okay?" you gasped out, quickly moving to kneel beside him, your hand reaching out to check for injuries.
Caleb pushed himself up to sit, wincing before flashing you a roguish grin "Yeah, I'm fine. Hand me a wipe, would you?" he asked, holding out his hand
You grabbed a wipe and pressed it into his palm, expecting him to clean the small trickle of blood that had begun to dribble from his nose. But to your utter shock, Caleb's hand drifted lower, hooking his fingers into the waistband of his shorts.
"What are you doing?" you asked, watching as he slowly tug down his waistband, revealing the growing bulge of his half hard cock straining against his underwear.
"I'm wiping your other seat too, dummy"
"CALEB!"
You're sitting cross legged beside him, hands fiddling with the hem of his shirt, the shirt you wore to bed last night and decided to keep on this morning. He takes in the sight of you, the way the fabric stretches across your thighs, before his eyes drift back up to your face.
"Nope, wipe your whole face not just your cheeks, Xavie," you say, voice already bright and chipper despite the early hour. He raises a brow at that, but allows you to take the wipe from his hand and start cleaning his face "Here, I'll help"
He stays still, letting you wipe his forehead, chin and around his lips. "Are we going somewhere?" he asks, voice still rough from sleep.
You just smile at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Nah, I just want to make sure my seat is clean, baby" He blinks at you, slowly coming to and trying to make sense of your words.
Finally, he seems to put the pieces together. His eyes widen just a fraction before he takes the wipe from your hands and starts scrubbing his face with it, mimicking your earlier actions with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. You watch him, laughing and holding your stomach as he cleans every part of his face.
"It's all clean now, take a seat," he reaches for the pillow behind his head and tosses it to the foot of the bed before laying back flat, settling into the mattress.
"Baby I was just joking..." you start to say, but he cuts you off. Quick as a flash, he grabs you around the waist and hauls you up until he's got your thighs straddling his head, hands gripping your hips to keep you in place.
"Be a good girl and sit, bunny," he commands, pulling your hips down, burying his face between your thighs. His breath feels hot against your bare pussy as he inhales deeply, taking in your scent. "Don't hold back"
It's not the same concept but it has a glowing Xavier 🤭.
Also go follow @ekay-i her art is beautiful.
CW: Smut. P in V. We break his di...🔞MDNI🔞
Repost from my old account (Applecaviar)
Starfruit Masterlist
It was his favorite position and he had been too lost in the moment to notice what was happening at first. He'd been so caught up in the moment—so drunk on the sight of you bouncing on his cock, perfect tits jiggling with each thrust, your hands gripping the headboard like you were about to climb it—that he'd barely noticed when his tip had slipped free. Just for a second. Just enough.
A groan tore from his throat when he felt it, a pop that made his entire body go rigid.
"Oh fuck," Xavier breathed, his hips jerking involuntarily. The sensation was... bad. It felt like someone had lit a match under his balls and left it there to burn. A persistent, escalating ache that made his thighs tremble when he flipped you over.
The glow started as a faint shimmer, barely noticeable at first, just a soft phosphorescence around the base of his cock where it disappeared into you. But now it was pulsing. Like some kind of cosmic rave had decided to take up residence in his groin.
"Jesus Xavie, was it that good?" You asked, grinning up at him, hips starting to move again because he hadn't pulled out yet.
"I- I think you broke my dick, bunny" Xavier said, voice cracking slightly. The way he said it made you laugh, your hands coming up to cup his cheeks.
"Like a glowstick?" you joked, and Xavier grabbed your moving hips, gripping them tightly to keep you still.
His face had gone from flushed to genuinely concerned, the earlier playfulness draining out of him as he gritted his teeth. The glow was definitely spreading now up toward his stomach in little sparkly tendrils that looked like they'd been ripped straight from a biology textbook "Things That Shouldn't Exist" section.
"No, you actually broke my dick," he said, and his voice had lost all its earlier teasing lilt. This was him being dead serious, the kind of dead serious that usually preceded him having to explain to you why he'd just been hurt. "Like, broke-broke. Not 'that was intense' broke." You stopped laughing.
He tried to shift his weight but immediately regretted it when the movement sent another spark of pain through him. His cock throbbed inside you, and he could feel the glow seeping into your skin now too—warm, electric, wrong. You tried to move to help him "Don't move, please" his tone taking on that dangerous edge he got when he was trying not to panic. "It's really starting to hurt."
--------
The next morning.
Jenna looked up from her desk with a glint in her eye. The paperwork sat neatly in front of her, listing out all the details of Xavier's procedure. Surgery successful. Recovery period estimated at four to six weeks. No complications anticipated.
"Well then," Jenna said, her voice carrying that particular amusement that came from knowing something others didn't. She leaned back in her chair, fingers steepling together. "I suppose this means you'll actually be on time for the next four to six weeks?"
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In which your boyfriend cheats on you because you're not a ''true'' Alpha and you run back to your pregnant ex husband
warnings: omegaverse, mpreg, omega Rafayel
character: Rafayel (LADS)
''Wait, Y/n! I-I can explain-'' But his words landed on deaf ears as you ran out of the room. His affair partner didn't even have the decency to stop when you caught them in the act. Pathetic. You for believing in him, and him for whoring himself out like that. You ran down the stairs as fast as you could, skipping two, sometimes three steps at a time. You heard the door to your apartment open as he cried out your name but you didn't stop running.
When you finally reached the main street a few minutes away from your apartment, you stopped, trying to catch your breath. What were you supposed to do now? Start over? You knew you weren't the most dominant or in other words ''mean'' Alpha, but he could have just broke up with you instead of stringing you along. Making you fall in love. You loved him, you really did. Well, you think you did... But you couldn't do anything about it now.
And you weren't going to stay with some cheater and hurt yourself in the name of love. It'd be a mistake to go back to his place now. He had warned you. Told you he was using you. Told you it wouldn't last. You and your ex husband, Rafayel, didn't hate each other. No, quite the opposite. When you filed for divorce it was because you kept on fighting like teenagers. And it didn't take you long to find a boyfriend, being a hot alpha and all.
But he told you it wasn't going to work. He knew. First of all, you were assertive but not what most Omegas looked for. They wanted possessiveness, jealousy, tension, nasty hate sex. And you were loving, caring and attentive. Slow to anger. Sure, you had your moments of jealousy, when everything boiled over. But that was quite seldom. The fact that you had divorced a pregnant Omega was also a hot topic. You two had no idea he was pregnant when you signed those papers. But when you found out, you stepped up.
Obviously.
You didn't miss any appointments, checked up on him regularly, helped him around the house, doing what a good mother of his child would do. You two were good friends now.Which also made your current 'boyfriend' insecure sometimes.
Understandably.
But did he have to go this far?
You banged at Rafayel’s front door. You had let him keep the house during the divorce settlement. A few seconds passed and you could hear footsteps coming towards you. The door opened and there he was. Sleepily rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, cradling his belly. Then he frowned. ''Y/n?''
''I thought I told you to take your time when walking through the house. Why did it take you point two seconds to get here?'' You hissed.
''I was downstairs! I wasn't in the bedroom, I was in the living room. I wasn't rushing!'' He defended himself, raising his hands in defeat. ''What's up?'' He asked now, folding his arms in front of his chest. He analysed you from head to toe, trying to piece together why you were banging at his door in the middle of the night. Then it hit him. ''Don't tell me-'' You broke down, wrapping your arms around his waist, burying your face into the crook of his neck, sobbing.
You tried. You had tried to stay strong and not let it get to you. But it hurt like a bitch. You clung to him, your sobs echoing through the quiet street as he wrapped his arms around you, pressing a kiss to your head. ''I will fucking kill him.'' He muttered, tightening his grip around you. ''Come on, let's get you inside.''
You raised your head, sniffing as you let go of him. He stared up at your tear filled eyes, cupping your face as he wiped the fallen tears away. ''He didn't deserve you anyway. He was aesthetically unpleasant to look at.'' He pressed a kiss to your nose, leading you to the living room. When he sat down, he pated his lap, signaling for you to lay your head on his lap. You did as told and he caressed your face, back, arms, whatever as he tried helping you to unwind. At one point, he grabbed your hand, resting it on his bump. And then you felt it. Some type of movement. You gasped, sitting up immediately.
''She moved!'' You squeaked, springing up in joy. He laughed softly, giggling at your reaction. The kind of giggling you hadn’t heard in what felt like ages. It made your heart ache a little less.
“She’s been moving more lately,” He said, still smiling, his hands resting gently on the swell of his belly. “Mostly at night. She likes to be as annoying as you are."
Your heart fluttered. She. You had known for a while now that you two would be having a pretty girl, sure, but hearing him say it like that, so casually, so fondly, settled something warm in your chest.
“She really kicked,” You murmured in disbelief, still stunned. “Like she knows I am here.”
“Of course she does.” His expression softened, voice dipping into something intimate. “She knows her mom.”
The word mom landed heavy on your chest. You blinked, your throat tightening. You hadn’t cried in front of him like this since the day you signed the papers. Since everything started unraveling and reforming into something almost beautiful, almost bearable. But tonight wasn’t about the past.
You looked at him. Really looked at him. His skin glowed under the soft yellow lights of the living room, his hair tousled from sleep, eyes swollen with fatigue, but still... He made room for you. Held you. Let you fall apart and didn’t flinch once.
“I’m sorry,” You whispered suddenly. “For showing up like this. For dragging you into my mess.”
“Y/n,” He spoke firmly, his eyes locking onto yours. “You’re not a mess… Most of the time. And you don’t have to apologize for needing someone. Least of all needing me.”
You lowered your head, lips trembling. “He cheated. He didn’t even try to lie. He just laid there while she…” You stopped yourself, jaw clenching. “She looked at me like I was some joke.”
He exhaled slowly and placed a hand over yours, his palm warm and grounding. “You’re not a joke, sweetheart. You were just too good for him.”
You let out a bitter laugh. “I was too soft.”
“No. You are patient, kind, and loving. There’s a difference.”
You didn’t respond. Just leaned into his touch again, wrapping your arms around his middle. You could feel the bump press gently against your stomach. It felt safe. Steady. Like a lighthouse in a storm.
His voice came soft above you, “Stay the night?”
You blinked. “Are you sure?”
“Y/n. You helped me through everything. You stayed when I didn’t even want to stay with myself. You’re the mother of my daughter. You always have a place here.
”That sentence hit harder than anything your Ex had ever said to you.You nodded slowly. “Okay.”
You helped him up and he guided you down the familiar hallway to the guest room. The same room you had once helped paint when you thought the two of you would grow old together.
You hesitated in the doorway, and he must’ve noticed, because he reached for your hand again. “Do you want to sleep in my room?” He asked.
You glanced at him. “Are you sure?”
He shrugged with a small smile. “It’s a big bed. I get cold. She kicks. I could use some company.”
You smiled for the first time all night. “Okay.”
Once you had taken a shower and got into some pyjamas, ycurled up beside him and the quiet felt different. Not lonely. Not heavy. But peaceful.You rested your hand on his belly again and whispered, “She’s gonna be such amazing girl.”
“She will be,” He agreed. “Because she has you.”
You turned your head toward him, surprised. “I thought you said I wasn’t possessive enough to be what an Omega needs?” He looked at you then, really looked. “Maybe that’s what I thought back then. But now?” His voice dropped to a murmur. “I think she’s lucky to have a mother who loves the way you do.”
You blinked quickly, wiping a stray tear. “You’re gonna make me cry.”
“Not too loud, she’ll start kicking again.”
You both laughed softly, and in the stillness that followed, for the first time in a long while, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you were exactly where you were meant to be.
The room was still. The kind of stillness that comes not just from silence, but from two hearts beating just a little too fast in the dark.You lay on your side, facing him. His back was half propped against the pillows, one hand lazily cradling his bump, the other draped across his chest. The sheets were pulled high, but the warmth between you had little to do with the covers.
Neither of you spoke.
But you felt him watching you.
So you looked at him.
And sure enough, he was already staring.
Your breaths synced like an old memory, and neither of you could look away. The soft shadows painted over his skin, making his eyes gleam like the night sky, and you couldn’t help the way your gaze dropped to his lips, parted just enough to tempt you.He noticed.
Your tongues danced on silence. Heat curled in your stomach. The years of history between you tangled like roots under the surface, and all it took was one look for it to start breaking through.
“I shouldn’t…” You started, voice low, raspy.
“I know,” He murmured.
But neither of you moved.
It wasn’t clear who leaned in first. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe you both did. But your lips brushed his like a question.
And he answered.
His hand came up, cupping your face, his mouth opening to you like it had been waiting for you. Needing you.It started slow. Gentle.
Then it deepened, cracked open by longing and years of unspoken ache. You kissed him like it hurt to stop, and he kissed you like he’d waited too long to breathe.
When he shifted suddenly, straddling your lap, your hands shot to his thighs instinctively.
“Wait-” You gasped, pulling back slightly, “You have to be careful... What about-”
But he didn’t let you finish.
He kissed you again, harder this time, swallowing your concern, cupping your jaw like you were the only thing anchoring him.
“I'm fine. She'll be fine,” He breathed against your lips. “I need this.”
You looked up at him, chest heaving, your hands trembling slightly where they held him. He was flushed, pupils blown wide, belly rising and falling gently between you.His voice dropped to a whisper. “Let me have this. Just tonight. Please.”
Your thumb grazed the swell of his belly, then rose to brush his cheek.
“Okay,” You answered.
And then you kissed him again. Deeper, more certain this time. Your arms sliding around him as his weight sank against you.
He wasn’t just the father of your child. He was the only person who had ever truly seen you for you. And tonight, even if it all fell apart again tomorrow, you needed to feel that.
His lips trailed down the curve of your neck, slow and reverent, like he was rediscovering something he thought he’d lost forever. You held him gently, cautiously, like something sacred. His skin was warm, his breath shaky, his weight soft in your lap, belly pressing lightly against your chest.
You could feel the life between you, both literally and figuratively held in his body, and yet all he wanted in this moment… Was you.
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