Part 1 with the other 5 and the art that inspired this.
🔞CW: Dry humping. Dirty talk. Self love. Smut.🔞
Infold, give us our wolf back! Please!
A special thanks to @stardustsirens, I love your beautiful brain 😚
Twenty minutes. You'd been gone twenty minutes before you turned around, halfway to work, because your work folder was still sitting on the kitchen counter.
Valko had stayed the night, though not the way anyone would assume. You'd cooked too late, ended up on the couch watching movies until midnight and the idea of him driving home just to come back in a few hours was ridiculous. So he'd stayed. Folded that huge body of his onto your couch—which was built for exactly one normal sized human—insisting he was fine even though you both knew his neck would hate him for it in the morning. He hadn't so much as brought up sharing your bed. That line was still there between you, respected without either of you having to say so out loud.
Your living room was empty now. The throw blanket sat balled up at one end of the couch, still warm, still carrying that earthy scent that clung to him. You figured he'd finally given up trying to get comfortable and left for home.
Things had been tight between you two for weeks — not bad tight, just like the kind that builds when you're close to someone in every way but one. Curling up next to him on that couch last night, close enough to feel him breathing, had taken more out of you than you wanted to admit. You'd gone to your own bed after and tossed for hours, finally giving up and finishing yourself off against your pillow just to get some sleep.
You grabbed the folder off the counter, shoved it in your bag, turned toward the door already dreading the way back to work.
Your foot stopped.
Through the crack in your bedroom door came a sound — low, cut off at the edges like it hadn't meant to get out. A hitch of breath, rough with something needy.
You don't move. For a few long seconds you just stand there, blood rushing in your ears, telling yourself you imagined it. Then it comes again—louder, unmistakable. A deep, broken whine bleeding through the door, underneath it the slow, rhythmic creak of your mattress.
Something hot drops straight to your navel.
Your feet move before you decide to let them, carrying you to the gap where the door hinges open. You don't need to push it. You can see everything
Valko is on your bed, completely stripped of the restraint he usually carries around you.
On all fours, every muscle in his back straining with each roll of his hips. Both your pillows are underneath him. One is pinned between his thick, heavy thighs. The other is crushed against his chest like he's holding onto it for dear life.
The fat tip of his cock is already leaking clear precum, smearing wetly against the fabric with every thrust. The muscles of his ass bunch and flex rhythmically, his tail swishing low and frantic from side to side, brushing against his calves like he can't control it.
His nose is buried deep into one specific corner of the pillow, taking big lunges of air—sniffing the hell out of it. Strands of saliva string from his parted lips, his eyes are squeezed shut so tight his eyelashes tremble. He looks like he's desperately trying to engrave that scent into the deepest part of his memory.
The heat that floods your face is scorching and mortifying.
That's where you'd been last night. Grinding against that exact spot, face buried in your own sheets with his name stuck in your throat, thinking thoughts you'd never planned on anyone knowing about. He has his nose pressed right there. Breathing you in like it's the first clean air he's found in days.
The hallway feels like it's closing in. You can't move. The folder is shaking in your hand and you can't make yourself look away.
Valko moves his hips down again and the groan that tears out of him is nothing like his usual voice. It's scraped raw, stripped of every careful thing he usually puts between himself and the world.
"Fuck—" The word drags out of him slow and broken. His face presses deeper into the pillow, lips parting against the fabric, inhaling so hard it pulls into his mouth. "Smells so good. So fucking sweet"
Your stomach drops.
When he pulls back to thrust again you get an unobstructed view of him, and your mouth goes dry. He's huge, veins mapping his cock in thick ridges, the head flushed a deep red and slick with everything he's been leaking onto your pillow.
"There you go," he breathes, eyes still squeezed shut, hips rolling down in a slow, grinding push. He's talking to the pillow. He's talking to you—or the idea of you, the ghost of you he's got his hands on. "Take it just like that. Let me get all the way inside that pretty cunt, puppy."
He makes that sound again—a high, needy whine that has no business coming out of something so big—and his ears flatten tight against his skull. His rhythm stutters, slow grinds breaking into something harder and more desperate, the whole bed frame groaning with it.
"Such a good pup," he mutters, tail thrashing wild against the mattress, fingers curling into your pillow. His voice is getting rougher, darker, words spilling out like he can't stop them. "Gonna stretch you out so nice. Fill you up with everything I've been—" A sharp, punched out groan. "You'd take it, wouldn't you? Every single bit of it."
His thighs grip the pillow tightly, his whole body going rigid as he grinds down and holds it there. His knuckles are stark white, fingers curled past the point of grip, something closer to desperation made physical. You can see the effort it's taking him to hold back. Every thick vein along the back of his hands stands out in rigid relief, branching up his wrists, mapping the strain all the way to where his forearms flex with each movement.
With every snap of his hips the tension climbs higher. Up his biceps and across his broad shoulders, the whole architecture of him pulled tight. He is holding the pillow like letting go for even a second would mean losing the last thread of you he has access to.
Like if his grip slips, your scent goes with it.
His hands have never looked like this. You've seen them steady holding a weapon, calm giving an order, certain in every situation that called for certainty. Right now they're shaking slightly. Not from weakness.
But from the effort of not having the real thing.
The ache between your thighs is unbearable and the urge hits you like something physical, pressing into your sternum until your body stops listening to your brain entirely. You want to tell him yes. You want to walk into that room and pull those pillows out from under him and put yourself there instead.
Your foot moves forward one step.
That's all it takes. The tiny shift in air carries your scent right through the gap in the door—laced now with the edge of your arousal—and delivers it straight to him.
Valko goes completely still.
His ears snap upright, swiveling toward the door, and his head follows a half second later. Through the narrow crack his eyes find yours instantly, pupils blown so wide the gold of his irises is almost gone. The room sits heavy with the smell of sex and the sound of both of you breathing.
He doesn't cover himself and your eyes drop without your permission.
The sight of you watching him—your scent hitting him fresh and full—is what does it. You watch it happen. His cock swells further, skin pulled tight, a low growl tearing out of his chest and his hips give one last involuntary roll forward.
He cums with his eyes locked on yours the entire time.
He stares straight through the gap in the door, unblinking, holding your gaze with an intensity that makes your legs feel unreliable, as the first thick streak of white paints your pillow. Another spasm rolls through him, another rope of cum landing heavy over the exact spot your scent had soaked into the fabric last night. Over and over until the last bead clings to the tip and stretches thin before finally dropping.
His chest heaves and his tongue drags slowly across his lower lip and then his canines like he's tasting the air. His tail gives one long, heavy thump against the mattress.
He's still staring a hole right through you.
You are completely fucked.
And while we're here @ekay-i .... PLEASE🙏🏻. Valko deserves a spot in the pillow humpers art. i am begging on my knees 🧎🏻♀️🫣
Now that he’s out of my system… [Dub-con Warning 18+]
Sleepy sex with Sylus in the middle of the night. You wake up warm all over, assuming it’s because of the literal furnace of a man beside you only to discover it’s him but even better. Sylus is having a wet dream, brows pinched and jaw slack as his chest heaves in an unsteady rhythm. One you recognize all too well, the only other dead giveaway is the visible bulge in the sheets over his groin.
You watch him for a little bit, memorize the way his face twitches and his hips roll up against the bedding. Searching for relief, searching for you. His own subconscious trying to recreate the physical pleasure his mind is conjuring. It makes your stomach flutter, heat surging straight between your thighs as you wonder what he could be dreaming about. What he could possibly be doing to you in his dreams, or what you could be doing to him. Either way, he looks so adorable and needy.
Not able to contain yourself, nor let him suffer for much longer. So you snuggle in closer, running your hand down the planes of his stomach and under the waistband of his boxers to wrap around his hard on. Gasping with him as he bucks into your hold, your nose nuzzling his pulse. Jerking him slowly while kissing on his neck, muttering sweet nothings as you try so carefully not to wake him.
It’s no use, Sylus is too sharp even in sleep. Just as he’s about to cum, those crimson eyes flutter open and a hand shoots over the covers to stop you. “Wait…” thick and groggy, you can feel your panties stick to your cunt as you squirm, peering up at him in the dark. “… I need to cum inside of you. It’s the only way.” You could die happy.
That’s how you end up cradled in his arms, faces nuzzling the other, cock buried so deep inside of your warmth it’s hard to decipher where one begins and the other ends. Sylus somehow has staved off his orgasm in favor of rocking slowly, letting the pleasure melt his mind and body into the mattress. Letting it consume him, letting you consume him in his entirety. Everything he has to offer.
"you poor little thing..." sylus drawls, holding you right above his cockhead. “struggling to take me, even though you begged for it so much…”
at this point, only his tip has made it through your entrance. and even that's a stretch.
"haah—sylusohmygod." you’re completely soaked, juices already dripping down his thick shaft. sylus had eaten you out and fingered you twice, and yet you’re still struggling to take his dick.
"breathe, kitten. you can take it." his thumb sneaks over to rub to your clit, helping you ease down his length. “come on sweetheart. take my cock—that’s it. or else i’ll think you’re trying to flatter me. it’ll get to my head.”
“you’re too—nngh—big!” you struggle against his tight hold. feeling droplets of sweat fall down your back as your thighs begin to numb, having been forced in a straddle position for so long.
sylus tells you that you can take more, that he’ll fit. you’re doing so well, it’ll feel good.
you think that he’ll split you in half if he sinks another centimeter deeper.
technically, sylus could stay in this position forever. he’s absolutely mesmerized by the sight of himself stretching you out, only penetrating you halfway. your tight walls uncontrollably clench down as they try to adjust to his girth, leaking yourself everywhere with a shiny, sticky mess. fat globs of tears get stuck in your eyelashes while you look at him like he’s the only person in the world. he didn’t think he could be more in love with you.
“you’re beautiful.” he scatters kisses across your face. he presses his lips to your eyelids and wipes away tear streaks from your cheeks, no doubt preemptively apologizing for what he was about to do next.
after all, there’s only so much patience the man can have before he wants more.
he snaps, no longer holding himself back. one sharp thrust is all it takes for his hips to meet yours. “ah, fuck!”
“fuck!” you scream out in unison. you feel sylus in your stomach, in your throat. there’s not a part of your body that doesn’t have him in it.
“oh—good girl. forgive me, you’re so good, sweetie. keep breathing for me.” it takes everything in him not to cum on the spot. all he can do is mumble praises into your hair and keep grinding your pussy flush against his base, waiting for you to stretch to accomodate his massive size.
this time he doesn’t move out of turn. he waits—until finally, you whimper, “sy, need you to move.”
“yeah?” his cock twitches back to life inside you. you nod, you’re ready now. “then… let me make you feel good—gonna mold your pussy to the shape of my cock, get you ready for the next time, hm?”
“You rang the bell...the bell means you need me.”
“I always need you, Zayne.” You guide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your bare stomach, and the breath he lets out against your neck is almost a surrender in itself. “I think you need me, too.”
synopsis: butler!zayne is trained to anticipate your every need. what he hasn't been trained for is you—home alone, ringing the one bell he's never been able to ignore, asking for the one thing he's never been able to give.
wc: 8.8k | ao3
tags: butler!zayne, brat tamer!zayne, age gap, power imbalance, porn with plot, fluff + smut, comfort no hurt, spanking, edging, cunnilingus, hair pulling, vaginal sex, backshots, prone bone, size difference, aftercare
a/n: giving zayne one (1) barely legal fantasy……..as a treat……….
The first time you tried, you were sixteen.
It was the thick of summer, the kind of damp heat that turns the estate into a greenhouse. Your mother's garden party sprawled across the south lawn, and you’d hidden upstairs long enough to change into a sundress that was definitely too short and absolutely on purpose.
You padded barefoot down the service stairs to the kitchen, where Zayne—the perfect butler, the one who runs the household, the one who never lets anything go wrong—was reviewing the evening's schedule.
You perched yourself on the counter beside his clipboard, crossed your legs, and let the hem ride up.
“I need help with my zipper,” you said, turning to show him the back of the dress, which was zipped perfectly fine and you both knew it.
Zayne hadn't looked up from the schedule, hadn't so much as blinked. He simply reached over, tugged the zipper up the remaining quarter-inch it didn't need to travel, and said, “Will that be all?”
You stared at the back of his head, face burning, and vowed that one day you'd get him to break.
You tried again on your eighteenth birthday.
Your parents had thrown a party, the kind with floral arrangements and a champagne tower and three hundred people who knew your family's net worth better than they knew your name. You spent the evening smiling until your cheeks ached, accepting congratulations from strangers, and dancing with boys your mother hand selected who were perfectly nice and perfectly boring and perfectly wrong.
By midnight, you escaped to the kitchen—kicked your heels off, discarded your tiara on the counter, and sat on the floor with your back against the island eating leftover cake with your fingers.
Zayne had found you there. He'd taken in the scene—the dress pooling around you, the smudged mascara, the pink frosting on your thumb—and silently retrieved a fork before sitting down beside you.
He was still in his suit, still immaculate as ever, but he'd loosened his tie—and the sight of that one concession to comfort had made something hot pulse through you. You sat together in silence for a while, passing the cake back and forth. Then, because you were eighteen and a little drunk and very tired of pretending, you asked:
“Zayne. Do you think I'm pretty?”
He blinked, keeping his eyes shut for an extra heartbeat—processing the question, the context, the thousand reasons he should deflect.
“You've been drinking.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“The answer doesn't change based on your sobriety.”
“So there is an answer.”
He reached over and wiped a smear of frosting from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The gesture was gentle and natural, the kind of thing he'd done a hundred times when you were small. Except you weren't small anymore, and his thumb had lingered a second too long, and you ached to know if he’d still be gentle if he pressed it against your tongue.
“You should drink some water,” he'd said quietly. “And go to bed.”
“Come tuck me in, then.”
You'd meant it as a joke, but the words came out too soft and the look on his face told you that you'd gotten closer to something real than either of you was prepared for.
He didn’t give you a response. Just stood up, filled a glass with cold water, and set it on the floor beside you.
“Happy birthday, princess.”
You'd sat there alone in the kitchen as the door shut behind him, holding the cup with both hands, and hated yourself for pushing. Maybe hated yourself more for not pushing harder. You'd felt his thumb on your mouth for the rest of the night. For weeks after.
Sometimes, if you closed your eyes, you could still feel it now.
Tonight, you’re twenty, and the house is trying to eat you alive.
You’re home from university for winter break, but the house is empty—your parents are out of the country, occupied by some charity board retreat that requires a week of their attention. The staff has all gone home for the holidays, leaving you alone in a house that was built for thirty.
Alone except for Zayne.
Zayne stays. He always stays, because someone has to manage the property and someone has to manage you, and your parents have never trusted anyone else with either job.
The estate is settling into its bones, creaking and groaning like it’s alive and reminding you how small you are inside it. The hallways are too long, the ceilings are too high, and every shadow seems to have eyes looking directly at you.
You’re not scared.
You’re an adult. You have self-defense training and a home security system that could protect a small nation.
You're not scared.
The floorboards squeak directly above your bed, and you flinch so hard you nearly fall off the mattress.
Okay. Maybe you’re a little scared.
Your eyes find the bell on your nightstand.
It's small—worn with age, fitted with a wooden handle meant for hands of a much younger you. Your grandmother had gifted it after you'd had a nightmare and screamed the house down and said, Ring this whenever you need someone, darling. Someone will always come.
Someone always meant Zayne.
Your parents never really had the time, or the patience, or the interest in dealing with your whims. But Zayne…Zayne always did. He was paid to maintain order after all, and managing you was just another task—though it never felt like one.
Not when he answered the call of your bell every time.
You'd rung it the night of the thunderstorm when you were eight, and he'd appeared within minutes with a flashlight and a copy of The Secret Garden and read to you until the storm passed. You'd rung it the night before your first day of secondary school, sick with anxiety, and he'd brought warm milk and sat with you while you listed every possible catastrophe and he assured you, very gently, that none of those things would happen and that if they did, he would personally intervene.
You rang it less and less as you grew older, saving it for the real emergencies—when your first boyfriend broke up with you by text, or the night before your final exams when you couldn't stop shaking. He always came. Never commented on the hour or the reason, just showed up at your door ready to handle whatever you needed handled.
You haven't rung it in over three years.
You pick it up, letting the cool brass warm in your palm. You turn it over once, feeling the weight of it, the history, the lifetime of someone always coming when you called.
You ring it.
The sound is small in the vast quiet of the house, barely louder than the wind outside your window. But you know he hears it. Zayne hears everything.
Two minutes pass before footsteps echo in the hallway, followed by a soft knock at your door.
“Come in,” you call.
He opens the door and stands in the frame, and the sight of him makes your mouth go dry.
After all this time living under the same roof, you've only ever seen him in his suit, his work clothes, or—once, memorably—a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up that had nearly killed you. But this is something else entirely.
Grey sleep pants hang low on his hips, a white t-shirt stretching across his chest. His hair is tousled over his forehead, glasses sliding just slightly, jaw shadowed with the kind of stubble he'd never allow during working hours.
His eyes find the bell in your hand, and something in them softens.
“The house is making noises,” you explain.
He leans against the doorframe, taking in your oversized t-shirt, your bare legs, the way you’re sitting cross-legged at the center of your mattress on high alert.
“It's an old house,” he says. “It makes noises.”
“Scary noises.”
“You're not a child anymore.”
“Age and fear are not mutually exclusive.” You return the bell to the nightstand with unnecessary care. “I read that somewhere.”
“You read that nowhere.”
“I might have,” you counter. “You don’t know my reading habits.”
“You're currently halfway through a fantasy romance novel you hide inside a copy of The Economist when I bring your breakfast.” He crosses his arms, which emphasizes the broadness of his chest in a way that should come with a warning. “I know your reading habits.”
“It’s romantasy, Zayne,” you correct drily, though your face heats. “And that's—invasive.”
“It's observational. You leave the dust jacket loose.” He steps into your room, letting the door close behind him. “What do you need?”
You. I need you. I've needed you since I was sixteen and you zipped a dress that didn't need zipping and I need you to come here now and hold me and never leave this room.
“Company,” you say instead. “Just—stay for a while. Please.”
“There's a guest room adjacent to—”
“Zayne.”
“—mine, which I can prepare in—”
“Zayne, come on. You used to read to me when I couldn't sleep.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “You were eight.”
“And you were a very good reader. I remember the voices you did for the characters.”
“I did not do voices.”
“You totally did voices. Mrs. Medlock had a Yorkshire accent.”
He tries to fight the corner of his mouth lifting and loses. “That's historically accurate.”
A branch scrapes against the window and you jolt, pulling your knees in tight to your chest, and you watch it happen in slow motion—the moment Zayne registers the current of anxiety beneath your bravado, the delicate weight of his propriety crumbling against the fact that you rang the bell, the bell that means I need you, the bell he's never once ignored.
He crosses to your bookshelf, scans it, and pulls out a slim paperback.
“Persuasion?” you say, catching a glimpse of the cover.
He takes a seat on the edge of your bed, leaving a tortuously polite foot of distance between his hip and your knee. “It was on the shelf.”
“It’s a romance novel.”
“It's Austen. It's literature.”
“You just gave me a hard time for reading romance novels.”
“I gave you a hard time for hiding them.” He settles his glasses higher on his nose. “And this is a novel about patience. Restraint. Waiting for something even when it seems impossible. I thought you could use the lesson.”
You scoff in mock offense. “Was that a dig at me?”
“It was a recommendation.” He opens the book, then clears his throat. “Now stop talking.”
He reads.
You lie back against your pillow as his voice fills your bedroom like candlelight, settling into the spaces between the house’s creaking. When you were younger, his reading voice was a sedative, designed to pull you under. Now you're aware of every inflection, every pause, every place where his tongue shapes a word in a way that makes your thoughts drift to what else his mouth could be doing if he stopped being so goddamn careful.
After a few minutes, you start to shift. Not dramatically—just adjusting yourself in a way that happens to settle your body closer to his.
“You're not sleeping,” he says without taking his eyes off the page.
“I’m listening.”
“You're fidgeting.”
“I’m cold.”
“You’re not using a blanket.”
“A blanket isn't warm like a person.”
His gaze drags between you and the blanket you never bothered to use, eyes caught somewhere between mild disapproval and reluctant indulgence.
“Come closer,” you continue. “I’m requesting warmth. As a service.”
He lifts a brow. “You're requesting warmth.”
“From my butler. Who is paid to ensure my comfort.”
“I'm paid to manage the household.”
“Managing me is part of the household.”
“A fact I'm reminded of daily.”
Still, he moves closer an inch. Then another, when you give him a look that says it’s not enough. He eventually ends up beside you, back against the headboard, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body but not quite touching.
“Better?” he asks.
You let your head rest on his shoulder, the way you used to when you were small—except you weren't thinking about the way his shoulder felt under your cheek then, or the firmness of the muscle, or the way he smells like clean linen shadowed with something rich and heady and him that you’ve never been close enough to catch before.
“Getting there. Keep reading.”
He obeys, though the words have lost all meaning. All that matters is the vibration of the words from his body into yours, the way the sound fills the aching space behind your ribs with something tender and safe.
You let a few minutes pass, let him settle into the false security of the routine—you leaning on him, him reading, the benign pretense that this is just an act of service. Then you curl closer, tucking your legs up and angling your body until you're pressed along his side with your face against his chest and your hand resting on his abdomen.
His reading stops.
“Comfortable?” he asks without looking down.
“Almost.” You spread your fingers wider against his stomach, savoring the way the muscles there tense beneath your touch. “Your heartbeat is fast.”
“I was reading aloud. That's exertion.”
“Liar.”
“Cardiovascular response to sustained vocalization is well-documented.”
“Seriously?”
“There are several studies. I'll send you the citations in the morning.” He shuts the book and sets it on the nightstand, effectively abandoning the charade. He folds his glasses and places them neatly beside it, pinching the bridge of his nose with a long exhale. “Go to sleep.”
“Hold me first,” you insist, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and guiding it to your waist. “I said I was cold.”
His hand rests at your side, settling on top of your shirt with a minimal contact that technically fulfills the request while giving away not an ounce more.
“Zayne.”
“Mm?”
“If I asked you to hold a box, would you balance it on one finger?”
“If the box asked to be carried with unreasonable specifications, possibly.”
“I’m not a box.”
“No. A box would be far less difficult.”
His arm wraps around you, pulling you against him properly, and the sudden full-body contact is dizzying. He's warm everywhere—the solid plane of his chest against your cheek, his arm heavy around your waist, his thigh pressed along the length of yours.
“There,” you murmur. “Was that so hard?”
“Yes,” he replies simply. “Now sleep."
“I’m not tired.”
“Then close your eyes and try.”
You shake your head against his shirt. “I can't sleep like this.”
“Like what?"
You shift, turning in his arms until your back presses against his chest. His body seems to adjust instinctively, turning with yours before his mind registers the implication—his arm resettling around your waist, chest flush against your spine, and you feel more than hear the sharp intake of breath he tries to hide when your bodies slot together.
“There.” You hum in approval. “Perfect.”
Zayne’s hand flattens against your stomach the smallest fraction, and the silence between you buzzes like a dare neither of you has the courage to break. The wind whips outside your window, but you don’t hear it, can’t focus on anything other than the way his thumb starts to move in a faint line, back and forth, tracing the hem of your shirt where its ridden up at your waist.
You’re barely breathing, afraid that any acknowledgment will make him stop, afraid that the touch you’ve been craving for so long will disappear before you even have the chance to feel it. His thumb runs over the hem again, and this time his fingertips dip beneath it—barely a touch, the rough pad of his finger against soft skin, and the sensation is so acute it makes your spine arch involuntarily.
He freezes, thumb stilling mid-stroke, as if suddenly remembering exactly who he is—and who he shouldn’t be right now.
“Don't stop,” you whisper.
His forehead drops to your shoulder. “You rang the bell.”
“I rang the bell.”
“The bell means you need me.”
“I always need you, Zayne.” You guide his hand beneath your shirt, pressing his palm flat against your bare stomach, and the breath he lets out against your neck is almost a surrender in itself. “I think you need me, too.”
When his hand moves again, it isn’t the absentminded tracing from before. His palm slides across your stomach with intent now, exploring the naked skin beneath your top—up your ribs, down to the dip of your waist, to the space just above the waistband of your shorts.
A soft noise catches in your throat and his hand stills, as if deciding whether to reward or reprimand the sound.
“More?” he asks against your neck.
You nod. “More.”
His hand resumes, but he doesn't go further, continuing the same path—ribs, waist, hip—following it again and again, learning you by touch. And every time his fingers drift close to the waistband, your breath catches, and each time he retreats to safer ground without crossing the line.
“Zayne—” Your voice is thin with want. “That's not—you're teasing me.”
“I’m doing exactly what you asked,” he replies, casually enough to make you want to put a pillow over his face. “You asked me to touch you. I'm touching you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know what you said. If you want something else, you'll have to request it.” His thumb draws an infuriating circle around your navel. “I’m a butler, not a psychic.”
He's playing the game, you realize. Your game, your rules, following your every request to the letter, and the compliance is intoxicating. He owns the control, yet the way he bends just enough to match your desire feels like a form of surrender uniquely his.
“Kiss me,” you try next.
“Where?”
You tilt your head to the side, certain he can see your pulse leaping where it shows. “My neck.”
He presses his lips there so gently it barely registers as contact, lingering for a moment before pulling back.
“Again,” you whisper.
He kisses the same spot equally soft, and you could scream from the tenderness of it, from how something so gentle can make you feel like you're burning alive.
“More.”
“More what?” His breath heats your skin as he speaks, and the almost-contact is worse than nothing. “Be specific.”
“Harder.” Your hand finds the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, and the groan that it pulls from him is quiet and improper and makes your thighs press together. “Open your mouth.”
He presses his mouth more firmly against your neck and parts his lips slightly, just enough for his tongue to steal a taste of your skin.
“Anything else, princess?” He holds there, lips parted against the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, breathing you in like he needs this just as much as you do. “I’m at your service.”
The title drips with affection and irony and heat, twisted together like ribbons old and new. Princess. He's called you that since you were small, since you used to stomp your foot and demand things and he'd raise an eyebrow and say as you wish, princess. Except now his tongue is on your body and your ass is pressed where his cock strains against his pajama pants and the word means something it was never supposed to mean.
You turn in his arms until you're facing each other on the pillow, his hand still on your waist under your shirt. This close, you can see where the hazel-green of his eyes has gone dark with desire, where his lips shine wet from where he kissed your neck, where the muscle of his jaw tenses with something that looks like it hurts to hold back.
You bring your hand up to soothe it, the stubble there rough against your fingertips. He leans into the touch, a tiny tilt of his head that presses his cheek harder against your palm.
“I want you to kiss me,” you whisper, “here.” You touch your own lips.
He leans in slowly, mouth stopping just short of yours, hovering over your lips.
“Here?” he asks.
“Yes.”
The kiss is barely anything. A brush of lips, the softest pressure, there and gone before you can feel it. You chase his mouth as he pulls back, but he's already out of reach—settled against the pillow, calm on the surface, though the flush at the tips of his ears betrays him.
“That wasn’t a kiss,” you pout.
“It was, definitionally, a kiss.”
“It lasted half a second.”
“You didn't specify the duration.”
“Zayne.”
“Yes?"
“Kiss me longer.”
He leans in again, pressing his mouth to yours for—you count—exactly two seconds.
“Zayne.”
“That was measurably longer. I can go get a stopwatch if you'd like to formalize the parameters.”
You roll your eyes and swear you feel his wrist twitch at your side.
“I want you to kiss me like you can't help yourself. Like if you have to tear your mouth away from mine you'll lose your mind. I want the kiss I imagine when I’m alone in the bath and I close my eyes and pretend it’s your hands on my—” You stop to catch your breath, frustrated, heat rising to your face that’s part shame, part want, all desperate anticipation. “That kiss. Give me that one. Please.”
His hand slides from your waist to the back of your neck, cradling your head, angling you beneath him. His eyes move between yours and your mouth and back again, and the man who read you bedtime stories and carried you when you fell and tucked your blankets with precise corners is nowhere in this room. The man looking at your mouth right now is one who has been drowning for years and decided that here, now, tonight, he’s coming up for air.
“Hold still,” he says, and kisses you again.
This time he starts slow and stays slow, his lips moving against yours with a patience that burns, learning the shape of your mouth, the way you respond to pressure. His tongue traces your lower lip, not parting it, but outlining the edge, you whimper at the tease of it.
He swallows the sound, feeding it into his mouth like he means to keep it long past tonight, a secret possession for him and him alone. Finally—finally—his tongue slides against yours, deep and unhurried, filling your mouth until there’s nothing left but feeling.
The kiss goes on and on and on. Zayne is in no rush. He kisses you like he has all night, like time is a resource he intends to spend lavishly, like every stroke of his tongue against yours is an end in itself rather than a means to something else. And each time you try to speed up he gentles you, his hand on the back of your neck holding you in place, his mouth setting the pace, refusing to let anything take this moment away from him until he’s ready to release it.
Your hands slip underneath his shirt, pressing flat against his abdomen, and the muscles there flex at the contact. You trail both hands upward, following the ridges of his ribs until he huffs out a breath against your lips.
“Eager,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw.
“Impatient,” you correct, tugging the hem of his shirt up his chest. “And maybe a little eager.”
“A little, hm?” He catches both of your wrists, halting your exploration. “These are going above your head.”
“That seems unnecessarily restrictive.”
“It seems like the only way to keep you from getting ahead of yourself.” He guides your wrists to the pillow above your head, pinning you there with one hand. “Better. Now stay.”
He releases his hold to remove his shirt, and whatever bratty comment you had prepared dies in your throat the moment he tosses it to the floor in a move so unlike your butler you’d laugh under different circumstances. He works your top off next, pulling it up and over your arms, letting it join his on the ground.
The cool air makes your skin prickle, and you fight the immediate urge to cover yourself—a reflex that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that you’re not generous in this department, never have been, and lying beneath him with your arms above your head and nothing to hide behind makes you feel completely, uselessly small.
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
“Don't what?"
“Whatever you're thinking right now. Stop.” His fingertips graze your collarbone, then lower, trailing between your breasts. “You have no idea how many times I've thought about this body.”
“About my tragically average—”
“Finish that sentence and I'll make you wish you hadn’t.” His palm covers your breast easily, thumb brushing across your nipple. “These are perfect. And I don't say that about many things.”
“You say that about your silverware polish.”
“My silverware polish is also perfect. You're in excellent company.” He rolls your nipple between his fingers and your back arches off the mattress. “Responsive, too. Do that again.”
“I can't just do it on command—”
He rolls your nipple once more, firmer this time, and your body betrays you with an identical arch, with a sharp hiss of breath you can't hold in. Zayne watches it all unfold with an expression of deep, undeniable satisfaction.
“Interesting,” he says. “So it's pressure-dependent.”
“Are you taking notes?”
“I'm nothing if not thorough.”
He lowers his mouth to your breast, and the first brush of his tongue is almost painful in its relief. He paints a lazy, wet path before closing his lips around your nipple and sucking hard, drawing out a humiliatingly loud gasp from you that echoes through the room.
“That—” he says before his mouth closes around you again, teasing his teeth around the peak “—is my new favorite sound.”
He moves to the other side, giving it the same attention—tongue and teeth and the occasional scrape of stubble that sends sparks straight down your spine. His free hand stays on the breast his mouth just left, rolling your tight nipple between his fingers, then trails down your stomach, fingers grazing along the top of your shorts before retreating. Again and again he teases, each time a little further, each time making you jerk your hips up, chasing contact he keeps pulling away.
“You're doing that on purpose,” you say.
“Doing what on purpose?”
His fingers line the waistband again, dipping just below the elastic, and pull back. He blinks down at you, all wide-eyes and deceptive innocence, and you’re certain you’d be strangling him if your hands weren’t busy holding onto the pillowcase above your head for dear life.
“That. You keep almost touching me and then—“
“Patience—” He kisses the underside of your breast, your sternum, the dip of your navel. “—is a virtue.”
“Patience is for people who aren't this turned on.”
He pins your hip with one hand and you squirm harder, as if your body senses where he's headed and is vibrating with the need to get there faster, faster, faster.
“You never could hold still, could you?” You’re flipped onto your stomach so fast the room blurs. He works your shorts down your legs, leaving you facedown in nothing but your underwear. “Not once in twenty years.”
His hand strikes the curve of your ass.
You gasp, not from pain, more from the shock of it. The thrill that Zayne—controlled, careful Zayne—just spanked you on top of the same pink sheets he used to tuck you into.
“That's for squirming,” he says.
He lowers and presses a kiss to the spot he just struck, then smooths it over with his palm.
“You always needed this part,” he mouths against your skin, where it tingles from the sting. “The injury was never the problem. You just wanted someone to make it better after.” He travels higher, kissing up to the small of your back. “Every scraped knee. Every bruise. Every splinter you could have pulled out yourself but brought to me instead.”
“You had better hands than the first aid kit.”
“I had hands you trusted.” His hand settles at the base of your spine, nearly spanning the width of your low back. “You'd come find me wherever I was in the house and hold out whatever was hurt. Then stand there as long as it took for me to pay attention, looking up at me like I could fix anything.”
“You could fix anything.”
His hand slides up your spine with a familiarity that prickles at the edges of your memory. You've felt this hand on your back before—this exact path, this exact pressure.
Zayne has, too.
“Do you remember,” he says, bracketing your hips with his knees, “when you had me put sunscreen on your back?”
He asks as if every detail isn’t burned into your being.
It was the summer before you left for university—the sun was too bright, the pool smelled of chlorine, and your hot girl summer playlist terrorized every corner of the estate. You lay on your stomach by the pool with your bikini top untied and your bottoms hardly covering anything, and called your butler over with a voice you'd practiced sounding careless in the shower a dozen times.
Zayne, I need sunscreen. I can't reach my back.
He'd knelt beside your chair and obliged. His hands had been cool from the shade inside, the sunscreen warm from the sun. The restraint in his palms as they moved across your bare skin should have been unsexy but wasn't, because you could feel the effort in it as his fingers slid down your spine, across your waist, along the sides of your body.
You missed a spot, you'd said, though he hadn't. Still, he'd gone back and covered the same ground slower.
My legs, too.
His hands had worked your thighs, slick with sunscreen, rubbing the lotion from the backs of your knees up to where your thighs met the barely-there bottoms, the two inches of swimsuit the only barrier between the wet heat pooling between your legs and your butler’s thorough hands.
“I remember,” you whisper.
He traces the path now—down your spine, your waist, to the flare of your hip. The same route, the same pressure, except there's no sunscreen and no pretense, just his hands on your body.
“You lay there for an hour after I went inside,” he says, moving his palms in the upward strokes he'd used that afternoon. “In those godforsaken bottoms that hardly qualified as clothing.”
“They qualified.”
“They qualified as a provocation.” His hands move to your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin. “And every time I moved away from them, you'd wiggle your hips and tell me I missed a spot.”
“You did miss spots.”
“I didn't miss a single spot. I take UV protection very seriously.” His knuckles graze your inner thighs, and your hips lift involuntarily. “You just wanted my hands closer to places they had no business being.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? So you don't remember what happened when I reached right about—” His hand stills at the crease of your thigh, fingers resting against the edge of your underwear. “—here?”
You press your face into the pillow because you remember exactly what happened.
“You spread these legs apart, just enough for my fingers to go somewhere they shouldn't have.” He follows the edge of your underwear with one fingertip, over the swell of your ass, down to the strip between your legs that does nothing to hide how desperate you are for his touch. “And I cleared my throat. And you said sorry, I'm just getting comfortable. And I said of course. And we both pretended nothing happened.”
“Something happened.”
“Something happened,” he agrees. “And you knew. You always knew. That's why you kept pushing me, isn’t it?”
He traces the same line again, the border between what’s covered and what isn’t. Though this time when he dips low, he stays there—hand cupping you fully through your underwear, the pressure of his palm against the soaked fabric at your pussy delicious and unbearable and enough to make you moan.
“Answer me.”
“Mm,” you manage. He rocks the heel of his palm in a slow circle, and your nails dig into the sheets. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
He grinds against you more firmly, pressing the damp cotton deeper between your folds. You try to press back, to reach for the friction you’ve been chasing all night, but he pulls his hand away.
“Yes,” you concede in a shaky exhale. “Yes, I knew, and I—I wanted to see what would happen if you didn't walk away. If you just—kept going.”
“Kept going where?”
You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “You know where.”
“I have a long list of places I've wanted to put my hands on you.” From this angle, you’re able to watch as he fists his cock over his soft pants, the light grey fabric darkened with precum where the head of him leaks. “So you're going to have to clarify which one you were hoping for.”
“Past my bikini. Past the line you always—” Your breath catches as his fingers brush inside your underwear, skating the skin he's never touched. “—always stopped at.”
“Like this?” His fingers slide deeper, tracing along the edge of your slit as he strokes himself more firmly, still not quite touching you properly.
“Further.”
“Greedy.” He removes his hand entirely, and you wince at the loss. “And then what? If I hadn't walked away. If I'd let my hand keep going while you lay there in the sun pretending to be innocent. What did you want to happen next?”
“I wanted you to—”
Your thoughts are interrupted by a blunt pressure against your center from behind—not Zayne’s hand this time, but his cock. The tip nudges between your thighs over the soaked cotton, the warm weight settling against the outline of your needy cunt.
“Keep talking,” he says, voice nearly a groan. He stays motionless, the thick head of him pressing the fabric further into you, letting you feel exactly what he’s withholding. “You wanted me to what, princess?”
“I wanted—” You try to push back against him, and his hand blocks your hip. “I wanted you to stop thinking and just take what you wanted.”
“What I wanted.” He rocks forward slightly, a small movement that drags his leaking tip down the length of you, his precum mixing with your wet arousal as he slides toward your clit. “You were eighteen years old, lying outside on a pool chair, and you wanted me to put my hand into your bikini and touch you.”
“Yes.”
“In the middle of the afternoon. Where your parents could have walked out and seen.”
“As if they’d bother paying attention.” He smacks his cock against your underwear deliberately, and any attempt at keeping your voice casual shatters. “Besides, I didn't care.”
“No. You didn’t.” Your panties cling to every part of you, slick enough that he slides easily between your thighs. The friction is obscene—his cock hard and throbbing where you’re soft and needy, separated by nothing but a scrap of ruined underwear. “I had to care enough for both of us. And you made me pay for it with every little scheme you pulled to put my hands on you and watch me try to walk away.”
“And?” You dare through gritted teeth, smirking into the pillow. “Did it work?”
His hand at your hip guides the rhythm into something more punishing. His mouth finds the back of your neck, and the kiss he presses there is soft and completely at odds with the way his hips are bucking against yours.
“I’m grinding my cock against your pretty little cunt in your childhood bed, sweetheart. What do you think?”
He pulls away suddenly, and between the filthy words and loss of his weight you think you actually could cry.
“These—” His fingers hook under the center strip of your underwear, knuckles gliding up and down between your swollen folds as he assesses. “—have been through enough tonight.”
“So ruin them the rest of the way.”
He tears the fabric with two hands, ripping them off you in one clean pull. His hands spread you open from behind, and the sound he makes at the sight of you—bare before him for the first time—goes straight to your core.
“Christ.” His thumbs trace the inside of your thighs, spreading you wider. “Look at you.”
He lowers his mouth to your low back and kisses his wa down, patient even now, following the path of your spine, nipping the curve of your ass, outlining the crease of your thigh with his tongue. You feel his breath against your center, warm and unsteady, then the lightest brush of his nose against your entrance as he breathes you in.
“Fuck, Zayne—”
“Language,” he chides, the word humming against you. His tongue drags a single, slow line through you from behind, and you both groan at the contact. “If you could follow instructions even once in your life, this would go much faster.”
“I don't want faster. I want more.“
“You'll get more. When I decide you've earned it.”
His tongue works in long strokes, tasting every inch of you he can reach from this angle, and when he finds a spot that makes your thighs tense under his palms, he stays there.
“You're—that’s—”
Your lack of composure only seems to spur him further. “Articulate as always.”
He licks into you over and over again, and you feel yourself clench around nothing, feel your body begging for something to hold onto that he hasn't given you yet. The angle this way, his mouth against you from behind, is indirect and maddeningly intimate and never quite enough and always almost there.
“Zayne—I swear to god.”
“Swear all you want.” His tongue barely grazes you, keeping you suspended with a laziness that borders on cruel. “Begging looks good on you.”
He spreads you apart wider with both thumbs and builds you back up with wet, hungry strokes that don’t have a rhythm, that aren’t meant to serve a purpose other than to let him taste what he does to your body, what he’s been doing to it since long before he answered the bell tonight. Pleasure pools low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter, and you're right at the edge and—
He pulls away.
“No—” you whine. ”I was right there—Zayne, don’t—“
“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Not from this.”
“You can't just—”
“I can. And I did.” You hear him moving behind you, feeling the shift of weight against the mattress as he discards the last of his clothes. “The only place you’re going to come tonight is around my cock, and that’s not open for negotiation. I've waited too long for it to happen any other way.”
You feel the head of his cock press against you, this time bare against your slick skin. He doesn't enter yet, resting there with one hand on your hip, the other flat on the mattress beside your head.
“Last chance to ring the bell,” he murmurs. “Tell me to stop.”
“If you stop now I will scream.”
He pushes in.
It’s slow, so slow you feel the stretch of every inch building in a long, devastating ache that empties your lungs and fills you with him. He groans hot against the back of your neck, fingers digging into your hip, and when he bottoms out you both need time to breathe. You’ve never felt so complete as you do in this moment, so perfectly full, Zayne’s cock thick and heavy as it throbs inside you. Your walls flutter around him involuntarily, pulling him deeper inside.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Language,” you mutter, the tremble in your voice undermines any sense of authority.
“You're right. How unprofessional of me.” He pulls back in a slow drag against your walls that makes your mouth fall open—and pushes forward again. “I’ll submit a formal apology. After I’ve made you come so hard you can’t speak, let alone critique my vocabulary.”
He starts to move, the full length of him withdrawing and filling you whole, and when he finds the spot that makes your thighs shake he doesn't say a word. You're soaked—you feel it on your thighs, hear it in every wet slide of him inside you, and your face burns even as your body seeks his with every thrust.
“You get tighter every time I pull out,” he observes. “Like you're trying to keep me inside you.”
"Am not—"
“You are.” He grinds forward and you clench around him again—hard—and his breath comes out in a hiss. “And it's making it very difficult to think straight.”
You turn your head on the pillow, looking back at him over your shoulder, because you need to see his face, need to see what Zayne looks like right now, inside you and undone. With his jaw tense, eyes dark, sweat at his temples—he looks nothing like the butler who irons his shirts twice and arranges bookshelves alphabetically. He looks like a man who has wanted something for a very long time and is finally, finally taking it.
“Eyes on me,” he commands when he catches your gaze drifting away. “You started this. You're going to watch me finish it.”
You scrunch your nose and stick your tongue out at him. “Make me.”
His eyes narrow with a flash between amusement and danger, and he wraps your hair around his wrist and pulls—enough to keep your face turned toward him, your neck arched, your eyes locked on his while he drives into you from behind.
“There's your make me, princess,” he says low, hips bucking harder with the leverage. “Any other requests?”
“Several,” you manage between thrusts, “but at your age I’d hate to put too much strain on you.”
“In all the scenarios I’ve imagined.” He gathers your hair tighter, using the grip to tilt your head back, and his tongue traces the exposed line of your throat from your shoulder to the bone of your jaw. “Not once did stamina come up as a concern.”
“You've been dreaming about me?” You try to sound unaffected despite the fact that your voice is shaking and your knuckles are white in the sheets. “Should I be flattered?”
“You should be terrified. I've had a long time to plan,” he says against your neck. “Though in my head, you were slightly less mouthy.”
You clench around him deliberately, and his groan vibrates against your back. “And in mine, you were considerably less smug.”
Zayne sucks hard at the sensitive skin above your collarbone in response before releasing your hair, letting it fall down your back. He braces both arms on either side of your head, and the change in position lets him go harder and deeper, his hips driving you into the mattress with each thrust.
“You've spent your whole life making sure no one could take care of you the way I do. Making sure no one else fit. Ruining yourself for anyone who wasn't me.” His hand reaches beneath you, and the first touch to your swollen, aching clit makes your entire body tense. He circles with barely any pressure, in time to the grind of his hips, and the combined sensation is almost too much to bear. “So now I’m going to give you everything you’ve been asking for all this time. Take care of you the way I’ve always wanted to. And you’re going to be good for me and take it.”
Every edge he pulled you back from tonight, every almost, every year of wanting with nothing to show for it—all of it—collects into a single climax that tears through your body in waves. You clench around him so hard his hips stutter, and his mouth is at your ear the whole time—
That's it—that's my girl—you've been waiting so long for this, haven't you? So long. I know. I know. I've got you. Feel that? That's all for you. You earned this—you earned every bit of it—
—and his voice is the anchor you cling to while the rest of you drowns, his name the only word left in your mouth, your mind, your heart.
He slows, letting you breathe as your aftershocks tighten around him in involuntary pulses. And you wait for it—for his hips to drive forward one final time, for the heat of him to fill you from the inside the way you've always imagined it would.
He pulls out instead, and the sudden emptiness makes you frown, your hips pressing back against nothing, searching for him.
“Zayne—why did you—” You turn your head, and the confusion must be written across your face, because his gaze softens even as he strokes his cock, slick from you, in long pulls.
“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he says, and the two words form a promise that makes your heart flip—that there will be other nights, that this is the first and not the last, that he’s already planning the ones that come after. “Tonight I want to see it on your skin.”
He straightens behind you, settling both hands on your hips. His thumbs press into the dip of your lower back, pressing circles over the skin there.
“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you asked me to put my hands on you by that pool. And I've thought about it every day since.” His palms trace the canvas of your back a final time. “Marking you. Imagining how pretty you'd look with the evidence of what you do to me all over your body.”
“You don’t have to imagine, Zayne. I’m right here.” You arch your back for him in shameless offering, and the sound he makes at the sight is low and wrecked and strips away any remaining possibility that either of you will ever recover from this night. “I’ve always been right here.”
“You're going to be the end of me,” he says through a ragged sigh. “You know that. You've always known that.”
“Promise?” you murmur, tilting your hips higher, giving him more of yourself.
His laugh is barely a sound, and his hand picks up speed, rougher now, knuckles brushing against your skin with each tight stroke. You watch his lips part, watch his brow furrow, watch the moment arrive on his face before you feel it on your skin—the warmth of his release spilling across the small of your back in pulses, painting your body with the proof that he was here, that this happened, that you belong to him in a way no amount of respectable distance will ever undo.
He stays like that for a while, breathing hard, looking at you looking at him. His expression softens into something so affectionate it makes your chest ache, and he leans down and presses a long, lingering kiss between your shoulder blades.
“Promise.” His hand finds yours on the pillow, squeezing once before pressing a kiss between your shoulderblades and lifting himself off you. “Now don't move. Give me ten seconds.”
“Was that an order? Because I've been told I'm bad at those.”
He grabs his pants from the floor, sliding them up over his hips. “Nine seconds.”
You hear the tap running, the drip of a towel being wrung out in the sink. He's back before you can count to four—warm cloth in one hand, cold glass of water in the other—and sits beside you on the bed.
He cleans you with a care that shouldn’t surprise you but makes tears prick behind your eyes anyway, following the path his mouth traveled earlier, rewarming the cloth twice because it cooled too fast and he noticed before you did. He wipes your thighs, the backs of your knees, places that don't need cleaning but get attention anyway. When he reaches the small of your back, he presses his lips against the clean skin there one final time before setting the cloth aside.
He helps you into fresh pajamas—a matching flannel set he selects from the second drawer of your dresser—lifting your arms, guiding them through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders and down your back. The gesture is so careful, so him, so entirely removed from everything his hands were doing ten minutes ago that a tear actually escapes down your cheek before you can catch it.
His thumb finds it, though, and wipes it away without comment, without concern, without making it into something you'd have to explain. He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders, tucking the edge beneath your chin the way he's done since you were small, and reaches for the glass on the nightstand.
“Drink,” he says, holding it to your lips.
“I’m fine—"
“Humor me.” The corner of his mouth lifts, barely. “I’ve been humoring you all night.”
He watches as you drink, gives a small nod of approval once he’s satisfied you’ve had enough, then sets the glass on the nightstand. He pulls on his t-shirt—you mourn the loss of his bare chest immediately—and slides under the covers beside you.
When you curl against him, his arms wrap around you like a reflex he's done fighting.
“I should resign,” he murmurs.
“You should absolutely not resign.”
“This is a rather significant breach of professional boundaries.”
“I don't care about your professional boundaries. I care about you staying in this bed.”
He lifts his head to look at you in the lamplight. With his hair wrecked, glasses long gone, and an expression so open and unguarded, he looks…younger. Lighter. Like something heavy has been set down after years of carrying it.
“Stay,” you whisper. “Not as my butler. Not as my anything. Just stay.”
His arm tightens around your waist. You feel his heartbeat match yours, both rhythms slowing to something calm. His chin settles on the top of your head, and for a while neither of you speaks, but the silence is nothing like the one that scared you an hour ago.
“Mm,” you hum against his chest. “I always get what I want eventually.”
“You do.” His thumb traces a lazy circle on your shoulder. “It’s your single most irritating quality.”
“And yet you keep indulging me.”
“You are exceptionally difficult to say no to.”
“So stop trying.”
“I suppose that would simplify my schedule considerably.” He pulls you closer. “Free up the hours I currently spend on damage control and cold showers.”
“See? Efficient. You love efficiency.”
“I do love efficiency.” His mouth presses against your hair, and you feel him smile. “Though I suspect you're going to be far more work than you were before tonight. Not less.”
“Probably.”
“Almost certainly.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” His fingers find the spot behind your knee—the left one, the one he knows is ticklish—and you yelp, squirming against him, your laugh bright in the quiet room. He catches you before you can escape and pulls you back against his chest. “Now promise me you’ll ring the bell again tomorrow.”
“That depends. Will you read me more Austen?”
“If you behave.”
“And if I don’t?”
His teeth graze your earlobe, tongue teasing the sensitive skin just below. “Then I suppose I’ll have to resort to alternative methods of tiring you out.”
You give his chest a playful shove and he catches your hand, kissing each knuckle one by one. You melt closer, curling yourself tighter against his chest, letting the cadence of his breathing, the warmth of his arms, the undeniable sense of home pull you under.
The house continues its symphony through the night—wind whistling through the cracks, pipes bellowing deep in the walls, wood floors sighing under the weight of the night.
pairing: bf!Valko x gn!reader
synopsis: you wake up from a nightmare where valko disappeared, leaving you alone. thankfully, he's lying by your side when you wake up...
cw: fluff, hurt/comfort ig, petnames, established relationship
wc: 1.5k
a/n: yes this is my way of coping
Valko masterlist
Valko was gone.
He had disappeared, seemingly without a trace.
You woke up to an unusually empty and cold bed. So you got up, searching the bathroom instead, calling out to him by the nickname you knew he secretly loved despite acting against it. But he was nowhere to be seen.
You tried calling him or sending him a text, but you couldn’t find his contact in your phone anymore.
So you tried social media, but you couldn't even find his account. Even after looking his username up.
The pit in your stomach only grew deeper and heavier as you rushed out of your bathroom, making your way to your entrance, throwing on the first pair of shoes you could find, grabbing your keys, and leaving. You noted the fact that his boots weren’t at your entrance anymore.
Arriving at his place, you walked up the luxurious modern driveway and pulled out the spare set of keys to his place he’d made for you. But the door didn’t open, or budge. The key didn’t even fit into the lock.
But in your panicked state of denial, you continue forcing the key into the hole, until the door opens from the other side.
You look up, expecting to be met with your 6’2 hunk of a boyfriend. Maybe in loungewear, with his glasses resting low on his nose, a book in hand.
Instead, an older woman looked at you with fear, disgust, and confusion all at once.
“Can I help you?” she asks condescendingly.
You stutter, still shocked.
“If you’re just going to stand there, then get off my property. I won’t hesitate to call the police.” she huffs.
Her property? What the hell was she talking about?
“Go on then.” she shoos you away, closing the heavy wooden door right in your face.
You remain standing there, baffled, before slowly turning around and looking at the cars in the driveway. Three sleek Mercedes’. And Valko’s jeep was nowhere in sight.
Your hands start trembling as you slowly make your way back to your own car. Shutting the door behind you once you sit in the driver’s seat, you pull out your phone again.
You decide to call his aunt. Surely she’d know where he was.
You sigh in relief once she picks up, and immediately ask her about Valko’s whereabouts, without even bothering to greet her properly.
She’s quiet on the other side of the line before speaking. “... Who?”
Your mouth falls agape ever so slightly, and your eyebrows knit together in a frown. “Valko. Do you know where he is? I’ve been trying to reach him all morning.”
She’s quiet again, but this time breaks her silence with a chuckle. “Sweetheart, did you hit your head? Who’s Valko?”
The hand holding your phone up to your ear falls in your lap, as tears start to well in your bottom eyelids.
Although you’re not on speaker, you can still faintly hear the sound of her voice.
“Y/N? Are you still there?” she questions, before laughing again. “I swear if this is another one of your pranks―”
You hang up before she can finish her sentence.
You stare down at your phone, and click on your camera roll.
There are no photos of him. There are no videos of him. Your album of him is gone.
Valko is gone.
Lost on what to do, you break down. The tears instantly stream down your face, hot and heavy. Your heartbroken sobs echo through your car. You fold in on yourself, leaning forward until your forehead rests against the steering wheel. The cries that rip out of your throat only get louder as you close your eyes, blinking the tears away.
The next thing you know, you’re in bed again. The sheets cling to your body due to the sweat rolling down your back. It’s humid, and sticky, and you feel as though you’re suffocating.
You immediately sit up and tear the covers off of you to catch your breath.
That’s when you realize… Valko. Where is he?
Your gaze drops down to your right.
There he is. Lying down with an arm propped behind his head, the other resting on his chest.
You nearly pounce on him, grabbing him firmly by the shoulders and shaking him awake.
“Valko! Come on, wake up, please―” you mutter, your voice raspy and broken as you start tearing up again.
But he doesn’t budge. You pray it’s just him being his usual heavy sleeper self, and continue trying to wake him up.
Eventually, he starts to stir, eyelashes fluttering open.
You stop your motion and stare down at him with wide eyes, and tear streaks adorning your cheeks.
Once his vision focuses and he takes in your appearance, he immediately sits up.
“What’s goin’ on?” he asks, large hands already moving to cup your face.
But the second you feel his warm touch again, the dam breaks and you sob even more. Your hands move to rest against his own, as you lean into his palms. “I―” you start but choke on your words.
His golden eyes dart back and forth between yours. “Hey, it’s okay, take your time. Use your words.”
You sniffle repeatedly, catching your breath. He continues wiping your tears away with the pads of his thumbs, remaining silent.
Once you feel more calm, you speak up. “You were gone… you left–you left me.”
Now it’s his turn to frown, but he still says nothing.
“You left. Like you never even existed.” your breath hitches. “I tried calling you but I couldn’t find your contact on my phone—and there was an old rude lady living at your house, and I called auntie to ask about you and she was acting like she didn’t even know you.” you ramble, your words occasionally getting cut off with your sobs and voice cracks.
He lets out the breath he was holding before pulling you in. You immediately bury your face into his chest.
“I’m here, baby.” He whispered against your ear. “You hear my heartbeat? Smell me?” he presses kisses to your head. “I’m right here. Not goin’ anywhere.”
Pressing your ear to the spot right over his heart, you listen to it beat against his ribcage, focusing on the familiar and comforting rhythm. Your crying eventually ceases, and you’re left hiccuping and letting out deep breaths.
His hands continue caressing up and down your back until he feels you’ve really calmed down.
You’re the first to pull away, and you wipe your tears while staring down at your lap.
He notices how distant you look and cups your jaw with one hand to make you look up at him.
“Feelin’ better?” he asks, eyes unusually soft.
You slowly look up to meet his eyes and shrug.
“It was just a bad dream, ‘kay? I’m not leaving you.” He leans down, nuzzling his nose against yours. “Ever.”
Your eyes flutter shut as you lean up so your foreheads touch, and you breathe him in. You immediately bask in his warm, inviting scent that you swore could wake you up from a coma. “... Promise?”
“I promise.” he whispers against your skin, letting his words sink in.
You look up at him through your wet lashes. He stares down at you in silence, his eyes half-lidded, before slowly and carefully leaning down. You try to meet him halfway and lean into him as well, closing your eyes.
But instead of pressing his lips against your own, he swipes his tongue against the corner of your left eye, licking your tears away.
Your eyes snap back open and you stare at him in shock. “Valko.” you reprimand, yet your voice is soft and still exhausted.
He pulls back, and looks as though he’s deep in thought. “Salty.” he finally comments, the corners of his lips tilting into a smirk.
You continue to stare at him with parted lips. “... You’re gross.” you scoff.
But he’s quick to lean in and lick the tears from your other eye. You yelp, moving away and trying to push him off, giggling in the process.
His hands move to grab your waist, pushing you back against the mattress as he climbs on top of you.
You shield your face from him, arms coming up to hide it.
His fingers slip under your shirt to tickle your skin, making your defenses drop. He takes the opportunity to lean in again and lick an annoyingly long stripe up the side of your face, tracing the tear tracks on it.
Your laughter echoes through the bedroom as your legs start kicking up in all directions. “Valko, enough!”
He continues for a good two minutes before finally stopping. You’re caged between his biceps, staring up at him, while you try to catch your breath. He’s slightly winded too, and some of his hair has fallen on his forehead.
“... I love you.” he mutters.
Your heart squeezes painfully, and you cup his face with both hands, caressing his jawline. “I love you too.” you respond.
He leans down, lips finally pressing against your own.
Reminding you that he was real, present, and that nothing would ever change that.
synopsis. he's always been a bit sadistic and too obsessively ill with you, and you failed to notice every time.
tags. nsfw, heavy smut, slowburn, plot-based, so much tension, coming-of-age, childhood love, friends to lovers, pseudocest, mutual pining, dacryphilia, obsession, sadistic caleb, resisting and yearning caleb, depraved caleb, emotional reader, crybaby reader, m!masturbating, him doing it to ur pics, fingering, backshots, rough sex, slight manhandling, talking thru it, pacing is slow but worth it!
a/n. i would like to credit paiya443 for giving me this brilliant idea. check her out on tiktok, guys!
wc. 7k
you and caleb grew up in a neighborhood where the afternoons smelled like sun-warmed pavement and fresh laundry, where the trees on your street dipped low enough that caleb could pluck leaves to tuck behind your ear. your families lived door-to-door; yards practically bled into each other. it was the kind of closeness adults called fate and kids never questioned.
and from the very beginning, caleb belonged to you in a way no one ever explained to him.
you were ten when you first cried in front of him. he was twelve, watching your tiny body tremble over a scraped knee you got because you followed him too closely. and something about the sight lodged itself deep inside his ribs — not joy at your pain, but the soft, breathtaking sweetness of you trusting him enough to fall apart in his hands.
he didn’t understand it then. he just knew he liked being the one you ran to. he liked the way your small voice cracked when you said his name. he liked that he could fix things for you — band-aids, broken toys, scared little hearts.
back then, it was innocent.
or at least, that’s what he told himself.
because even as kids, caleb noticed things no normal boy paid attention to. the way your lips wobbled before you cried. the way you’d cling to the sleeve of his shirt like he was a lifeline. the way your eyes always searched for him first — even in a crowd.
and whenever you sobbed and wailed, something warm would bloom in his chest.
something possessive. something dangerous. something that felt like home.
you never noticed his… attachment. you were too busy laughing at his jokes, too busy following him around like a little shadow, too busy trusting him with every corner of your vulnerable heart.
caleb — growing too fast for his age — then learned early how to hide the darker edges of himself. he smiled easily, joked carelessly, and protected you fiercely. he pretended to be normal, he pretended the warmth he felt at your tears was just ... affection.
but as you grew older, the warmth sharpened into a thrill.
he never wanted you hurt — never. but whenever you cried, a strange relief washed over him. a soft, selfish comfort. because your tears meant you still needed him. you still came to him. you still trusted him enough to unravel in front of him.
and if you were crying, then caleb was the one close enough to wipe your tears.
people around you said you were like siblings. inseparable, adorable, meant to grow up together.
but caleb knew better.
siblings didn’t feel this way. friends didn’t look at each other like this.
he learned to control it — the obsession, the dark possessiveness, the urge to keep you close enough to breathe. he hid it in jokes, in teasing smiles, in the soft “you’re okay, i’ve got you”s he gave you each time you trembled.
you never saw the way he watched you. not really. not fully.
because while you saw a best friend, caleb saw the girl he’d spend his life orbiting — quietly, obsessively, lovingly.
he didn’t just want to protect you.
he wanted to be the only one you’d ever need.
~
the airplane didn’t fall — it plummeted, nosediving off caleb’s desk in a tragic, slow-motion arc that you could only watch with widening eyes. the wing hit the floor first, then the tiny propeller, then the rest of it followed with a dull little clack that felt, to you, like the sound of the universe collapsing.
you stood completely still as a ten year old.
your fingers remained frozen in the air, as if you could somehow catch the moment before it broke. but reality blinked back at you in two sad plastic pieces lying on the wooden floor of caleb’s room, sunlight gleaming off the fracture line.
your breath wavered.
oh no.
oh no no no—!
you hadn’t meant to touch it. you only wanted to look, maybe admire it up close, maybe imagine the two of you flying it later outside like you always did. but your sleeve brushed the tail, and then your elbow bumped the base, and then—
you ruined everything.
your throat tightened painfully. tears pricked instantly, too fast, too hot.
“c-caleb’s gonna…” you whispered to yourself, voice cracking before you even finished the thought.
you crouched down, trembling, as if you could piece the toy back together by staring hard enough at it.
then tears spilled, quick and messy, streaking warm down your cheeks.
the door clicked open behind you.
“pipsqueak? you in here— whoa.”
caleb’s voice always had that familiar, steady warmth, but right now it broke off mid-sentence. you felt him pause in the doorway.
then his footsteps crossed the room — quick, sure, almost protective.
you squeezed your eyes shut. “i’m sorry…” you whispered before he even reached you. “i’m really, really sorry— i didn’t mean to— i broke it, i broke your airplane…”
caleb stopped beside you. you didn’t have to look up to know he was staring. you could feel it — that quiet, unreadable focus he had even at twelve, like he always noticed things before anyone else did.
he knelt down, picking up the wing.
“huh,” he murmured softly, examining the crack. “you really did a number on it.”
you burst into louder tears at that, tiny shoulders shaking. “i’m sorry! i didn’t mean to! please don’t be mad— i didn’t— i shouldn’t have touched it—”
“hey, hey— apples.” his voice dropped, gentle but edged with that boyish firmness he was growing into. he reached out and tapped your wrist lightly. “look at me.”
you sniffed, rubbing tears from your cheeks, and lifted your gaze slowly...
caleb didn’t look mad.
not even annoyed.
in fact… he looked almost amused, soft around the edges, like he wanted to chuckle but was trying very hard not to make you cry harder.
“it’s just a toy,” he said quietly. “why’re you crying like i’m gonna banish you from the house or something?”
you hiccupped. “…you liked that toy.”
“yeah,” he nodded, lips tugging upward, “but i like you more.”
your breath hitched — tiny, startled, something warm flashing through your chest.
caleb noticed. caleb always noticed.
he shifted closer, brushing your cheek with the sleeve of his shirt. “you really thought i’d yell at you?” he asked, lowering his voice like he was coaxing a secret out of you.
you nodded, embarrassed. “you always take care of your things… and i broke one…”
caleb snorted softly. "pip, you’ve seen me crash this thing into the wall at least fifteen times.”
“…but that’s different.”
“yeah,” he said with a small shrug, “’cause you breaking it is kinda cute.”
“cute?”
“mm hmmm.” he tilted his head, studying your face with that strange, intent softness he carried only for you. “your nose gets red and your voice gets tiny. you look like a crying dumpling.”
“i don’t—!” you finally squeaked, mortified, but the tears paused in surprise.
caleb grinned, triumphant.
“see? you stopped crying already.” he lifted the broken airplane piece. “come on, i can fix it. but you’re helping.”
you wiped your face again. “helping…?”
“yup,” he said, already reaching for the toolbox he kept under his bed. “if you break my stuff, you have to fix it with me. that’s the rule.”
“w-we never had that rule,” you protested softly.
caleb gave you that smile — the one that always felt like sunlight and trouble. “we do now.”
he tapped the floor beside him twice.
and while you patched the toy together—caleb holding the wings steady, you sniffling as you pushed pieces back into place—he kept doing it. those tiny, stolen glances. the ones he thought you wouldn’t notice, the ones he didn’t even know he was making. every time your lashes trembled, every time you bit your lip to stop your tears, something warm and frighteningly sweet curled in his chest.
later, he would remember this moment as the first time it truly took root—whatever strange, heavy thing was beginning to bloom inside him. an attachment too big for a twelve-year-old boy to understand, too shadowed and sticky to name.
since then, caleb tried to be careful.
he forced himself to walk a step behind you instead of beside you, forced himself to pretend he didn’t always feel your gravity tugging him closer like it always had. he told himself he shouldn’t hover, shouldn’t cling, shouldn’t watch you so openly—because what if you got scared? what if you looked at him differently? what if you... pulled away?
but wanting to protect you and wanting to keep you near were braided into the same quiet ache. so he did what he could: he hid it.
as you grew into teenagers, his restraint only sharpened the edges of his obsession.
in sleepovers, on carpets littered with pillows and spilled popcorn, caleb would lie awake long after you drifted off—watching your chest rise and fall, memorizing every soft, unguarded blink of your dreaming face. he told himself it was harmless, he told himself he just wanted to make sure you were safe in your sleep. but sometimes his breath would hitch, and the room would feel too small and all too intimate.
at school, he became popular without trying—good-looking, tall, the kind of boy people gravitated toward. girls slipped love letters into his locker; some waited by the gates to confess, small boxes of chocolates cupped between shaking palms. he always accepted politely, then went home and left the gifts untouched.
because at night, under the dim blue glow of his phone screen, caleb would scroll through your photos instead—old candid shots you didn't even remember he took, blurry pictures of you frowning at a worksheet, laughing with your head tossed back, or asleep on the couch with your cheek squished against his arm. he’d stare until the ache in his chest grew unbearable, until the need to reach out and touch you almost made him forget his restraint.
and then there was the habit he could never break.
stealing small pieces of you.
a hair tie left on his desk; a pen you forgot to take back; the charm from your backpack that mysteriously “fell off.” he never took anything you would miss too much—just little things, tiny artifacts that made his room feel less empty. he kept them in a box beneath his bed, opening it on nights when the distance he forced between you felt like punishment.
he knew it was wrong, or at least strange. he knew he shouldn’t. but it was the only way he could feel close to you without frightening you with the truth—that you had always been his sun, and he had always been orbiting, hopelessly and helplessly, even when he pretended not to.
and oh, how caleb hated it.
not in the dramatic, stomp-your-foot sort of way—he wasn’t that kind of boy. no, his dislike came in tiny fractures. little cracks behind his smile. soft sighs he pretended were nothing. eyes that lingered too long on scenes he wished he could erase.
because seeing you… sitting beside some boy?
laughing with him?
doing that little crinkly-eyed smile you always did when you found something genuinely funny?
it made something in caleb’s chest twist—sharp, childish, and a little bit ugly.
he didn’t understand the feeling... it wasn’t anger. it wasn’t sadness. it was something weirdly in-between like trying to hold too much water in cupped hands and watching it spill out anyway.
there was that one p.e. class, one of those sunny afternoons where the gym smelled like rubber soles and chalk, and everyone’s voices bounced off the high ceiling.
you were doing partner pushups with a boy, palms meeting each time you went up. it was innocent. your teacher had assigned partners and other students were giggling everywhere.
caleb tried to focus on basketball. he really did. he dribbled, shot, caught, repeated. but his eyes kept sneaking over—like magnets he couldn’t pry away.
he watched the boy grin at you.
he watched you grin back.
and he felt… weird. hot? itchy? restless? like an entire storm was growing inside his stomach.
without thinking—literally without a single thought passing through his brain—he tossed the ball.
except “toss” wasn’t the right word.
it zoomed.
straight toward the boy’s face.
a loud, cartoonish THWUMP! echoed through the gym. the boy stumbled back, letting out a surprised yelp. you gasped, scrambling to his side.
“ah! are you okay?!" your voice was high and worried—so unlike how you talked to caleb. you never sounded like that with him. you always sounded relaxed, soft, comfortable, familiar.
and caleb hated that you used that voice on someone else.
“sorry!” caleb called out, forcing a sheepish grin. “my hand slipped!”
it absolutely did not slip.
the teacher scolded him, told him to be more careful. caleb nodded obediently the whole time, face flushed just enough to look apologetic—but deep down, there was that tiny, secret spark of satisfaction.
because the boy stopped smiling at you after that.
and things only got trickier.
you started finding your own little world—friends to eat snacks with, classmates to chat with before homeroom, girls to walk home with. you laughed more, wandered more, lived more.
all good things.
all things that slowly took your attention away from him.
and caleb, who had always been the sun in your orbit, suddenly felt like he was becoming… a star in the background.
and he hated that, too.
so he tried to tug your gaze back gently—nothing scary, nothing dramatic. just… nudges. soft things. harmless little games.
like posting new photos online. photos where he looked a little taller than last month, or a little sharper, or a little cooler in that effortless preteen heartthrob way he didn’t admit he knew he had.
a half-smile here.
a candid shot with basketball practice sweat on his forehead.
a group selfie where he somehow ended up in the center.
he posted, refreshed, waited.
and when that tiny notification popped up—pipsqueak liked your photo—he felt lighter and heavier all at once.
~
by the time caleb turned eighteen, the dreams about you had already become routine—frequent things that threaded themselves into his nights like an extra heartbeat. at first, they startled him. he’d wake up with that strange sense of longing, a kind he didn’t know how to name yet, the kind that made him want to keep you close even when the world said he should be letting go.
but over time, he stopped fighting them.
dreaming of you became… normal.
expected.
almost comforting, in the same way your childhood scent had been—the faint trace of baby powder, crayons, and the warm, sunlit air of long summer afternoons. his dreams followed that same softness, that same familiarity. in the dreams, sometimes he saw you laughing beside him at the park swing. sometimes you were leaning against him during some lazy after-school afternoon. sometimes you were just… there, smiling at him in that way you used to when you were ten.
he accepted them all.
took them in like breath.
but then—
one friday kinda changed everything?
he’d come home late from basketball practice, shirt clinging to him, muscles sore, hair still damp from a rushed shower. he barely finished dinner before collapsing onto his bed as exhaustion clung to him heavily.
and he fell asleep fast. too fast.
and the dream that came… felt different from the start. warm...? near... breath-close... it felt like someone had stepped into his chest, into the hidden, locked-up places he never let anyone touch.
you.
you were in front of him, looking at him in that soft way—the way you used to when you were little and he was the only person in the world who could fix the things you broke.
he didn’t know who moved firs, maybe you did, maybe he did.
maybe both of you met in the same impossible middle.
but suddenly, your mouth was pressed on his.
a shy press of lips—sweet, tentative, as if asking him a question.
and he answered before he even realized he had.
his hand slid to your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as if terrified you’d slip away. his mouth pressed harder against yours—hungry, desperate, relieved, every suppressed feeling he’d buried since childhood bleeding through that single kiss. he tasted your breath, your warmth, your everything.
and he wanted more.
so much more.
he was almost gasping for air when your lips parted, resting his forehead against yours with eyes shut tight. his fingers wouldn't stop clutching on your hair locks, and then, he dives in again.
"mmh..." he was already pulling you flush against his chest, like he was afraid that you'd let go, and he'd see how scared you were of how desperate he is. caleb pushes you against a wall, lips ghosting over your chin, your jawline... your neck...
he woke up with a violent gasp.
like someone had dumped him into cold water.
he sat upright so fast his head spun, breathing hard, chest heaving. sweat clung to his hair, his shirt, the sheets twisted around his legs like he had fought sleep with his whole body.
for a long moment, he couldn’t even breathe right.
your name sat on his tongue like a brand.
and the taste of that dream-kiss—imagined but too real—still burned on his lips.
caleb dragged a shaky hand down his face, exhaling shakily as if trying to push the dream out with each breath.
“...seriously?” he muttered to himself, half-frustrated, half-something else he couldn’t admit out loud.
but even with his pulse racing, with embarrassment crawling up his throat, with the weight of want settling unbearably under his skin… every time he closed his eyes, he felt it again: your breath brushing his mouth, your lips pressed to his, your waist under his palm like something he had every right to hold.
his body felt too warm, and for some reason his sweatpants felt too tight.
he kicked off his blankets, but the heat stayed.
his face also burned.
he rolled onto his back, then his side, then back again — restless, pulse drumming in his ears. he tried to tell himself it was just a dream... just exhaustion.... just teenage hormones?
he covered his face with one arm, exhaling shakily. “…damn it.”
only then he'd realize that his other calloused hand was already rubbing the hardening bulge underneath the fabrics.
he sank deeper into the pillows, breath catching as the memory of your mouth moved through him again. the warmth pooled low in his stomach, spreading, tightening into the area between his thighs.
his mind kept drifting where it shouldn’t.
caleb pulled his boxers down, and the grown size of his manhood springs out, twitching for some kind of release.
he stares at it with half-lidded eyes. wonder how you'd react in seeing how big he is.
no, caleb, don't bring her into this.
even still, he let himself fall into it — into the feeling of you, the fantasy of you, the dream he wanted far too much.
he lay very still afterwards, facing up at the ceiling with his chest rising and falling, with his fingers wrapping around the girth of his length, his mouth ajar, his eyes hiding under his arm.
“...this is bad,” he whispered, voice barely there. “i’m in trouble."
he rolled his head back, chest rising in a long, shaky inhale, but it didn’t help. the tension was coiled too deep, wrapped around his ribs, in the way his adam's apple bobbed unevenly. he tried to steady his breathing; instead it came out rough, uneven, almost like a quiet growl.
“god…”
he stroked himself, slowly, carefully, making sure he had to picture your face in his head.
he shifted against the pillows, jaw tight, muscles drawn taut like a bowstring. his body felt big, restless, almost too heavy for the mattress. he pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, but it did nothing for the feverish warmth rolling through him.
and it was you doing this.
just the thought of you.
he hated how easily you could undo him.
but he loved it too much to stop.
his hips shifted unconsciously — a slow, frustrated twitch he couldn’t control — and a low, strangled sound escaped him before he could bite it back.
he squeezed his eyes shut, teeth sinking into his lower lip, breath coming faster now.
he fastened his pace, gripping his own cock tighter with a veiny fist, pumping the length with wanton pleasure.
he felt helpless in a way that made him angry and desperate all at once, like a man fighting against something stronger than him. like wanting you was a force he physically couldn’t resist.
he turned his face into the pillow, voice muffled, deeper, rougher than it had ever been in his life.
“…baby.”
saying a pet name he's always wanted to use on you out loud made the heat slam into him even harder. he jerked slightly — a sharp, involuntary reaction he couldn’t hide from himself — thighs tightening, shoulders flexing as he sucked in another trembling breath through his teeth.
this was unbearable.
this was addictive.
this was everything he shouldn’t be feeling.
and yet — god — he couldn’t stop.
his chest rose and fell in uneven waves, sweat beading along his collarbone, his entire body tensed like it was trying to hold itself together. and still, he continued masturbating.
he then reached toward the nightstand, fingers trembling just a little, brushing blindly until they found the cool surface of his phone. he curled his hand around it, grip tight like he needed it to anchor him.
the screen instantly lit up, bathing his face in pale light.
and the moment he swiped it open, he didn’t even think.
his thumb moved on its own.
straight to the photo album he shouldn’t have labeled with your initial.
straight to the folder he never let anyone see.
he tapped it.
your photo filled the screen.
and then, caleb moaned, stroking himself faster, harder. his hips twitched upward, matching the pace of his fist.
that one picture — the one he’d taken months ago during golden hour, when you were laughing about something he couldn’t even remember anymore.
and god.
seeing it now—
it made him helplessly horny.
his breath stuttered.
his eyes softened painfully, almost hungrily.
he sank back into the pillows, phone held inches above his face, his thumb resting on the edge of the screen like he was afraid touching the photo itself would burn him.
but somehow… looking at your face did more to him than anything else. it lit every nerve on fire. it made his dick harden even more, it made him gasp for air, it made him bite his lip to suck in a groan.
it made him cum.
he exhaled shakily, chest lifting and falling in slow, heavy waves.
his brows knit together, expression tight, almost pained.
he looks at the streaks of cum across his screen, as if he just made a mess on your face. he drops the phone on his chest, arms also dropping to his sides. and all he could do was to get hard again.
~
at twenty-two, the world felt too big for the both of you.
different universities, different fields, different schedules that never lined up right. caleb was off chasing airplanes and flight hours, always with some photo of runways and clouds on his feed; you were buried in training for your own line of work, juggling deadlines and requirements like a circus act.
it wasn’t sad, exactly—just… growing up. the kind that happened quietly, without asking permission.
but every summer, you went home to grandma’s house—the one that smelled like sweet tea and old wood, where the windows were always open and you could hear the neighborhood kids yelling from three streets away. and caleb would always show up, sometimes pretending he just “happened to pass by,” even though grandma always made too much food on the days he returned.
last year had been your last real summer with him.
and now, today, he was coming home again.
just thinking about it made your chest do a weird, fizzy little flip.
your classroom was glowing with afternoon sunlight, warm and playful, the kind that turned dust particles into tiny floating sparkles. you were wiping down desks with a rag, humming under your breath, moving slowly because your mind was far away.
he’s probably already on the bus... or on his way to grandma’s?
maybe he already arrived—should i hurry home? or not?
you were smiling to yourself without realizing it.
until—
“girl?”
you jolted a little, almost dropping the eraser in your hand.
your friend stood near the doorway, eyebrows raised, a grin tugging at her lips. “you good? you look like you’re… floating.”
“i’m not floating,” you said, though your voice came out very much floaty.
“you totally are,” she laughed, stepping into the room. “what’s got you all smiley and glowy? did something happen?”
you straightened a stack of books just to have something to do with your hands. “no,” you said. “not really.”
“mm-hmm,” she hummed, clearly not believing a word. “you’ve been cleaning the same desk for five minutes. and smiling at it. is it a magic desk?”
you pouted a little. “don’t tease me.”
“i’m not! i’m just saying—something’s up.”
you hesitated.
the thing about caleb was… he wasn’t easy to explain. he wasn’t a crush, he wasn’t just a friend, he wasn’t a stranger either. he was something in-between—a familiar warmth from childhood summers, the boy who always stole half your snacks, the one who fixed everything you broke, the one who always came back.
you fiddled with the cloth in your hands and murmured, “it’s just… someone’s coming home today.”
your friend’s grin exploded. “ohhhh. someone.”
you puffed your cheeks. “stop it. it’s not like that.”
“suuuure,” she said, dragging out the word dramatically. “then why are your ears red?”
“they’re not—!”
“they are,” she said, poking one.
you swatted her hand away, cheeks warm.
but inside—quietly, secretly—you were already imagining it: caleb standing in grandma’s kitchen, pretending not to wait for you.
grandma calling your name the moment you step inside.
his eyes flicking to you first.
today, he was coming home.
when you finally arrived home, you stood in front of grandma’s door with your suitcase beside you, still in your uniform, the late-afternoon light brushing gold against the old wood. somehow, even after all the summers you’d come home to this place, today your fingers lingered on the doorknob a little longer.
your heart thumped—not loud, but quick.
caleb should be here by now...
and that thought made you hesitate, the way you did when you were little and wanted to knock but didn’t know if he was on the other side waiting.
finally, you took a tiny breath and pushed the door open.
“i’m home…?”
your voice echoed softly in the living room.
no answer.
you tucked your shoes away and stepped inside, the familiar scent of citrus cleaner and grandma’s dried herbs filling your nose. everything was the same—the framed photos, the humming electric fan, the worn-out sofa with mismatched pillows.
“grandmaaa?” you called, wandering further. “where are you?”
you peeked into the kitchen.
empty.
you peeked into her room.
still empty.
your footsteps pattered through the house like they always did—light, curious, a little bouncy. you called for her again, dragging out her name in that childish way you never quite grew out of.
but she was nowhere.
you puffed your cheeks, confused, and made your way to the backyard, sliding open the squeaky screen door.
the first thing you noticed was the hose—completely undone, tangled like a lazy snake scribbled across the ground. the flowers along the garden edge were soaked, dripping little beads of water like they’d just gotten an unexpected shower.
“grandmaaa, i’m ho—”
a big, warm hand suddenly slipped over your eyes.
you gasped, freezing on the spot.
before you could say anything, a voice brushed against your ear—raspy from travel, deeper than last summer, but undeniably playful.
“guess who?”
your breath hitched.
that voice.
that stupid boy.
your lips twitched upward in a small, involuntary smile. “…caleb?” you murmured, trying not to laugh.
his hand tightened just a little—like even in this silly game, he didn’t want to let go yet. “mm,” he hummed, and you could hear the grin in his voice, “took you long enough.”
you peel his hand off your eyes with a tiny huff, ready to scold him for sneaking up on you—
but then you turn around, and your whole brain just… stutters. for some odd reason.
caleb blinks at you, all casual, all unbothered, all unfairly looking like that.
he’s only wearing a white tank top, thin enough that you can see the faint shape of his muscles shifting underneath. it hangs perfectly over the slope of his clavicle, draws a line to the wideness of his shoulders, and his biceps—oh. yeah. those definitely weren’t that big before. or maybe they were and you just weren’t paying attention. (you were. you absolutely were.)
his hair is slightly damp, pushed back in a way that looks both messy and… weirdly handsome? like he rolled out of some slice-of-life anime where everyone magically looks good doing chores.
“uh—why do you look like that?” you blurt out before your brain can stop you.
he quirks a brow, confused. “like what?”
you wave your hands vaguely at all of him. “like… that.”
he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “i’ve been cleaning since morning. grandma’s busy with her reunion at the clubhouse. the house was a mess so… yyyeah.”
he shrugs, and the movement just makes everything worse. stronger. broader. more defined.
“wow,” you mumble under your breath, “someone got manlier.”
“huh?”
“nothing.”
to distract yourself (and probably to ignore the fact that your heart is beating like a loose tambourine), you grab the watering can beside you. “come on, help me with the flowers.”
“yes, ma’am,” he says, bumping his shoulder lightly into yours—just enough to feel that new, annoyingly firm muscle.
you move along the garden bed, tipping the watering can just enough so the soil darkens slowly. caleb stays beside you, his own can bumping lightly against your leg every now and then—he swears it’s an accident, but you know better.
“so…” he starts, voice soft and a little curious, “how’ve you been? it’s been a while since i saw you this close.”
you brighten a little at the question, because finally—someone to talk to. “oh! i’ve been fine, actually. better than last month.”
and once you begin, you… don’t stop.
you tell him about the weird stray cat that tried to follow you home, the new project you’ve been working on, the random thing you learned online at 2 a.m., the neighbor who sings too loudly in the morning, the sweet snack you’ve been obsessed with lately—just a whole collection of things that have been floating in your mind.
and caleb just listens, really listens.
he keeps his eyes on you the whole time, the soft kind of staring that doesn’t feel heavy—just warm. every now and then he nods, or breathes out a quiet laugh, or tilts his head like he’s storing every word for later. and somehow, his attention makes your talking even worse. even faster. even louder.
“—and then the lady told me i looked too young to be buying that, which is insane because i’m literally—”
“you do look young,” he cuts in, lips twitching.
you gasp. “excuse me?”
“sorry,” he shrugs, though he’s obviously not sorry at all. “baby-faced rather.”
“oh, shut up. you’re just jealous i don’t look like a stressed office worker.”
“hey,” he says, feigning offense, “i think i look very youthful.”
you make a face. “you look like someone’s dad.”
caleb smacks water at your shoe with his watering can. “take that back.”
“nope.”
“fine.” he leans a little closer, lowering his voice dramatically. “just remember—karma comes quickly.”
“what are you gonna do? water me?”
“don’t tempt me.”
you dodge behind the hibiscus plant like a child, laughing. he follows, shaking his head but smiling that soft, helpless smile that only shows up when he’s with you.
the next, caleb flicks a bit of water at your arm, you shriek dramatically, and suddenly it’s war.
“oh, you’re dead!!”
“come here then,” caleb grins, eyes narrowing like a cat spotting easy prey.
“nope nope nope–!!”
you bolt.
like actual children, you sprint straight into the house, socks sliding on the floor, heart thudding from equal parts adrenaline and laughter. behind you, caleb barrels in with none of the grace a future pilot should have.
“get back here!!”
“no!! why would i do that?!”
“because i said so!”
“that’s not a reason—!”
your giggles echo through the hallway as you turn every corner too fast, nearly tripping over a rug. caleb’s footsteps are louder, heavier, like he’s purposely stomping just to scare you. the two of you are basically reenacting tom and jerry—except much louder and much dumber.
you duck behind the dining table. caleb circles the other side. both of you stare each other down.
“…hi,” you say.
“move,” he warns.
“no.”
“fine.”
he lunges.
you yelp, turn, and run for the living room. he’s faster. way faster. you barely make it past the couch when—
“got you!”
caleb grabs your waist from behind and the momentum takes both of you down onto the couch cushions. you let out the most unflattering squeak as he catches your wrists mid-flail, pinning them above your head before you can escape again.
both of you are panting—half from running, half from laughing too hard. your chest rises and falls quickly, and caleb’s breath brushes your cheek, warm and uneven.
your laughter fades first.
his fades after.
and then the silence slips in, soft and heavy.
you blink up at him.
he blinks down at you.
his hands are still around your wrists. his body leans over you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin. the white tank top isn’t helping—broad shoulders, defined arms, everything just there and very hard to ignore.
caleb swallows, jaw tightening just a little.
“…caught you,”
caleb stays still for a long moment, his eyes fixed on you, and for once, the world narrows down to nothing but your face, your hair falling slightly over your cheeks, the way the sunlight hits the curve of your jaw.
and then—it all crashes back. every quiet feeling he’d tucked away since you were kids, every stolen glance, every moment of watching you sleep, every tiny obsession he’d convinced himself was harmless… it comes rushing forward like a flood he can’t hold back.
he swallows hard, throat tight, and his chest feels like it’s too full, too fast. he’s leaning over you, feeling your warmth, the softness of your hands under his, your uniform riding up slightly as you shift, and it’s almost unbearable how… beautiful you look. how impossibly you’ve grown, how much you still belong in his orbit.
but then, just like that, the moment snaps. his lips twitch into a small, almost mischievous snort, like he’s breaking the tension with the smallest, most human excuse he can find.
“ugh,” he mutters, brushing back his damp hair, finally getting off of you. “i need to change my clothes. this tank top is sticking to me like glue.”
he stands, trying to keep his voice light, playful, like everything is normal again. like the sudden surge of everything buried in his chest doesn’t exist.
you blink up at him, unsure if the air between you is just heavy from running or from… him.
~
summer slips by the way it always does with him.
one monday, you’re wobbling carts through the grocery store with caleb, arguing over which apples are “pie material” and which ones are “just posing as apples.” he flicks your forehead when you pick the wrong brand of flour. you shove him into the cereal aisle, and the employees would stare, but he just grins.
then you’re both in the kitchen, elbows touching, sugar dusting the counter, caleb peeling apples with that stupid smug look because his slices are “more aesthetic.” you roll your eyes but let him win. he always wins.
another day, you’re sitting cross-legged on his carpet, controllers in hand, yelling at him for cheating.
“you literally walked off the map,” he accuses.
“you distracted me with your commentary!”
he laughs so loud you almost throw your controller at him.
and then the fair—cotton candy fingers, grandma holding both your hands while she drags you into photobooths. caleb presses his cheek against yours in one of the pictures, claiming it’s “for comedic effect,” but he keeps that strip of photos in his wallet later.
it’s all small things, tiny pockets of happiness. the kind that feel like childhood with just a hint of something else underneath.
then one saturday night, with summer already slipping through your fingers, you stand at the doorway of grandma’s bedroom and watch caleb help her with her medicine. he’s gentle, patient in a way he never is with anyone else. he brushes a stray hair from her forehead, telling her, “c’mon, grandma. you promised you’d take it without making that face.”
and she tries—she really tries—not to make that face.
you smile quietly, but it aches in your chest. because it’s almost over again.
so you slip away, leaving them to their soft laughter, and you walk down the hall toward caleb's bedroom.
his door is half-open with the lights warm. his room smells like pine-scented laundry, a little cologne, and something distinctly caleb.
you step inside, slow, hesitant. your fingers graze his desk, the edge of his bookshelf, the jacket tossed carelessly over a chair.
you’re just… taking him in.
the way he exists in this space.
the way this room feels like him.
the way being here feels like the summer you wish would stay just a little longer.
you sit on the edge of his bed, sinking into the sheets that still hold the shape of the boy you grew up with, the one who somehow became the person you look for in every room.
and for a moment, alone in the soft quiet of caleb’s bedroom, you let yourself feel it—
that tiny, childlike longing.
that wish that summer didn’t have to end.
that wish that he didn’t have to go for another year again.
you kneel on the wooden floor, palms warming against the boards as you lean forward, squinting at the little shadow jutting out from beneath caleb’s bed.
a black box.
sticking out just enough to be suspicious.
you blink.
tilt your head.
you shouldn’t.
you really, really shouldn’t.
but curiosity has always been your fatal flaw—caleb said that once, teasing you as you tried to solve a puzzle he purposely made too hard.
so you swallow, reach out, and tug the box toward you. it scrapes softly against the floor, heavier than you expect. you hesitate, fingers hovering over the lid.
this feels like trespassing.
like peeking into a part of him he would never show you on purpose.
but then—the lid lifts.
and your breath stops.
inside…
is you.
everywhere.
your mind blanks for a moment, then comes rushing back too fast.
right at the top: a bundle of ballpens you thought you’d lost in elementary school. the blue one with the star sticker you swore someone stole.
and beneath it—
your old handkerchief, folded neatly, the one you dropped at the playground when you were twelve.
your brows knit, confusion rising.
what—
you dig deeper.
and your stomach flips.
there, tied gently with a small ribbon, is a clipping of hair—your hair—cut cleanly from the time you’d trimmed your bangs at his house and swept everything carelessly into the trash.
your hands tremble.
your breath feels too loud in this quiet room.
printed photos of you follow—some candid, some clearly zoomed in from afar. little notes scribbled around the edges in his uneven handwriting;
mine
she smiled today.
don’t let anyone else see this.
your pulse stutters.
and then you see it.
tucked in the corner.
soft fabric you immediately recognize.
your ... underwear.
one you lost at a sleepover years ago. you’d laughed it off, thinking maybe grandma misplaced the laundry.
but it’s here.
folded.
kept.
you flinch, heart hammering so hard you can feel it in your fingertips.
your mind shatters into a dozen frantic thoughts all at once.
since when? why? how long has this been here?
you can’t breathe. you can’t think straight. you stare at the contents of the box — the pens, the handkerchiefs, the hair ribbon you thought you lost in middle school, the printed photos, the little notes scribbled along the edges.
pieces of you. pieces he kept. pieces he collected.
is this… really caleb? your caleb? the boy who teased you, protected you, grew up with you?
you replay every memory you can grab onto — his laughs, his scoldings, his shoulder bumping yours, the way he always appeared when you were sad, the warmth in his voice when he said your name.
none of it ever hinted at… this.
or maybe… maybe you simply never looked close enough.
your breathing starts to shake. your hands press against the floor, palms clammy.
if he walks in now—if he sees you kneeling here with this box wide open—what would he do?
your heartbeat feels like it’s crashing against your ribs. your thoughts spiral so fast they blur into noise. what do you say? what do you do? what is he going to think? what is he going to do?
panic rises like a wave.
you’ve always been like this — whenever the world becomes too big, too loud, too confusing, your eyes sting before anything else.
and now, tears start gathering at the corners of your vision. you blink them back, but they only spill faster.
“pips?”
caleb's voice drifted from the hallway in that familiar, warm way he always calls you when he comes home, like he’s expecting you to peek your head out with a smile.
but his footsteps stop.
silence folds into the doorway, sharp and sudden. you freeze before you even look back — some instinct curling tight in your chest.
you turn anyway.
caleb stands there, half-shadowed by the hall light, one hand loosely gripping the doorframe. at first glance he looks like himself — tall, composed, that calm gentleness he’s worn like a second skin since childhood.
but then his expression shifts.
quietly, subtly, and... devastatingly.
the softness drains out of his face when his gaze drops to the box beside you.
and the world seems to still.
you feel your throat tighten, breath hitching around the panic rising up like a tide you can’t hold back. your fingers shake when you try to close the lid, as if that could undo what you’ve seen.
“c-caleb,” you whisper, your voice splintering. “i… i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to— i shouldn’t have— it just… fell out and i… i’m really, really sorry—”
the apology collapses into itself. your words tangle, trip, dissolve. tears prick hard at your eyes, and once they start, they won’t stop — you’re crying before you can even think to control it.
you bow your head, covering your eyes with a trembling hand.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper again, smaller. “please don’t get mad…”
for a moment, caleb doesn’t move. not an inch.
and that’s somehow worse.
his eyes stay trained on your face, or more specifically, on the tears streaking down your cheeks. there’s a tension in him, a razor-thin stillness, like he’s remembering something old and buried.
and then it comes. the smile.
slow and wrong.
it isn’t the boyish, familiar grin he’s shown you your whole life. it’s something quieter, curved at the edges with an eerie sort of fondness. a shadowed tenderness. a chill disguised as warmth.
something double-edged, like a gemini splitting into two halves before your eyes.
one caleb softens at your sorrow.
the other… savors it.
the memory hits him, and you can see it flicker across his face. that day years ago when you cried over his broken toy airplane, hiccuping apologies through your tiny hands while he knelt in front of you, both amused and captivated.
he remembers how small you looked, how helpless, how easy it was to hold you together.
and now?
now you’re twenty-two, trembling on his bedroom floor, tears falling in the same pattern, the same rhythm. and caleb—
caleb drinks in the sight.
his smile deepens by a fraction, just enough to reveal the truth beneath it: possessive and unsettlingly pleased, something that has clearly been growing in the dark all these years, fed by every moment you broke down in front of him.
he steps forward once unhurriedly, “…baby,” he murmurs, almost tenderly. “you’re crying again.”
you flinch at him, caught completely off guard. his expression… it isn’t the caleb you’ve known your whole life. not quite. it makes the air in the room press in on you, and for a moment, you stop crying, unsure whether to feel relief or dread.
“you know,” he murmurs like he’s teasing a thought out of you slowly, “i’ve been waiting a long time for you to… see me properly. to know just how… depraved i am… about you.”
your hand flies to your face, wiping tears quickly, frowning. “…w-what? how… why… when…?”
caleb exhales softly through his nose, a faint chuckle curling at the edge of it, and leans just a fraction closer. “i’ve always been like this,” he says calmly, almost casual. “i just… learned how to hide it and study how to keep it safe… and just for you.”
then he reaches out, hand brushing your cheek with gentle precision. instinctively, you flinch under his touch, and he notices immediately.
“oh?” he teases softly, leaning a little closer, voice dipping low and intimate. “scared of me now, huh?”
in caleb’s mind, a storm raged quietly, controlled only by the years of practice he had spent masking it behind jokes, mischief. he had trained himself to appear harmless, easygoing, the caleb you knew and trusted since childhood. it was a careful performance, a shield he wrapped around the darker edges of himself so you would never see the full weight of his obsession.
and yet, right now, the performance threatened to crumble.
he felt the tug of restraint, the voice inside whispering that he should stop, that he should step back, apologize, tell you he didn’t mean to frighten you. because the last thing he ever wanted was for you to be scared of him. not you. not ever.
but then he looked at you.
looked at the soft curve of your tear-streaked cheeks, the way your lashes trembled, the small catch in your throat as you tried to steady yourself. the way your lips quivered, pleading silently for forgiveness.
and everything he had buried — the longing, the possessiveness, the aching need to protect you and own every fragment of your vulnerability — exploded.
he could feel it spilling over the careful lines he had drawn around himself. his smile twitched, tinged with something that felt like both awe and hunger. his hand twitched in the air, wanting to brush your cheek again, to touch, to tether, to reassure, to claim just a fraction of the fragility you were showing him.
a part of him screamed to stop, to let you step back, to let you run from this intensity.
but another part whispered too loud, too insistent: no. don’t stop. keep going.
and so he stayed, watching you carefully, savoring the vulnerability you hadn’t meant to show him. every shiver, every hiccup of breath, every glittering tear that caught the light… it was like electricity under his skin, something he couldn’t, wouldn’t, hide.
“you’re so… fragile,” he murmurs, “always trembling when i look at you. always… like this.”
he tilts his head, studying you. the duality is there; the big brother smile that makes your heart ache, and beneath it, something darker; a grin that delights in the power he has over you.
you lift your hands, wiping at your cheeks, trying to reclaim yourself once more.
“stop trying to hide from me,” he whispers, almost a growl beneath the surface, a sound that should be playful but feels weighted. “you think you can erase this, hm? this face? it’s mine to see.”
your breath catches, and before you can answer, he closes the tiny distance between you. not abruptly — slow, intentional, teasing — his lips brushing yours in a touch that’s soft, yet desperate. it’s a kiss that speaks of obsession, of years of secret longing, of power and possession, all tangled together.
he lingers just enough for you to feel the way he kisses you, lips moving against your own. and when he pulls back ever so slightly, just to look at your reaction, his grin curves sharper, almost sadistic.
“see?” he murmurs, voice low and taunting. “i’ve wanted this for so long… and now you’re finally here, just like this, just for me.”
he tilts his head, letting just the hint of a smirk play at the corners of his mouth, as if he’s daring you to do something.
“come on,” he murmurs softly, but carrying that edge of impatience only he can wear. “you’re not going to just sit there, are you?”
your heart skips. your hands fumble, and he notices, of course. he shifts, one hand sliding gently above your wrist, not gripping, but holding just enough to keep you there. the other balances him against the floor, fingers splayed and steady.
he presses again, brushing his lips against yours with a rhythm that’s like he’s testing boundaries you didn’t know existed. it’s the kind of kiss that makes your mind spin: tender in one moment, provocatively bold the next, all while his eyes glitter, studying your reaction like a puzzle he’s determined to solve.
“see?” he whispers between soft presses, tilting his head closer. “i know you want to, pipsqueak… just a little. i can tell.”
you whimper softly, and it’s enough to make caleb pause, just for a heartbeat, before his grin curls sharper.
“there it is,” he teased, as if he’s discovered a secret treasure. “that little sound… that’s all i need to know.”
before you can protest, before your mind even has the chance to catch up, he’s lifting you effortlessly, cradling you against him as if you weigh nothing at all. your body instinctively stiffens, heart hammering, but caleb’s hands are firm enough to hold your thighs.
he carries you to the bed, laying you gently on the comforters. the softness swallows you, a cocoon, yet caleb leans over, pressing close, lips meeting yours again, depraved and passionate.
your eyes shut, trying to catch up with his pace, but you could only grunt.
“shh,” he whispers, tilting his head just enough to catch your gaze, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your temple. “look at me. it’s okay… you’re okay.”
but the teasing lingers in his tone, “you sound so helpless when you do that” he chuckles, “i could listen to it all day..."
"shut up, caleb—"
"are you enjoying?"
you can feel your heart thundering in your chest—embarrassed, and nervous, but…the way he’s been speaking and acting also has arousal pooling between your legs, even though you aren't quite sure of what exactly is this wet feeling yet.
"i..."
“hmm? what was that?” his fingers lightly coast up the skin on your face, and the sensitivity of it has you gasping quite loudly.
you attempt to escape his touch (despite your instincts, which are currently screaming at you to let him continue, because god it feels somewhat... good), but caleb isn’t letting you go anywhere. with himself above you, you’re stuck. there’s no way you can beat him in a game of strength.
“w-what do you think i want?” you manage to respond, mustering up a bit of courage. it’s not in your nature to just let someone, especially caleb, talk to you like that without fighting back. caleb, however, is blunt with his rebuttal.
"i think you want more than just a kiss, apples. i think you'd love to see how far we can both go, right? am i wrong?"
your breathing has picked up now, fanning in hot puffs between your bodies. each of his words causes sinful scenarios to bloom within your mind—and you feel your down there clench around nothing—hot, and aching to be filled.
yeah, you grew up uninfluenced, but that doesn't mean you haven't went through nights of masturbating, watching or listening to something from your phone because caleb was too far away, in all ways.
“but… if i’m wrong about you, then say the word and i’ll stop,” he murmurs. “i will.”
yet you don’t say it. you can’t. you want him to keep going, painfully, shamefully so.
without missing a beat, you finally close the space between you, pressing your lips to his with desperate urgency, hands moving to cup his face. and then, just like that, he pushes back, shoving you onto the sheets beneath you with a controlled force.
“if you want more,” he says, eyes dark with mischief, “you’re going to have to say it.”
"please let's do it," you respond, breathless. caleb leans in, your lips nearly touching, and he looks you in the eye.
“say it right, because if it’s not good enough… don’t expect me to give you anything.”
“i…” your throat feels parched, words caught somewhere between your racing thoughts and the ache curling through you. you’ve never needed this—needed him—so badly before. and if caleb doesn’t give in… you’re not sure how much longer you can hold yourself together.
“i want—,” your words are cut off as a gasp involuntarily escapes your mouth. caleb's other hand has found its way between your legs, two long fingers rubbing between your soaking folds.
“d-didn’t you just say i wouldn’t get anything?” you stammer, thighs tightening instinctively, betraying how horny you've gotten. caleb raises an eyebrow, that infuriating, crooked grin tugging at his lips.
"does this really count as anything?"
his fingers tease at your entrance, barely dipping into your pussy. even if you think of grinding down to force him deeper, his hold on you prevents you from doing so—and you whine as he pulls his fingers away—simply continuing to tease your womanhood while neither touching your clit nor pushing his digits inside of you.
“i would suggest saying what’s on your mind, squirt. you shouldn’t be acting like this when i haven’t even done things.”
“i-inside me,”
"hmm?"
"i want you inside," you say, starting off innocently enough. you’ve never verbally been lewd before—the idea of telling caleb what you want him to do to you while he's literally hovering right there above you is a bit terrifying—but you know if you don’t start somewhere, you’ll never get what you want.
“i... i want you to fill every inch of me, i've been wanting it for so long.” you get braver with every word, and when you feel caleb's cock strain against your stomach, trapped in the tight space between your bodies, a wave of satisfaction emboldens you.
you take a shaky breath, finally letting the words tumble out, eyes fixed on him, and whisper, “i… i’ve been thinking about you for so long, caleb, longer than i even realized. every little thing you do, every look, every word… i’ve felt it, this pull toward you. i’ve wanted you, more than i knew how to say, and i’ve been yearning… for you, for all this time, without even understanding it myself… until now.”
caleb's breathing is a bit gruffer now—his face burying against your shoulder as his hand drops away, coming to momentarily rest near your hip. you feel his hand sneaking beneath the hem of your top and dragging upward, with goosebumps rising on your skin. your confidence momentarily falters—a hot wave of arousal jumbling your thoughts—but you continue.
"s-sometimes, i wonder... how would it feel to do the things people do in adult stuff with you. if you would like it if i gave you a blowjob—"
without warning, he bites down on your skin—two of his fingers slipping inside of your pussy at the same time. a breathless whine escapes you, pain and pleasure mingling, and when you attempt to grind your hips down on his hand, he nips at you again.
“maybe it wouldn’t be so bad,” he murmurs against your skin, voice warm and taunting, “if i could put a tag on you. just so everyone knows you’re with me. you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
you open your mouth to respond, but he doesn’t give you the chance—his lips moving to capture your own as his digits thrust between your walls. his tongue forces its way into your mouth, swallowing the moans that rip from your throat—his pace ruthless as he fingers fuck you. but he knows it’s what you want, your pussy positively drenched for him, lewd sounds permeating the room with each flick of his wrist.
his other hand finds your breast, squeezing the soft flesh roughly and causing you to whine. caleb's touches are sure to leave you sore and bruised, but the idea of having marks to remind you of this moment for days to come is undeniably appealing.
“c–caleb,” you gasp, your knees beginning to buckle. you’re already racing towards your climax, his fingers pressing into your sweet spot with every jab.
“are you already going to cum?” he asks, placing an open-mouthed kiss against your jaw. your head is spinning, but you manage to nod.
“mmm... should i let you cum?”
“please.” your voice is raw with desperation, head pressing back against the sheets as the dam holding your orgasm at bay threatens to collapse. weakly, your hand raises to grab caleb's arm—your fingernails digging into his skin.
he smiles, lips pursing together, eyes following the motions of your head. "cum then."
and you do—mouth opening into a silent scream as you release around his fingers. he pumps you through it, pace slowing to drag out the waves of pleasure. and finally, once you’re able to breathe again, he pulls his hand from between your thighs.
you watch him bring his soaking digits on his lips, smearing your own juices against his tongue. it’s an embarrassing realization—that you had drenched his hand with your arousal—and his action only burns you up even more.
but caleb maintains eye-contact as he does, before bringing the very same fingers towards your mouth, urging you to lick his saliva off.
for a moment, you take your time getting caught off guard, staring up at caleb, your caleb, ontop of you. the boy you used to climb on trees with, eat crayons with, chased frogs on the streets with.
you lean forward to suck on his fingertips, tongue lapping up the length.
“don’t regret what you said earlier about letting me use you,” he whispers into your ear, and within seconds, you find yourself tossed around onto the soft sheets, flipped onto your stomach.
there’s movement on the mattress behind you, and then caleb’s hands are reaching forward to grab your hips. he forces you onto your knees—dragging your ass backwards—and without warning, something quite large shoves between your walls.
“mm--!” you bite your lip, fingers grasping at the sheets as caleb begins chasing his own release. his hips smack against your ass, rattling the bedframe with each movement, and despite yourself, pleasure begins building in your gut once more.
"oh, yeah... i was right." caleb speaks, voice all breathless and raspy. "you were as tight as i've been imagining—no, more tight—much, much tighter—!"
you whine at his words, thighs shaking as the intensity of his love-making begins to overwhelm you. if it weren’t for caleb's grip on your hips, you’d be slack against the sheets—twitching, and taking a much-needed breather.
but this isn’t about you. right now, it’s about him, and you both know it. it's his turn to do whatever he wants. it's the least you can give him, considering he’d already let you cum, right?
“cum again?” he asks, and you shake your head no. he chuckles, one of his hands reaching around to toy with your clit. the act immediately has you crying out—pussy tightening around him and forcing a grunt from his throat.
"let's see about that, huh?"
the next few minutes are a blur—your mind spiraling into incoherency as caleb's dick stretches and fills you in all the right ways. with his fingers rubbing circles at your clit, you’re brought back to the brink of orgasm quicker than you’d imagined—the pleasure beginning to tip into overstimulation.
“please please please please,” you chant, forcing yourself to clench around him. caleb groans, retaliating with a brutal thrust that has tears pricking at your eyes. you’re not sure if you want to cum, or simply want him to cum so you can finally catch your breath.
“fuck,” he curses, beginning to fall apart around the edges. his fingers work at your clit even faster than before, and you choke on a cry—attempting to pull your hips away—but he doesn’t let you.
with a guttural moan tearing from your throat, he forces another orgasm from your spent body. you go limp—any remaining strength fading from your limbs, and caleb drags you back onto his cock a few more times before his pace falters, and he finds his bliss as well.
instantly, caleb plops down beside you, trying to chase his own breath. and when he steals a glance from you, he takes a double look.
"hey, hey, did you just cry?"
you're too worn out to answer, but you're sure you probably did. from how hard and rough he was fucking you.
your vision is starting to blur, and the last thing you see before blacking out is caleb's smile.
"you know, when you're like this, all teary-eyed and fragile, it makes me smile."
NERD!ZAYNE TEACHING THE GUYS HOW TO MAKE YOU CUM, SQUIRT AND OTHER TRICKS. Part 3.
Guess who's free from the mature label? 🥳🙌🏻
Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5
The walk back to your apartment felt surreal, it felt like stepping out of a fever dream into something cold and sad. Zayne's dorm room had been suffocating before you left. Caleb, Rafayel, Xavier, even Sylus fought over who'd take you home. Zayne stayed by the window, quiet, but his eyes followed every move you made. You turned them all down. Heart hammering, you scrambled out the door before anyone could stop you, desperate for air, for space, for anything that wasn't his room.
How were you supposed to look at them now?
The images wouldn't stop. You had seen them hard and visibly leaking through their clothes just from watching you. The memory of Xavier’s dark eyes right before he buried his face between your thighs made your stomach flip. And Zayne—God, his voice. That calm cracking into something that ordered you to let go. It wouldn't leave you alone.
Now, sitting in the university library three days later, you couldn't focus on a single line of text in front of you. You were supposed to be studying, but the quiet just made the noise in your head louder. Close your eyes for even a second and you felt it again, four fingers buried inside you, stretching you past what you thought you could take, your pussy clenching around them in little aftershocks. The warmth of Zayne’s cum soaking through his trousers against your bare ass.
The library's silence felt exactly like the silence after you'd come.
Dread settled low in your chest. Was this it? Had you wrecked the only thing that ever felt safe? You hadn't seen any of them in days—dodging texts, taking the long way to class, hiding in corners of campus you didn't even know existed. Two years of friendship and you'd thrown it all away because a little bit of alcohol got you horny. Fuck!
You didn't hear the sneaker scuff against carpet a few rows over. Didn't notice the eyes tracking the nervous way your finger kept dragging across your bottom lip.
Rafayel stood half hidden by art history, knuckles white against the shelf, watching you with the same burning focus he'd had three nights ago.
Forty eight hours after you fled Zayne's dorm, the deadbolt on his door slid shut again. Everyone—except you— was back again.
Caleb leaned against the wall spinning a basketball on his finger until it dropped, thudding against the floor. He'd mutter something under his breath, scoop it up, start over. Rafayel paced the strip of carpet between the twin beds, flipping through a stack of index cards he wasn't reading—snap, snap, snap. Sylus stood by the window with his back to the room, fingers tapping some restless rhythm against the glass. Xavier was the only one still, flat on his stomach on Zayne's bed, chin in his hands, staring blankly at a stray bobby pin left behind on the floor. Zayne sat at his desk pretending to study an anatomy chart. He'd adjusted the lamp three times. Tried to ignore the testosterone fogging up his room. But between the ball, the pacing, and the tapping, focus was a lost cause.
He slammed his textbook shut, took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Caleb dropped the ball.
"Stop pretending," he said, voice dropping into flat calm. "You didn't come here to study. Just say what you actually want to say so I can kick you all out."
Silence. Quick, guilty glances passed between them—nobody wanting to be the one to crack first, to admit they'd all been picturing the same thing. You, two nights ago, coming apart under their hands.
Rafayel cleared his throat first, tossing his index cards onto the bed "Fiiiiine. Hypothetically. Say a guy's already inside a girl. All the way in. How do you hit that spot? Is there a specific angle?"
A muscle jumped in Zayne's jaw. "The angle doesn't change just because your dick is inside her, Rafayel. Shallow thrusts, angled up. Not just slamming into her. Though I doubt you have the stability to hold that for long."
"I have great stability!" Rafayel hissed, ears burning pink, thumb rubbing against his middle finger as the memory of you made his pulse spike.
"He once held a paintbrush at the exact same angle for an hour straight," Xavier offered, not lifting his chin from his hands.
"See? Stability."
"That's your wrist, Rafayel. Different muscle group entirely," Caleb said.
From the bed, Xavier's voice cut through again, quiet and lazy. "What about when she's on top? Or on the edge of a desk. How do you go down on her so she can grind as hard as she wants? For when she needs to control the movements herself."
Caleb snorted "A desk? Real smooth, Xavi."
"Better than what you're about to ask."
"You don't even know what I'm about to ask."
"I've known you for two years. I know exactly what you're about to ask.”
Caleb's ears went red, but he plowed ahead anyway. "Okay. Hypothetically, say a guy's bigger than average. How's he supposed to use her mouth without hurting her throat?”
"Bigger than average?" Rafayel repeated.
"I am."
"Compared to what?”
"Compared to the general population."
"You've never seen the general population's dick. You've seen yours and you've seen ours and apparently that's all the data you needed?."
Caleb opened his mouth, found nothing, and closed it again.
Sylus finally stopped tapping the glass and a low laugh rumbled out of him "If a guy's significantly bigger than average…”
“Not you too…” Rafayel groaned
“How does he make sure he actually fits, without hurting her? If she's tight. Really tight. Where's the point her body just gives up and takes it?”
Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose again. "I cannot believe I'm hearing grown men compare dick sizes in my dorm room while pretending it's for science."
"It is for science," Caleb said.
"It is not for science, Caleb."
"Reproductive science."
"Get out of my room."
Nobody moved. Zayne let out a long breath through his nose, the kind that meant he was three seconds from actually losing it.
The silence came back, heavier.
Zayne put his glasses back on slowly, fingers locking onto the edge of his desk until his knuckles went white, whatever calm he usually wore was completely gone.
“Every single one of you needs patience and a lot less idiocy than you're currently showing," Zayne said "I'll answer each question once. Once. And then you're all getting the hell out of my dorm. Am I clear?”
Their faces stayed blank. None of them realized they were all in the same boat.
Rafayel thought he was the only one picturing your breasts. Caleb thought his face fucking question was a private fantasy about your mouth, Xavier was silently planning how to put his tongue to use on you again and Sylus was quietly calculating exactly how to stretch you open and how slow he'd have to go. They were entirely oblivious to the fact that not a single one of them was thinking about an imaginary girl. Every single question in that room had your name underneath it.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The shadow over your book solidified into something real. Rafayel had stepped out from behind the art history shelves, and walked straight over, pulled out the chair across from you, and dropped into it like he owned the table.
He propped his chin in his palm and smiled at you. Easy. Unbothered. Like three nights ago he hadn't had your leg pinned wide open over Zayne's leg, staring at you with eyes blown wide and wild.
"You've been reading the same page for ten minutes," he said, voice smooth, carrying that familiar teasing lilt like nothing in the world had changed. "Is it the most boring book ever written or are you hiding in here?"
Your mouth had gone dry. You closed the book slowly, hoping he wouldn't notice your hands weren't steady. "Just studying, Raf. Got a lot going on."
"Clearly," he said, dragging one finger in a slow circle against the table, eyes never leaving yours.
He didn't take the hint to go. He pulled a sketchbook out of his bag instead and started doodling something on the margins while you tried, and failed, to read the same sentence for the fourth time. Every few minutes he'd glance up, catch you watching, and smirk like he'd won something. You'd duck back to your notes. He'd go back to sketching. The cycle repeated itself until you couldn't tell if you were studying or being studied.
"You're doing it again," he murmured eventually, not looking up from his sketchbook.
"What?"
"Biting your lip…” He flipped the sketchbook closed before you could see what he'd drawn. "It's distracting."
"You're the one distracting me."
"I'm just sitting here, very quietly, minding my own business."
"You sat down across from me, uninvited."
"I go to this school. I'm allowed in the library." He grinned, and it was the same easy, infuriating grin he always wore.
When you finally packed up, he packed up too, slinging his bag over one shoulder and falling into step beside you without asking if that was okay. You walked across campus together. He talked sbout a canvas he was prepping, about a professor who kept docking him points for too much emotion in his color theory, about some gallery downtown that wanted his portfolio. Normal things. Easy things. He never once brought up the dorm. Never said Xavier's name, or Zayne's, or anything about orgasms or the sounds you'd made that day.
But it was there anyway. In every silence. In the half second too long his eyes dropped to your mouth mid sentence before flicking back up like nothing happened. In the way his shoulder kept finding yours on the narrow sidewalk, brief and electric, like he was doing it on purpose and daring you to call him out. You grabbed coffee. He ordered for you without asking, remembering exactly how you took it, and didn't comment when your fingers brushed his over the cup and you both pretended not to notice.
The whole afternoon felt like holding your breath.
By the time you made it back to your building Rafayel was still beside you. Still talking. Still walking like he had every right to be there. You didn't stop him at the stairs. You didn't stop him in the hallway. And when your key finally turned in the lock and the door swung open, whatever fragile, careful normalcy you'd both been playing at for the last three hours fell apart completely.
You barely had time to kick the door shut.
Rafayel's palms hit the wood on either side of your head, and then his mouth was on yours and there was no easing into it, no polite preamble, just him, kissing you like he'd been thinking about nothing else for three days. He tasted like dark coffee and barely leashed desperation. Your hands found his chest on instinct, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
He'd been your first crush out of all of them. The beautiful, dramatic, slightly impossible artist who always seemed to exist outside of your reach. And now he had you pinned against your own door.
"Three days," he breathed against your mouth "Three days of you hiding and leaving my texts on read."
"Raf—"
"I counted the hours." His forehead dropped to yours "I had to stop because… it was embarrassing."
His hands moved before you could say something else—down your neck, across your shoulders, fingers curling into the hem of your shirt and pulling it up and over your head. He dropped it somewhere. Didn't look where it landed. He was too busy looking at you.
He'd been replaying it for three nights straight, stroking his cock raw. The light catching your skin. Zayne's hands on you. The sounds you'd made. The image had lodged itself somewhere behind his eyes and refused to leave.
His fingers found the clasp of your bra, knuckles brushing the curve of your spine, and you shivered so hard it traveled through his hands. He undid it carefully—not slowly, he wasn't capable of slow right now—and slid the straps off your shoulders, tossing it aside.
"I kept thinking about this," he said, half to himself. "Zayne had his hands on you and I was sitting three feet away going completely insane." He had been dying to see your breasts again since he had seen your nipples turn tight under Zayne's fingers.
He cupped you gently, and the slight roughness of his palms against your skin pulled a sound out of you immediately. He felt it more than heard it.
"Yeah, just like that" he murmured.
His hands were trembling slightly, he noticed and hated it but couldn't stop it. His hands never trembled. But this was you, and you were looking up at him with those eyes, and his hands were shaking like he was an eighteen year old that had never touched anyone before in his life.
His thumbs dragged over your nipples as he watched your face, not your chest, the way your lips parted, the way your head tipped back an inch. Cataloguing. Filing it away. Learning the shape of you the way he learned everything—through touch, through attention, through taking his time even when every instinct was screaming at him not to..
"You have no clue," he said quietly, thumbs circling again, "what it was like to watch you and not be able to—" He stopped. Pressed his lips together. His jaw worked like he was deciding how honest to be. "I kept thinking about what sounds you'd make if it was just me. If I got to take my time."
His hands lifted your breasts slightly, testing the weight with the same attention he gave to everything he cared about. His eyes tracked the movement.
"I want to draw you like this someday," he said, almost offhand, like the thought had just surfaced. Then his gaze flicked up to yours. "Can I?.”
Your back arched off the door and he took that as the invitation it was, mouth closing over your right breast with a hungry sound that vibrated against your skin. His tongue worked tight circles around your nipple before he pulled it deep, sucking hard enough to make your knees buckle, hands moving to grip your waist to keep you upright. When he finally pulled off, he dragged his mouth across to the other side, slower this time, lips brushing the soft underside before he bit down carefully and then sucked until a mark bloomed red against your skin, exactly where he wanted it.
He pulled back just far enough to look at it. Something satisfied moved across his face.
"There," he said quietly before he pressed his face back into your skin and groaned like you were killing him.
You didn't fully register the part where you moved from the door to your bed. Clothes came off in pieces—his shirt somewhere by the desk, your jeans a problem that took both of you longer than it should have, both of you half laughing for about three seconds before his mouth found your throat and the laughing stopped. The sheets felt cold against your back when you finally went down. Rafayel was all heat, hovering over you, weight braced on one arm, looking down at you with the same burning eyes that had been watching you from across that library for the better part of an hour.
He'd shed his pants and underwear at some point. He was fully hard, thick and leaking, a bead of moisture gathered at the tip that made your stomach flip because you remembered what he'd looked like three nights ago, damp fabric, clenched jaw and eyes that couldn't look away from you.
He parted your thighs and settled between them. He'd painted you in his head a hundred times in the last three days. He kept going back to the image of you spread open and wanting, the way you'd looked when you were right at the edge. He'd tried to work through it. Picked up a brush, stared at a blank canvas, put the brush down. Made coffee. Stared at his phone. Almost texted you seventeen times.
He guided himself to your entrance, and Zayne's voice chose that exact moment to surface in his memory. "Shallow thrusts, angled up. You have to use your hips to angle the pressure up against the anterior wall with every thrust. And internal targeting alone isn't always enough. You'll need to add direct stimulation to her clitoris at the same time if you actually want her to cum."
He almost laughed. Instead he shifted his weight and looked at you with an expression that was equal parts focused and insufferable.
"I did some research..." he said.
"Raf..."
"For artistic purposes." He pressed forward, just barely, just enough to feel the heat of your pussy against the tip of his cock, and watched your face.
He let out a slow, shaking breath and pushed inside you.
The sound he made wasn't dignified. It was pulled out of him by the way you gripped him—tight and hot—your body drawing him in like it had been waiting specifically for him. He sank all the way to the hilt, pelvis pressed flush against yours, and stayed there for a moment with his forehead dropped to your shoulder and his jaw locked so hard it ached.
He needed a second. Just one second.
You were clawing at his shoulders, nails dragging, and the sting of it helped him focus.
Pull back. Shallow. Angle up. Zayne's voice was sitting in the back of his skull like an annotation in the margin of a textbook. He wanted to be annoyed about it, but not right now, he was going to be annoyed about it later. Right now he pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, felt you clench around the tip of his dick like you were trying to keep him inside, and thrusted back in with his hips tilted up.
The sound you made rattled something loose in his chest.
He felt it, the moment the angle caught, the way your whole body seized around him, legs snapping tight around his waist and heels digging into the small of his back trying to pull him deeper. He'd hit it exactly. The spot Xavier had worked open with his fingers three nights ago, and the memory of watching that—watching you cum for Xavier—made something possessive and dark curl through him.
It was his turn now.
He reached down between your bodies, fingers sliding through the slick until his thumb found your clit, swollen and twitching, and pressed down.
"Is that—" His voice broke halfway through the question. He cleared his throat, face burning. "Is that it?"
You answered by moaning his name, which he was choosing to take as a yes.
He kept the same rhythm, thumb working circles around your clit. Your walls fluttering around him in little pulses was making it extremely difficult to think. He had to remind himself several times that he was an artist. He had the patience. He was going to make you cum and squirt just like Xavier did.
His hands were shaking again.
"I've got you," he pressed his mouth to your temple, your cheek, wherever he could reach. "I've got you, I've got you, cutie"
He picked up the pace slowly, maintaining the angle through sheer stubbornness. The sounds filling the room were obscene—wet and unavoidable—and Rafayel didn't care about any of it because you were falling apart underneath him and he couldn't look away from your face.
He'd painted a lot of things. Spent years chasing the right light, the right color, the right moment that made something ordinary look like it meant something. He'd never painted anything that looked like you did right now and he was already furious at himself because he knew he would never be able to.
He drove into you harder, felt the headboard knock once against the wall, and decided he didn't care.
"You're so tight," he choked out, the words barely making it past his teeth, pressed into the wet skin of your neck. His lips dragged down to your collarbone, teeth grazing, and his thumb kept its pressure on your clit without mercy. "You keep...fuck...every time I hit it you...It feels so good"
The pressure was building fast, coiling low in your abdomen, that same terrifying weight you'd felt under Xavier's fingers—except this was different, this was Rafayel, his chest against yours and his mouth on your throat and you couldn't think about anything else.
You bore down without thinking, muscles releasing the way Zayne had told you to, pushing back against him, and Rafayel made a sound against your neck that was almost pained.
"Raf...please, I'm gonna..."
"Don't hold it, cutie. Give it to me" he whispered right against your ear.
A rush of heat soaked the sheets beneath you as you cried his name into the quiet room. Not a whisper. Not a gasp. His name, loud and completely undone.
Rafayel groaned like something in him gave way.
Whatever control he'd been holding onto—the careful rhythm, the patience, the angle, all of it, shattered the second he felt you cum around him. He buried himself as deep as he could go and followed you over the edge, shaking, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he poured into you in long spurts.
He collapsed onto your chest.
His heart was slamming against your ribs, your fingers were tangled in his hair from some point you couldn't remember. The room was quiet except for both of you trying to remember how lungs worked.
His lips moved against your collarbone
"I sketched you. In the library today. While you weren't looking." His fingers traced something slow and shapeless against your ribs. "You looked like you were carrying something heavy." A breath. "I wanted to take it from you.”
If you asked to be tagged and I didn't it's because I couldn't find your username. If you are not on the list and want to be tagged on the next part let me know.
You couldn’t quite figure out how you got into this position. 18+
One moment you were flooring it down the streets of the N109 Zone in one of Sylus’ many vintage cars. The next, every item on his mahogany desk was strewn across the floor. Your back — bare and prickling from the chill — pressed into the smooth surface.
Only your black polished leather heals remained on your body. The red bottoms faced the ceiling, slung over the broad expanse of Sylus’ shoulders and trembling with every devastating blow of his hips.
They sat upon his shoulders as if they belonged there, as if they were always meant to remain right there. Sylus surely seemed to think so, with the iron clad grip he had on your claves. Pressing his body weight further down into your own, listening to the satisfying creak of sturdy wood as he pounds you into its surface.
“S-s-Sylus!” He’s fucking you beyond dumb, your jaw so slack that you’d feel some level of embarrassment if you harbored any sense of shame around him. “You looked too perfect tonight.” Though, you couldn’t help but believe there was more of a motive behind this animalistic hunger. “Too many eyes were on you.”
He hits deep, driving that little bit of information home as stars explode through your vision. You barely register the pain of your head knocking against the desk. A garbled cry of his name leaving your lips as your nails dig into his skin, wherever you’re capable of reaching.
You’re so close to cumming, the wet slapping emitting between your bodies is more than enough to signify it. “Don’t even h-have to try to make me jealous, hmm?” He shifts, putting a knee up on the desk for better leverage to nearly fold you in half. “Just gotta look as beautiful as you a-always do… someone will look… their desires are so loud…”
You don’t restrain yourself as a harsh slap lands on your ass, nearly screaming as your entire body throbs with the need for release. Jealousy pushed him to this point and you didn’t even have to do anything… how cute. “S-Sy m’gonna…”
The desk is physically rocking with the force of his hips, and you barely have the strength to worry about it collapsing beneath you. All you can focus on is the never ending drag of his cock between your slick walls. The toe curling pleasure you desperately want to last forever, teetering right on the brink of euphoria.
