xyzlilies

96 liner/🍎/nsfw & mdni sideblog i made for love and deepspace and anything else that makes me feel something

[xyzlilies]

they are so sick and calculated for that, you just have to laugh

they're not dumb, they already know damn well what the real problem is, but they're counting on people wanting him bad enough that they will crawl and beg to release him anyway. all so they can get away with not fixing what's actually important

[xyzlilies]

hmm Caleb teaching Valko how his sister likes to get fucked

[l-minus]

sighhh... accidental penetration during dry humping that turns into serious fucking

[xyzlilies]

icky dilf! sylus x reader (warning 18+ mdni)

I finally finished another fic <3 this time I was craving gross pervert rapelus, but somehow i always end up making the reader too into it hehe.

no ai or morals of any kind have been used in the process of writing this, i wrote this filth with my pussy and it could def be considered dark so proceed only if that's what you want to read.

tags/warnings: gentle noncon into dubcon, unprotected p in v, power imbalance, age gap, loss of virginity, pet names, ooc sylus

reader's appearance is described as having small boobs, age is not specified, but is implied to be 18 (and sylus is being a creep about it)

wordcount: 2.8k

You've known him forever. But at the same time, you don’t actually know Sylus Qin all that well. Just that, growing up, your dad used to work odd jobs for him here and there, leaving you at the Qin mansion to play with his sons, Luke and Kieran, while him and Mister Sylus conducted whatever business needed doing at the time.

You have never spoken to the boss himself beyond the mandatory pleasantries and showing of good manners. Not about the boys, not him and especially not his work. And you prefer it that way.

The truth is, you’ve never liked how the man looks at you, then and now. How he rests his hands on your shoulders even when your dad’s face scrunches up, how his knuckles seem to wear permanent bruises, or how he talks as if he’s older than the world itself.

Now that you’ve grown, and your dad doesn’t speak of his former employer, you don’t see Luke and Kieran as often anymore. Just the occasional hangout in the N109 zone, which usually ends with one of the two driving you home.

After tonight though, they’re both out cold, and you are short of a ride home. Which isn’t out of the ordinary for a girl your age, with no car of your own.

So if the back of Mister Sylus’ limousine presents itself as your only choice, you take it. Even if your outfit is entirely too short and too tight for comfort. And even if the man himself shares the space with you.

Mister Sylus doesn’t say anything though. Just sits there, wide-legged, raking his eyes across your body, like it’s appropriate when his leg brushes against yours.

“You alright, sweetie?”

Now he’s looping one arm around your shoulder. You suppress a squirm and give him a shy smile and affirmative hum instead.

This is a kindness, you remind yourself. He’s ordered his driver to give you a ride home, saving you a fortune that you would’ve been forced to spend on a taxi otherwise. You are grateful. You can bear his fingers dancing on the seam of your shirt, inching closer to your breasts.

You owe him that much, right?

He is older, mid or late forties, but he is handsome, tall, calm. Composed in a way that makes you feel small.

You try to even your breath. It’s not your fault that your body reacts to his attentions. That your nipples grow hard when his fingers dip below the fabric covering your chest.

“It’s okay,” he coos and smiles lazily when he notices you tensing up, “I’m not gonna do anything bad.”

You can’t think of anything to say to that. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, your fingers tremble in your lap.

You try to find your words. “This is-… maybe we shouldn’t do this,” you say.

He lets out a slow, raspy laugh as if you said something funny. “There’s no need to be scared. I’ll go slow for you.”

He says it like it’s already decided. Your cheeks heat.

Now his fingers draw slow and lazy circles on your tummy. “Have you ever done this before?”

Your stomach twists. You can feel his eyes on your cleavage. You shake your head.

He lifts his hand back to your chest and traces the line where your breasts meet your chest.

“Mh, no bra,“ he comments. He then grabs and lifts one of them.

You freeze. Heat crawls up the nape of your neck with dizzying speed.

“Have you ever let anyone see these?” he prods, the lines around his mouth deepening as he smiles at you.

“No…” your voice is small now. You can only watch and gasp as his big hands fully cup and squeeze your tits.

“Is that right?” he murmurs, “Never?”

Your voice cracks with a whimper. “Why are you doing this? They’re so…”

“…Small?” He tuts at that. “They’re perfect, baby. Look how pretty they are. They’re so soft.”

You whimper and squirm in your leather seat. His warm breath hits your neck as his voice drops low, dangerous. “Mh, and you are making the cutest little sounds for me when I touch them.”

It’s depraved and sleazy, and yet, it does something to you. Your ribs hurt with how hard you’re breathing as he keeps massaging your tits. Silky, unmistakable heat spreads between your legs. You squeeze them together.

He leans back, loosens his black tie and nods at your chest. “It’s ok, baby, go ahead. Take all that off.”

Your head is spinning. But you feel like you have to do as he says. You shuffle, arch your back, and obey, leaving nothing but your panties on.

“There you go,” he murmurs as he leans down over you and cradles your chest between his big, warm hands. “Mh. Look at that. Such adorable little tits.”

He shows no effort or exertion from handling you, but you find yourself on your back regardless. His knee is wedged between your bare legs like it belongs there, forcing them apart and making the leather seats squeak with friction.

Somehow, while his thumbs are stroking the soft skin right underneath your breasts, and his silver hair is tickling your neck, you register that the car isn’t moving anymore. The lights are dim, the driver long gone, everything quiet. Except for you and Sylus.

Maybe that’s how he had planned it from the start. With you owing him, nobody there to interfere, and no way to deny him.

His head goes low and then you feel it. Heat, liquid, movement, pressure. He’s probing, licking, wetting your nipples with his tongue.

You yelp. Your heartbeat is too loud in your ears to think.

“Wait, Mister Sylus-“

You don’t dare to watch what’s happening. All you know is that it’s too much, too sudden, too good.

He sucks on your nipples, circles them with his tongue, then presses them flat. Then does it all over again. The suction tingles gently underneath your skin.

“Look at those cute little nipples,” he coos with faux sympathy before going back in to lick at them. “They don’t look like they can wait. So hard and achy, poor baby.”

You try to wiggle out of his grip on your torso. Your breath catches when it doesn’t work. Nothing moves, even when you throw your entire weight against his hands.

“No, please, wait,” you whine. “I don’t know what-… I don’t know how-“

He lets go and sits back up on his knees. But not because of your little struggle or your pleas.

There’s a metallic clicking sound.

You see it then. The tent underneath the now loose buckle of his belt.

Huge, bulging, unmistakable.

You swallow. Even from here, you can tell that you’re not built for this. Maybe someone with experience, a seasoned size queen. But not you.

He seems to sense your apprehension, as his fingers ghost over your cheek and cup your face while his other hand pulls off his belt and tosses it somewhere behind him. “It’s alright, sweetie. It won't hurt if you just keep breathing.”

You suck in a sharp breath when he pulls down his boxers and gives himself a slow, tight stroke. Fully bare and erect, he looks smooth to the touch and even bigger than you thought. It should scare you, but you are transfixed by the way his cock is pulsing and bobbing in his fist. It’s a deep, creamy shade of red, already glistening with a pearl of liquid dripping from the tip.

Reality hits you and you shake your head with a polite, nervous laugh. “I- I really don’t know about this, Mister Sylus.”

He laughs when he sees the look on your face. “I know it’s scary, kitten. Taking cock from someone bigger and older than you. But I know you can do it. You’ve always been so sweet, even back then. So well behaved. You can do that now too, can’t you, baby?”

Some part of you screams at you to get away, go home. Need fresh air. Need to be safe.

But the better part of you is shivering and sweating. It’s like there’s a second heartbeat between your legs.

His hands are back on your body, lifting your pelvis and your body seems to move on his own then, tilting your hips to meet him in kind and presenting your still clothed sex to him like a gift.

“Like this?” you huff out between shallow breaths.

He smiles and rewards you with the press of his cock against your sheer panties.

“Hah. Yea. Like that. Good girl,” he pants and rolls his hips against you.

His praise makes something inside you flutter. You bite your lip. The friction is so hot, sweet, sticky, and you can’t help thinking that maybe, just maybe, it’s ok to stay spread underneath him just a little longer. Just to see what else he will do, how it will feel when he touches you more.

After a few more slow thrusts your panties cling to your body.

And you don’t move anymore.

You just let it happen.

Sylus’ hand moves from your hip to your middle, stroking then pressing his thumb against a little bump of flesh that pokes out from underneath the soaked fabric. Your body jerks and you stare at him in shock, but he is not looking at you.

His smug gaze is fixed on your pussy.

“Cute little clit. So so cute. Is she sensitive, baby? You need me to touch her, hm?”

He says it like you’re a scared, dumb animal. Pathetic, embarrassing, head empty. Your eyes burn with shameful tears you don’t want to cry.

“No,” you whisper, blinking them away.

He pauses. Then pulls at your panties anyway.

He’s careful with you though, slow, almost sweet. Just like he promised.

You should tell him to stop. To fuck off and leave you alone. You should try to open the door of the car and run away.

But you do none of that.

You keep basking in his warmth, his gentle attention, his hands lifting your hips and the filthy glow in his eyes when your panties are finally off.

“See, isn’t that better, sweetie?”

His erection rests against your bare pussy now, while your legs are braced around his waist.

He leans down to kiss your neck. He’s too massive to settle his weight on you, but you can feel him pressing up against your bare body regardless.

“Just stay like this, baby. This will feel good,” he purrs.

You whimper, but you don’t try to stop him when he goes back to rocking against you. Not that you could.

With every grind of his hips, his cock strokes your puffy clit. Your thighs tremble and your hole pulses and clenches around him against your will.

“Fuck,” he groans, “that’s it, right there.”

He thrusts and drags his cock through your slick pussy lips, again and again.

Slow and gentle, just like he said. His breath is right next to your ear as his body moves against yours.

“So wet for me. So soft. Bet she can take me now.”

Your stomach drops when he says that.

Not because it’s scary, but because it feels like it’s true.

His thrusts become meaner then, heavier and deeper. His arm slips between your bodies and you can feel him grabbing himself, stroking and aligning until his tip sits snug against your pussy hole.

“Relax. You can handle it.”

He caresses your jaw, then your trembling lips and lets out an amused hum when you stay quiet. You can only stare at him and mewl when his hips push forward, driving his cockhead into you.

It stings. Bad. You squeeze your eyes shut.

Your muscles react to the pain and squeeze around him, but Sylus pushes in harder until your pussy is forced to swallow his entire tip.

He stills there and gives you time to breathe. Kisses your face, mumbles how hard you make him, how warm your pussy feels, but you can’t stop shaking.

How could this happen? You were out partying, having fun, then on your way home like always, and now your friends’ dad is inside you.

You can’t help but whimper again, and he gently shushes you and coos at you.

“You’re ok, sweetie. Remember to breathe, like I told you, hm?”

His hands are back on your hips. Stroking and soothing, but also keeping you fixed in place.

He withdraws from you with a wet, popping sound. The sting is gone, but your cunt feels all tingly and hot and empty now. And somehow, that’s even worse.

“Wait,” you gasp. “Don’t.”

You don’t know what you’re saying anymore. You just want relief from that tingling emptiness inside you.

“Please stay,” you whine, “please do something.”

He chuckles and kisses your face.

“Someone’s barely had a taste and now she’s already getting impatient for more?”

He surges forward again, this time well past the tip.

A soft sound comes out of your mouth that only seems to spur him on. His hands slips down from your waist to your thigh, palming your ass, squeezing it, then giving it a swat.

“Always wanted to fuck you like this.”

He moans and rolls his hips, his cock gliding back inside you, skin flush against skin.

“Always had my eye on you.”

He reaches to grab your jaw and slips his thumb between your lips until he pushes down on your tongue, forcing your mouth open. His hand stays there, warm, heavy, firm. Guiding you to stick out your tongue for him, until your spit pools underneath his thumb and drips onto your chin.

His breath hits yours, but he just keeps staring, rocking into you at a steady pace.

“Pretty little girl,” he groans as he removes his finger. “So good for me.”

Then he leans in. Licks against your tongue, presses it flat, and wraps around it until every part of you is invaded by him.

It has nothing to do with kissing. He’s overwhelming you. Claiming your body like it’s something to be owned.

You squirm and whimper into his mouth, but there’s no real fight in you. His cock is stretching you so good, satisfying that awful tingly feeling so perfectly, you spread your legs a little wider and grind your hips against him.

When he pauses for a moment, his voice is low. “So sweet too. Should’ve done this long ago.”

Your breath hitches.

Your open your mouth to speak. Nothing comes out.

He keeps going. Grabs your thighs, so your legs dangle over his elbows. He’s so tall, even your hips hang in the air like this.

He doesn’t thrust anymore. Rather, he’s holding you in place as he’s pressing himself inside you, much deeper than before.

“Mh, keep breathing,” he groans softly. “There you go, there you fucking go.”

You can only watch as your body offers no resistance until his tip meets your very core. He’s all the way inside.

And somehow, it feels final.

It feels like defeat.

You sob.

He rolls his hips, just as slow and deep as before. Though the next roll comes faster and a lot harder, and your body bounces a little from the force he puts into it. You yelp and hold onto the edge of the seat.

“Knew you could do it,” he murmurs as his cock drags through you, and you stifle another whiny sound.

Wet, squelching noises of skin meeting skin fill the car.

Pressure builds up inside you. Terrible, filthy pressure you wish you could run from.

You try to think of something else, your family, your friends, anything. How very alone you are underneath this man, how hot your body runs, how raw and sensitive your pussy starts to feel, and how you wish it didn’t.

But it makes no difference. Your whines turn into moans anyway, and your body twitches and pulses around the intrusion like it’s welcome.

“Stay,” you mewl after a particularly strong pulse. “Stay inside please, Mister Sylus.”

He laughs softly and indulges you. Nestles his fat, swollen cock inside you and lets you ride out your orgasm on him.

And in that brief moment, it feels perfect.

Filled. Whole.

After a few more twitches of your core, he picks up the pace again.

It doesn’t take long before you can feel him swell inside you, throbbing and moving and stretching your most private place apart even further than he already has, until he stills and you feel his breath hitch against your neck.

“Shit,” he grunts.

A gush of warmth spreads inside you.

Something sticky runs down the crack of your ass.

Something wet down your face.

He kisses it away.

Tells you how well you did, how you can rest now.

“Uh huh,” you mumble, your head lolling to the side.

You don’t recall much of what happens after, just the feeling of being picked up and something warm draped over your naked skin as you are carried inside.

You made it home.

[xyzlilies]

need Caleb to suck my clit.

also need to ride Rafayel reverse cowgirl.

and I need both to happen at the same time :(

[hollow-toy]

*lightheaded with lust* you're such a fucking creep

[applefishing]

"shh, gege's here," he whispers into your neck as you stare at your shared reflection. he did this often: holding you down on his cock in front of a mirror and forcing you to look at where he disappeared inside you.

this was as close as you could be, he'd remind you. if it were possible to be any closer, he would do it. "look at gege inside you," he mutters. "don't stop looking."

he's quieter than usual; restrained. usually he'd be standing, letting your skin slap together as he fucked up into you. but this time was different.

you were trying on a few pretty things for him, frilly pyjama sets and lacy garters to match. he stood behind you in the small change room, a towering figure watching you in the mirror as you slipped each piece on and off your body carefully. you saw the change in his eyes. gentle, patient, loving appreciation slips into something more predatory and possessive.

and you know him as well as he knows you, so you're expecting what happens next. you know how to be quiet when the switch flips and he tugs you against him and tells you he needs to be closer. you suck and bite on his fingers as an aid as he fucks you, eyes re-focusing on where you join each time he notices you drifting.

"know i should wait... gege can't help it," he breathes into your ear. "this is where i belong, hm? right here, buried in your pretty flower." his fingertips ghost over your clit, then glide up to your belly. he presses his palm flat against you, firm. "feels like i should never leave."

he bites into your shoulder, and you bite down on his fingers in return. "wanna keep you strapped to my chest, warm and safe and full of me always..." he drops a kiss over his bite. "doesn't that sound nice?"

the tiniest little hum escapes your throat, muffled by his fingers. "that's why gege's so much bigger," he whispers. "that's the way it's supposed to be... meant to carry you around with my cock buried deep inside you... never apart..." his hips roll, and he presses you back into him a little harder. "want them all to see where i belong... wanna walk out and show them how perfectly we fit... look at it..."

you are looking. you can't stop. it doesn't matter. he repeats it like it's not enough, like he needs the whole world to see how connect together perfectly. "keep looking... look at you opening up for gege... so pretty... look..."

[applefishing]

Daddy Qin Che | 6.2k words dilf qin che takes you in off the street, and he resists his desire for so long that when he finally gives in, he's feral

cw: daddy kink (seriously, he's a father figure), age gap (no age mentioned but mc is 20s and he's 40s in my head), size difference, belly bulge, pussy inspections, guilty dilf, sloppy and messy and deranged

You'd been alone as long as you could remember. You owned nothing but whatever you could fit in a small worn backpack you found in a park years earlier, and no one had ever loved you. Every day was a fight. That’s how he’d found you: in an alley on the n109 zone, gripping one of the shoulder straps of the bag carrying all your worldy posessions, and screaming at the top of your lungs. Every single day was a fight.

He watched you thrash and scream, anchoring yourself down, using your entire body weight to resist. Your attacker drags you along behind him for a few metres, like your desperate fight was nothing but a mild nuisance, and then, when he’s had enough , he turns and raises a knife to end your fight once and for all. A red mist scoops him off his feet and into the air, and your scream is abruptly cut off as you fall back hard into the pavement, gripping your backpack in your arms.

When your rescuer leaves the shadows and approaches, you scramble backwards, clutching that little battered bag like it contained riches. He crouches down. “I won’t touch your treasure, sweetheart. I’ve got more than enough of my own.”

Months pass, and then years, and it becomes less and less clear why the silver-haired man—who could kill without lifting a finger and had the reputation to match—deigned not only spare you from certain death, but to drag you back to his cave and give you a home. And a home was what it was. You'd have been happy if he did truly like in a dark dank cave, as long as it was safe and secure, but you'd very quickly learned that was not what was on offer.

He was decades your senior and struck fear in anyone who was unfortunate enough to find themselves before him. He was also wealthy enough to obtain anything his heart desired, and you—a nobody, with nothing to offer him at all—found yourself living under his roof, under his care, and slowly realising you might be the one thing in the world he treasured above all else.

"Isn't it pretty?" you ask, twirling your flowing skirts for him again.

"Mm," he hums, leaning back in his lounge chair. "Very pretty."

"It's almost too pretty to wear..." You smooth your hands down over the delicate bodice, a pretty pale shade of pink. "What if I spill something on it?"

"I'll buy another," comes his lazy reply. He takes a swig from his glass, and you catch the broken skin across his knuckles.

You take a few small steps and fold yourself onto the carpet at his feet carefully, being sure not the tear the pretty skirt. "Why?" you ask, looking up at him.

His brows twitch. "Why not?"

"What if i ruined that one too?"

"You think I can't afford to buy a thousand more?"

You fiddle a little with the delicate lace. "But you buy me so many pretty things."

He looks down at you, a silver lock falling over one of his dark red eyes. "You've noticed," he says, amused.

You lift yourself up onto your knees and shuffle forward slightly, enough to rest your hands on his knees. His fingers tighten on the glass and then relax. He lowers it to the small table beside him. "What do you want? You know I like when you just ask."

You shake your head. "I don't want anything."

He cracks, his lips curving into a small smile. "Oh?" His head tilts a little.

You shuffle your knees along the carpet a little more, forcing his knees apart to make space for you between them. "Nothing you can buy," you clarify.

When you look up at him, his eyes are fixed on one of your hands, resting on his thigh.

"What happened to your hands, daddy?"

His eyes snap to yours. You'd used the word for the first time only a few months earlier. You'd been nagging about something, trying to get your way. It'd slipped out without thought, and you'd both frozen in place in the seconds afterwards. Then he'd relented to your demand and made no mention of it. So again, and again, you'd hung off his arm and 'please, daddy?' had slipped past your lips, and you found yourself entirely unable to stop. It felt right. And it seemed to work in your favour, too.

You reach for his hand so you can inspect his knuckles. "Why haven't you healed them?" you ask.

"They're a reminder."

You tilt your head in question, a habit you'd picked up from him without notice.

"Someone said something today that I really didn't like, and I want to remember how much I hurt them.” He takes his hand from yours and tucks some loose hair behind your ear. "So I don't go back and kill them. I need them alive for now."

"Is that why you kept me? You need me alive for something too?"

He laughs. It jostles you a little against his legs. Then his muscles relax, and it's clear that's all the response he'll be offering.

You stare at a precariously loose button at his navel, frustrated in your years' long failure to understand why someone like him would take in, and spoil, someone as entirely useless and insignificant as you.

"Tell me what you want that I can't buy," he asks after a moment of your silent brooding. "You're pouting."

"Tell me why you saved me."

He looks immediately amused, which makes your mood worse. "I only helped a little."

You close the final gap between your body and the edge of the lounge. You’re now well and truly wedged between his legs. "Answer me properly or I won't talk to you for a week."

His head tilts. "A whole week?" He smooths down your hair. It feels a lot like being soothed with a pet on the head, as if you were a needy dog desperate for their owner’s approval.

Your mood worsens. "A month."

His lips twitch, a clear attempt to hold back a smile. "Now it's getting serious." He pats the armrest. "Come here."

When you hesitate—stubborn resistance he was all too familiar with—that same red mist that had killed your attacker all those years ago gently scoops you up and drops you exactly where he'd instructed you to sit. He gathers your legs and tucks your feet between his thighs, keeping you securely balanced on your perch beside him.

You expect him to take his hands off you and let the way your feet wedge under one of his thighs be your security. He hardly ever touched you unless absolutely necessary. It was such a rarity that you’d long since concluded that he didn't like to be touched in general. But one of his hands stays wrapped around your bare calf now as he starts to speak. You indulge in the rare treat.

"I was passing by, and I heard your screams. It was clearly an unfair fight. Didn't I do what anyone would? I'm not a monster, am I, sweetheart?"

You frown. "No, you didn't do what anyone would. You took me home and put me in the biggest room here and bought me anything I asked for."

His lips curve and his fingers tighten a little around your calf. "Aren't you happy here?" His thumb moves against your skin under your skirts, caressing. "With me," he adds.

"You've helped other people... in unfair fights."

"Mm."

"But you didn't bring them home."

"No."

"So why me?"

His hand moves up enough to brush against your underskirts, just below your knee. "Sometimes... I come across things––things that catch my eye––and I decide I want to bring them home... and keep them… and make them mine. You know I collect shiny things."

You lift your feet from between his thighs, and before he can intervene, you fall into his lap. His hands hover awkwardly in the air for a moment, like he'd been about to catch you and either failed to get their fast enough or stopped himself. You know him so well, that you know his next move will be forcibly removing you. And so, just as his muscles twitch—

"Am I a shiny thing then, daddy?"

Success.

He's still.

You reach toward his face. His hand snaps up to grip your wrist.

“Your hair is in your face,” you grumble.

His wrist loosens, freeing you, and when you gently move aside the hair that falls over one of his eyes a little, it reveals the glow forming—the same glow you'd seen the first time that word slipped past your lips and every time since.

"Yes, little one. You're shiny. Hop off now."

His voice distracts you from the allure of that red glow. You tilt your head. "Why?"

"You'll damage your dress."

"You can buy me another."

He doesn’t respond, and that loose shirt button catches your eye again. You focus your attention on it, rolling it between your fingers. It's so loose it causes the fabric of his black dress shirt to part a little, giving you a peak of his belly underneath. You’d seen him shirtless more times than you could count. He had a habit of strutting around the place with a towel around his waste. You could imagine how he must’ve looked when he was closer to your age. You imagine all that muscle that sits on him like a bulk and brute strength now might’ve been a little leaner. He would’ve always been tall, but maybe not quite so… big.

"I am happy here... with you." Your shyness isn’t disguised in your voice at all, so you decide you should be brave and look at him, to make sure he understands you mean it. But when you do… your fingers slip, snapping the thread and tugging that little button completely free. You gasp. A tiny little breath of air. An involuntary response to the blazing glow looking back at you—brighter than you’d ever seen it before.

"I won't hurt you, baby," he says, clearly interpreting your surprise as fear.

"Your eye."

"Mm, I know. You should get off now."

"Why does it do that?"

His brows twitch, then his lip, and then his hand resting beside you—like a shock travelling through his all his nerves. "Please, get off," he says finally.

You're transfixed: by his eye, by the tension in the thighs you rest on, by the uncharacteristic plea that escapes his lips when you know very well he has the power to lift you from him, both using his muscles or his evol.

Adjusting in his lap a little, you lean closer, like getting a better look might reveal the secret to his glowing eye. It draws you in, tempting you with its secrets. "It happens when I call you daddy," you mutter, problem-solving aloud. "Is it like a mood ring? Are you happy or angry?"

His chest rises and falls more rapidly than usual, and you're almost ready to jump off, thinking maybe he was in pain. But then, "...Happy," he confesses.

You can't help the grin that lights up your face. You fall into him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He's tense, and his arms don't wrap around you in return, but after a moment, he relaxes. "You never said," you mumble into his neck. "I thought you were embarrassed... or that you hated it..." Nuzzling into his neck, you find yourself quickly rambling. “Doesn’t it feel so right? It felt like I was yours all along. I never knew it was possible to feel this safe, and loved, and… happy.”

He's quiet, and your chests rise and fall together, and the dress you were in love with minutes earlier now feels like a big mess of fabric serving no purpose but to cordon you off from him. You want to be closer.

You nuzzle into his neck some more, inhaling his scent—his warmth and protection and safety and love... love... "I love you, daddy," you mumble.

He's still... and quiet... and then he turns, and with his lips against your temple, he inhales deeply.

You sit up so you can see his face again, trying to stick as close to him as you can. "Do you love me too?"

"Mm, more than anything."

A spark of heat shoots through your body: pure joy. You rock a little in his lap, keeping your arms around his neck, securely latched on. His expression doesn't match yours at all. He still looks a little pained, and it makes even less sense now than it did before.

"What's wrong?"

"Go get ready for bed, I'll come say goodnight."

You frown, and your fingers play with the hair at the back of his neck, much like you had with the lace on your dress and the button on his shirt. "Are you sick?"

"No."

Your fingers still. "You don't like me touching you?"

He doesn't answer.

You arms drop from his neck. "Are you... You just said... You don't love me?"

His hair falls back over his eye. "I love you."

"But I love you and... I want to be close to you... and touch you. So... you don't love me the same?" You fiddle with the edges of his shirt where the button should’ve been holding it together. His bare skin peaks at you, and you slip one little finger past the gap. The moment your finger meets his warmth, his hips jump so violently you're forced to grip onto his shoulders for support.

"Daddy loves you," he breathes as his chest rises and falls heavily. He almost sounds… afraid? It's such a foreign tone for him that you're stunned into silence. "I want to touch you and be close to you, too. So much. So, so much. It's not right. I can't touch you, mm? And you shouldn't touch me."

"Why?"

His hands grip the armrests. "That man I still need alive—the one that said something I really didn't like—he’s only alive because I have self-control. Lots, and lots, and lots of self-control. He said something about the thing most precious to me in this world and he's very, very lucky that I’ve spent so many years building all that control. As are you."

Your brows pull together, and you blink rapidly, processing.

He leans forward a little, arms still pinned beside you. "Daddy wants to do bad things. Bad things to men that mention your name..." His nose brushes your neck. "...and bad things to you." He falls back. "So I can't touch you, and I need to leave my knuckles bloody. Those are the rules."

Your heart flutters rapidly with the revelation he feels the same way. You're so fixated on that, that you entirely skip over the part where he says he can’t. Can't isn't the same as want. And all you care about is the want.

"Touching me isn't a bad thing,” you mutter, doing your best not to pout.

His hand balls into a fist, then it relaxes. "I'm too old for you, you know that.”

"But I love you."

"Those are the rules,” he says again, final.

"So only someone younger can touch me? I should just go find someone my age without your stupid rules?"

He leans forward. He’s large enough that you have to look up at him, even as you sit perched on his thighs. "No," he says simply, calm, final. "Daddy can't touch you, and neither can anyone else."

"That's not fair."

He moves to touch your lips, pausing just before he makes contact. Control. "Don't pout."

You grasp his wrist before he can lower it again. "What about me touching you? That isn't in your rules. Besides, you can't tell me what to do."

"Go to bed."

"No."

"I can make you."

"But you haven't." You wiggle in his lap. "You keep telling me to get off, but you haven't even tried to make me. Why haven't you made me get off, daddy?"

You bridge the small space between his hand and your lips, placing a delicate kiss to his broken knuckles. "It would be easy. I’m so much smaller than you. You could make me get off you, and you could make me stop touching you, and you could lock me in my room and never look at me so you never think about doing bad—"

"Go to bed."

His hand is relaxed in your grasp, a passive limpness that lets you select the finger you want and guide it to your mouth. It brushes your lower lip. "It's okay, daddy. I understand. It's not bad if you don't do anything, right? You don't have to touch me." His finger rests between your lips as you speak.

He watches as you part them a little and touch it with your tongue.

One little kitten lick: a test. Then another. And then, slowly, you guide his finger into your warm mouth. It rests on your tongue for a moment, and then it twitches, a slight press down into your wet warmth. Approval. Your lips seal around him, and you suck, and twirl your tongue around him and gently guide him in and out.

He watches, transfixed. Having his attention entirely on you was enough to have you giddy any other day, but right now... it's enough for you to squirm... to make a little sound with his thick finger filling your mouth. His fingers are so long that you can’t manage the whole thing. At one point, you try, and when you gag a little, he tries to pull away. It’s more a reflexive flinch than any real attempt to stop you. You know you could never fight any actual attempt to take back control.

He lets you catch his hand. “Sorry, daddy. It’s too big. I just wanted to try.”

As you resume your mission, his chest rises and falls in heavy uneven breaths. Any second he could stop you. You keep reminding yourself that he could stop you without so much as a twitch of a muscle. Still, he says and does nothing. Even as you begin to roll your lips in his lap, still suckling on his finger, making small sounds that vibrate through his hand. He says nothing. He basks in your wet warmth, a captive audience and a passive participant.

When you're done with one finger, you start on the next, and in a patient game of wills, you suckle and whine and rolls your hips… until finally, he speaks.

"You're wrinkling your dress."

You pull his thumb from your mouth with a pop. Did he want you to stop? You knew he didn't care about the dress. You’d thought it was in the way when you climbed onto him. It was a barrier between you. Surely he didn't mean...

"Should I... take it off?"

"To look after it."

You nod, joining his game of pretend. Ignoring that he'd just told you he could buy you a thousand more. Hesitation halts you just as you start to climb off him. Was this a trick? Would he stand and hurry away and never give you this chance again?

That unruly lock of hair still flops down over his face to cover his eye. He doesn't grab you when you reach to move it this time. And when you do, his eye is impossibly bright. A silent reassurance, you keep your focus on that glow as you climb backwards off him and reach for the small hook and zip at the side of your bodice.

You gain confidence the longer he sits there, unmoving. There's no sign this is a trick. So by the time you manoeuvre out of the dress and leave a pile of pale pink fabric at your feet, you're practically trembling with anticipation.

Standing before the man that rescued you, far older and wiser and stronger, you've never felt more vulnerable. Even on the night he rescued you, your adrenaline kept you protected from this feeling: like you might be prey.

Your hair tickles your bare nipples as it falls over your shoulder, and you are grateful you at least left your underwear on when you rushed to try on your pretty new dress.

He sits there, knees parted, eyes tracking up and down your body like he's studying, inspecting. His hand drops to his thigh, flat. He doesn't lift it again. It’s not an inviting pat. That would leave no plausible deniability. But you know what he's asking anyway.

This time, when you crawl onto him and settle onto his warm thighs, there's no barrier of tulle and puffy skirts. You can settle right up against him. And he's warm. So, so warm. That's what he's always been: warmth and home and protection. So you wrap yourself around him, pressing yourself as close as you can, and you bask in him.

Just for a little while.

You can't even bare to move away when you speak, letting your lips brush against his skin where you rest in the crook of his neck. "No one's ever cared for me before. I only ever remember being alone. You're more than I ever even dreamed of." You nuzzle into him, humming with contentment. "You're so good to me, daddy."

"You would be in bed right now if I was good to you, sound asleep, not… naked in my lap."

"But I like it. It's what I want." You kiss his skin gently, a brush of your lips more than anything. "Don't you like it? Aren't I pretty?"

His shoulder jostles you a little, enough to tell you he's lifted his arm and then placed it back down again. Control. You sit up so you can see his face, attempting to prompt an answer from him.

He has that pained look again.

You brush your hair over your shoulder, preventing it from covering you at all. Then, keeping your eyes on his face, you cup your breasts in your hands. "They aren't pretty?” You pout. “Is there something wrong with me?”

His eyes are stuck on yours. He hasn't let them drop. They flutter and he blinks rapidly a few times, like he might have dust or an eyelash in them.

"Daddy? Won’t you check my titties for me? Pretty please?"

He sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and his eyes drop.

You let your thumb flick over your nipple, then your remove your hands and lift yourself up on your knees, bringing your chest up closer to his face.

They're so close, his warm breath tickles you.

He’s still. You bask in the feeling of his breath against you as you wait patiently.

Then, "Let daddy check..."

His hand lifts from it's position on the armrest, and you're sure he'll hesitate and move away again. He cups your breast with the tiniest pillow of air between his skin and yours, like he's imagining the weight of it in his palm.

His lips part, and his brows furrow. Pain.

"It's okay if it's me that touches..." you mutter, and without giving him a chance to move or process your intentions, you fall slightly forward, meeting him. His hand hardly so much as twitches as your breast rests in his warm palm. His fingers press a little firmer with each breath you take, lifting your chest, filling the spaces between his fingers.

Then, in a little moment of impatience, you grab his hand and press it against you properly, squeezing. "It's me touching," you breathe as you guide his hand over you. He lets you, and it makes your head spin. "You're just checking for me. Just making sure I'm all healthy. You’re the best daddy in the world."

He makes a sound. It might be a word. You miss it, distracted by his thumb. It moves. He swipes it across your nipple.

"...Need to check."

You hear him this time. It's a mumble, almost slurred, and then he's tugged you closer and his wet lips are wrapped around you. You're dizzy, incapable of processing the reality of his hot warm mouth suckling at your tits like he's hungry. He's gripping you now, firm hands holding you close and squeezing and groping at your tits as he alternates between each one.

"My sweet girl," he slurs. "Letting daddy taste your pretty tits... so, so sweet..." he hardly gives himself time to breathe. His tongue laps at you in apology each time he sucks a little hard––each time his teeth make small indents into your skin when a growl builds in his throat and culminates in a desperate bite.

You squeeze your eyes shut as he devours you, attacking your tits with his mouth in a carnal brutish frenzy. You shiver and tremble as the cool air hits where his spit glazes your soft skin. You hold his head against you, fingers tangling in his hair. Words pass your lips in broken thank yous and pathetic little pleas.

He's so relentless that when he eventually detaches, he's entirely breathless, resting his head against you as he recovers. "I shouldn't..." he mutters. "I can’t..."

You lower yourself back into his lap and cup his cheeks in your palms. "Can I have a kiss?"

He shakes his head, half-hearted. "Can't..."

His glowing eye pulses, beckoning. "I want your tongue in my mouth, daddy. I want all your warmth." You lick at his lower lip, just with the tip of your tongue. "You always give me what I want..." Another lick. "You're so good to me."

The next lick comes with a surprise. His own tongue darts out, meeting yours, slippery and wet. You lick at him again, and he meets you. And then you rest there for a second, your tongue resting against each other, breaths mingling.

It's because it starts this way, that when your lips finally meet, it's all tongue and spit and mess. You lap at each other, and you imagine he might be convincing himself that this is too far departed from the textbook example of a kiss to be defined as such. He's not kissing you. He's playing with your tongue and your lips brushing together is simply an accidental consequence of this other unnamed activity. It alternates between this messy depraved licking and slurping, and a firm desperate invasion, accompanied with his hands holding your head firmly in position. You whimper as he fills your mouth, and a low sound rumbles from his throat in reply.

His hand wraps around your hip at some point, and he pushes you down against him as he invades your mouth. It seems he somehow gets bigger as it goes on. Like he grows into his full size as he loses his inhibition. You very quickly feel like your control over the situation is slipping away, and you find your muscles relaxing as a consequence. This was how it should be.

When he grips you at both hips, you're entirely pliable, and you let him roll you against himself with no resistance at all. The cold buckle of his belt reminds you how entirely clothed he is compared to your nakedness. "Can you feel daddy?" he breathes into your mouth. "There..." he grinds you against him, fingers digging into your skin hard. "Feel it..."

It must hurt. He strains up underneath you, confined by his dress pants. You nod.

"That's yours," he slurs against your lips. "Belongs to you, little one."

"Just for me?"

"Mm... Always gets like that for you..."

"Always?"

"Daddy has been so good, baby. For so long."

He pushes you back, down his thighs a little and you watch as he expertly undoes his fly and releases himself through it—belt still fastened.

He's leaking. You resist the urge to reach out and touch the drippy tip. He doesn't touch it either. It sits up against his still buttoned black shirt and twitches.

That's all the time you have to process seeing him for the first time before he's tugging you back up against him, cock trapped between you.

"Do you wanna know what daddy thinks about?" He kisses your forehead, and when you nod, he cups your cheeks and gently strokes his thumb against your warm skin. "When you wear your pretty dresses, and you're all happy and bouncy, you thank me so sweetly, I think about following you back to your bedroom and helping you take them off… and letting you thank me in ways you shouldn't..." He tugs you closer, letting his leaky tip smear a little wetness on your belly. "...You’d lie back and spread your legs and invite daddy inside your sweet little hole..."

“That sounds nice,” you purr.

He sighs, caressing your cheek. “You’d like that?”

You nod, eager. “Can we go to my bedroom now?”

A flicker of that same pained look, and then he’s scooping you up and carrying you through to where you slept: the only other room in the long hallway that led to his own. You couldn’t get to your room without walking past his own door. You’d always liked it. It felt safe, secure. Something you never had before he found you.

You’re jostled up his chest as he walks, and when you’re lowered back down a little, a firm warmth rests up against your ass. He pauses just outside your door. “Could just do it here,” he says against your temple. His voice is low, but it’s not quite a whisper. “Could hold you up against me and drop you down onto me. Maybe I’d carry you around like that, hm?”

You squeeze him harder, attempting to wiggle impossibly closer.

“I’ve thought about it,” he continues as he turns the doorknob, holding you against him with one arm. “So, so many bad things.” With a few strides into the room, he’s at your bed. “Let go.” You refuse, digging your heels into his back as you cling. “Don’t you want daddy to check your pussy? Be a good girl for me, hm?”

Slowly, you release, and he lowers you onto the bed and flips you onto your belly. The bed dips as he sits down at the edge, and then you’re being partially tugged over him. You rest on your belly with your elbows against the mattress, blind to the way he has your ass in his lap and his arm around your waist so he can position you exactly where he wants.

His big, warm hands move over your ass a few times—circular movements like he’s trying to warm your skin—and then they dig into you, groping and kneading. “Oh, baby. We should stop. I’m really too old for you. I’ve been so good for so long. I’m like your—”

“Dad?”

His hands pause, one finger resting on the strip of fabric covering your cunt. “Don’t say that.”

You push your hips back, seeking him out. “It’s okay, daddy. I belong to you. You have to inspect me like you do all your shiny things.”

His finger taps against your hole over the fabric.

“You took me home because you knew I belonged to you,” you continue as he silently prods at you. “I’m yours, daddy. Me and my pussy. Won’t you have a look?”

He continues stroking over the fabric. “Shouldn’t take them off,” he mutters. Then his finger slips beneath the fabric. “If we leave them on it’s okay.” He may as well be talking to himself. You’re too busy squirming and grasping at your blankets. He strokes and prods at you under your damp underwear, a blind investigation of your already slick and throbbing cunt.

He’s grabbing at your cheeks, pulling them apart. He’s muttering something. And then he’s tugging at the fabric until it bunches up and presses between your lips. He messes with it so much you may as well be entirely bare. It’s an illusion of safety. He plays with you until your hips are jumping in his lap and you’re begging for something. By the time he’s experimenting with the tip of his finger in your clenching hole, the underwear is entirely tugged to the side. “Sweet girl…” he sighs. “It’s trying to suck me in… it’s so naughty…”

You whine, “Hungry, daddy.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Hungry.”

He settles himself at the side of the bed, kneeling, and tugs you closer. You’re still on your belly. “Fine if these stay on,” he mutters just before his tongue dips into you. That’s the only warning you get before he’s lapping and sucking and kissing your pussy like he had your mouth before. It’s starvation confronted. Desperate and ravenous. And the sloppy, shameful slurping sounds have you gripping the sheets and biting into your arm.

“This is what daddy needed.” His nose digs into you as he laps at you, and he grips your ass like he’s worried you might squirm away. “Don’t move.”

You obey. You’re jelly. You have no desire to move at all.

The soft clinking of metal and fabric hitting the floor joins the sounds of your shared heavy breathing. And then, without warning, a large, comforting warmth surrounds you. He lowers just enough of his weight onto you to prevent you moving at all. His breath tickles your neck when he speaks. “Gonna feed you now, baby. Just tell me what you want.”

You whine.

“Tell me,” he commands, a little rumble attaching to the last syllable. “You know I like when you tell me.”

You suck in a shaky breath. “I’m empty…”

“Poor baby,” he coos, kissing your cheek.

“Want… want you to fill me up, daddy.”

His finger prods at your twitchy entrance. “Here?”

You wiggle under him.

“Daddy always gives you what you want.” His tip pushes at you. He guides it around your mess, a slick mix of you and him. “Don’t I?”

You nod and grab at his arm. A little push against your throbbing hole. A groan. “You’re sucking at me, pretty baby. I feel you. Trying to pull me inside. Greedy little thing wants her daddy’s cock deep in her belly?” He sucks on your neck, rolling his hips just enough to play with his tip just inside you, teasing. “Your underwear is still on, don’t worry. It’s okay. This is okay.”

He bites into you as he finally presses inside, filling and filling and shoving your walls apart to make room. “Tell me it’s okay,” he gasps into your neck when he finally stills, smothering you inside and out.

“You’re inside me.”

He breathes heavily into your ear for a moment, completely still. Then he uses his arm around your shoulders and chest to pull you back up against him as he sits back on his heels. “Fuck... That’s right. I’m deep inside. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

You look down at the small lump in your stomach, evidence of his hot, thick presence inside you. “Love you.” It leaves you like a sob.

“Daddy loves you too, sweetheart. So, so much. Feel it. Feel how much he loves you, yeah? Can you feel it?” He drags you off him a little, lifting you like you’re weightless, and he sinks back in. Over and over again. You’re slack, pulsing around him as he moves you. “I can feel your love. Sucking at me and hugging me tight. Can feel how much you love me. Tightening up when I try and leave, hm? Daddy can stay inside you. I can bury my drippy cock deep inside you when I say goodnight, hm? You can fall asleep on daddy’s cock from now on, baby. I’ll look after you. I’ll warm you up inside too. Keep you nice and warm and cozy so you can sleep.”

He presses you back down into the mattress, and the way he grinds into you has you entirely non-verbal. Breathing is your priority. Catching your breath between sobs and whimpers and kisses as he turns your head and invades your mouth. Panting, broken, grumbled words make their way into your ears occasionally. He calls you his good girl. He tells you you’re warm and sweet and perfectly shaped for him. And you are.

Somehow.

He’s so big that you can’t imagine how he fills you so perfectly. But it’s the most perfect satiating fullness. He drives through your walls like he’d carved them out himself and was finally coming home. It settles it for you: he took you home because he knew you were his. Made just for him. You’d never question it again.

And when he’s on his back and bouncing you on top of him, he watches where you join and his eye glows through the damp silver hair that falls across his face. “Tell me what you want,” he groans out as he holds you down to his base and rolls your hips back and forth against him with an almost bruising force.

“Daddy’s cum,” you mewl.

His jaw clenches, and then he pulls you down against his chest and ruts up into you with an animalistic feral intensity. The sounds of your skin slapping together tells you just how impossibly wet and messy you are now. But it’s okay. He’ll fill you up with his warmth, and he’ll hold you to his chest and tell you he loves you, and then he’ll take care of you better than anyone else ever could, like he always had.

[chaacoonnee]

better plans — zayne

“Pretend, then. You're my date. You picked me up. You told me I looked beautiful—”

“You do look beautiful.”

“—and we danced. And now prom is over. What happens next?”

synopsis: when your prom date doesn't show, zayne makes sure you still get your special night.

tags: nsfw, explicit sexual content, protective father figure!zayne x innocent fem!reader, pseudo-incest, age gap, emotional hurt/comfort, roleplay, daddy issues, kissing, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal sex, doggy style, spit as lube, size difference, first time, floor sex, praise kink, creampie

wc: 7.3k | ao3

a/n: zayne vs. a backless dress??? challenge level = impossible……..

The mascara was a mistake.

Not because it looks bad—your makeup looks incredible, actually, and you’re pretty damn proud of yourself for pulling it off after an embarrassing number of tutorials and one very tense standoff with your eyeliner pencil. The mistake is that you're currently crying it off in the bathroom sink while your phone sits face-down on the counter because you can't look at the screen without wanting to throw it into the toilet.

He posted on Moments. One hour before prom. One hour before he was supposed to ring the doorbell and meet Zayne and survive whatever impossible interrogation Zayne had planned for him in his valiant attempt to give you the overprotective father experience you’d otherwise never have. You'd prepped for this, rehearsed the be cool, don't scare him off speech three times, knew it was useless because Zayne was going to interrogate him regardless and probably already had the guy's GPA memorized and his family medical history saved to his hard drive.

None of that matters now.

He posted a picture in a car full of girls, laughing, with someone's arm draped over his shoulder. The caption says better plans with a shrug emoji, which is the kind of innocent cruelty that only a teenage boy could be capable of producing without remorse.

Better plans.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, at the dress you’re still wearing—a dark blue thing with a low back, the kind of back that dips below your shoulder blades and follows the curve of your spine to your waist. You bought it with your own money. Saved for it. Tried it on four times in the store before you committed, turning in front of the dressing room mirror to see the way the fabric fell at every angle, imagining the way he'd look at you when he saw it.

He isn't going to look at you. Nobody is, not tonight. Not your friends, not your enemies, not the girls in your fifth period biology class who you've been trying to impress all semester and who would have finally, finally acknowledged your existence if you'd shown up on the arm of one of the most popular guys in school. Not a single person is going to see you in this dress, and what are you even supposed to tell your grandkids someday when they ask about prom? Oh, funny story, I spent three hours getting ready and then cried in the bathroom while my—

A knock on the bathroom door halts your spiraling thoughts.

“Hey, sweetheart. Camera’s charged and ready to go,” Zayne calls, voice muffled through the wood. “I found a spot on the balcony where the light’s best, but I cleared space on the rooftop, too, if you’d prefer that. The city looks good from up there this time of evening—although golden hour’s got about twenty minutes left, so if we want the good shots we should—”

Your chest aches. Because of course he scouted locations. Of course he found the best light. Zayne, who barely uses his camera for anything other than maintaining a small but growing collection of photos of the squirrel that keeps appearing at his office window, went and found the perfect backdrop for your prom photos because he wanted them to be beautiful for you.

“I don’t need pictures, Zayne,” you call back, aiming for steady and missing by a mile. You keep scrubbing at the mascara under your eyes with a wet cotton pad. “He’s not coming.”

There’s a long silence, and you can almost see him on the other side of the door—arms crossed, head tilted, running his diagnostics, deciding which version of Zayne you need him to be in this moment.

“What do you mean, he's not coming?”

“I mean he's not coming. He posted—” You pause to calm your voice, the words tumbling out thick and wrong. “He made other plans. It's fine. I'm just—taking off my makeup. I'll be out in a minute.”

“Open the door.”

“I look awful.“

“Open the door,” he repeats. “Now.”

“Just one more—”

“Please.”

The please works on you the way he knew it would. You unlock the door.

He pushes it open gently, taking in the full picture—the dress, the smudged mascara, the cotton pads scattered on the counter like evidence at a crime scene. Whatever he sees makes his expression shift to that of a man recalculating how many laws he's willing to break.

“What's his name?” Zayne asks quietly.

“It doesn't matter.”

“What's his name.”

“Zayne, you're not going to—”

“I’m asking a question. I haven't committed to a course of action yet.” He leans against the doorframe, and the casualness of his stance is completely at odds with the look in his eyes, which is downright murderous. “His name.”

“You're a doctor. You took an oath.”

“I took several oaths. None of them preclude me from having a conversation with a boy about accountability and the consequences of treating people like they're disposable.”

“A conversation.”

“A firm one.”

“Zayne.” You almost laugh. Almost. “You can't threaten a high schooler.”

“I wouldn't threaten him. I'd educate him,” he says simply. “There's a distinction I'm prepared to defend legally.”

This time you do laugh, wet and broken and genuinely amused, because Zayne in protective mode is absurd and terrifying and the only thing in the world that could make you smile right now.

“Doesn't that violate your principles or something?” you ask, wiping your eyes. “Don't you doctors have a thing about hurting people?”

His gaze softens, the homicidal edge receding to something warmer, something that makes your heart ache in a completely different way.

“I have a thing about people hurting you,” he corrects without hesitation. “My principles begin and end with you.”

It lands heavier than either of you expects, the way he states it so easily. Yet he doesn't walk it back,  doesn’t try to soften it, just lets the words exist between you in the bright, unforgiving light of the bathroom.

“Come here.” 

You step into the hallway and he's right there, the narrow space leaving him close enough to take in each detail one by one: the floor-length dress, dark blue silk, fitted through the bodice, with a slit along the left thigh that the salesgirl called flirty and you called terrifying. And when you move past him, the back—open from the nape of your neck to just below your waist, following the line of your spine, held together by two thin straps that cross between your shoulder blades.

He clears his throat. “That boy is an idiot.”

“I look ridiculous. I'm going to change—”

“You're not changing.”

“Zayne, no one is going to see this—”

“I’m seeing it.” 

Something shifts in the air between you, something that isn't comfort anymore, isn't paternal, isn't safe, but another feeling entirely—something electric and dangerous you don’t know what to do with. So you stand there, barefoot in the hallway, in a dress that cost three months’ allowance with mascara on your cheeks, and you let Zayne look at you like you're something worth the camera he set up on the balcony.

“I don't want the night to be ruined,” you whisper, and you hate how pathetic it sounds.

“It's not ruined.”

He disappears down the hallway, and a minute later you hear music, a soft number with piano and saxophone that is far more sophisticated than whatever’s blaring through your school cafeteria’s sound system tonight. When he comes back, he's holding a clear plastic box. Inside is your corsage—small and elegant, white flowers with a sprig of green, tied with a ribbon that matches the exact shade of your dress.

Your throat goes tight.

“When did you—”

“This afternoon. I wasn't willing to leave it to chance.” He opens the box and lifts the corsage out, handling it like it’s made of glass. “I had the florist match the swatch you left on the counter.”

The fabric swatch. The tiny square of dark blue silk you brought home from the tailor to make sure your shoes matched and then forgot about beside the coffee maker.

“Zayne.”

“Give me your wrist.”

You hold out your left hand, and he slides the corsage on—adjusting the elastic, positioning the flowers so they sit right, holding your wrist a moment longer than necessary. You're not sure he notices. You notice. Acutely.

“Wait here,” you tell him.

You go to the kitchen, to the fridge, retrieving the small box that’s been sitting on the top shelf since yesterday. The boutonniere. You had it delivered—a single white bloom with dark green leaves—meant for someone else. But that someone else is in a car full of girls right now, and the only person who's shown up for you tonight is standing in the hallway looking at you like he's afraid you might cry again.

“Your turn,” you say, lifting the flower from the box.

He looks down at the boutonniere, then at you, and for a moment you can see what's hiding underneath his calm exterior—surprise and something softer that’s gone before you can name it.

“You bought one,” he says.

“I was being thorough. Someone old and wise taught me that.”

His mouth curves dangerously close to a real smile. He stands still while you pin it to his white button down with clumsy fingers, mercifully only stabbing yourself with the pin once before getting it right. Zayne doesn't help, just watches your hands work like a man who is content to let you fumble with a sharp object near his heart for as long as you need.

“There.” You smooth the fabric around it. “Now you look like a prom date.”

“And you look like a girl who deserves a dance.”

He extends his hand.

“What are you doing, Zayne?” you ask, even though you already know.

“You still have a dance to go to.” He says it like it's obvious. Like this is a reasonable solution and not the most dangerous thing he's ever offered you. 

“Really, you don't have to—”

“I know I don’t.” His hand stays outstretched between you. “But you're in a beautiful dress, and I have a boutonniere, and the music is playing, and I would really like to dance with you.”

You take his hand.

He pulls you into the kitchen, one hand finding your waist while the other holds yours as the music drifts around you. You're both barefoot on the cool tile, the height difference almost comical without your heels, the top of your head barely reaching his collarbone. 

And you dance.

He moves you in a slow, unhurried circle that has no choreography and no purpose other than being pressed close to each other. Your free hand rests lightly against his chest while his at your waist stays solid and warm, the kind of hold that promises nothing bad will reach you if you just stay here, in his kitchen, in his arms. 

“Thank you,” you say into his shirt.

“For what?”

“This. The photos you set up. The florist. The music. All of it.” You press your face closer. “You made it better.”

“You deserve better than what happened tonight.” You feel the steady beat of his heart under your cheek, and you swear it speeds up for just a moment. “You deserve someone who shows up.”

“You showed up.”

“That's different.”

“Is it?”

He doesn't answer. 

The song changes to something slower, but you don't pull apart. If anything, you drift closer, your hand sliding up around the back of his neck, the lines of his body fitting into the curves of yours in a way that feels less like dancing and more like coming home. His hand shifts on your waist lower by a centimeter, then another, until his pinky grazes the bare skin of your back, right where the fabric ends, and you shiver. Zayne notices. You know he notices because his hand stills before settling fully against your skin, his whole palm pressed flat against the small of your back where the dress leaves you bare.

His thumb finds the dip at the base of your spine and traces it—a slow, absent motion, back and forth, like he doesn't realize he's doing it. But your body realizes. Your body is paying very close attention to the way that single point of contact radiates outward, spreading like wildfire across your skin and down into your stomach and lower still.

You wonder if he can sense it. If he can feel the change in you, the way your body has become more alert, more aware, shifting closer to his without your permission. He must know. He notices everything about you. Which means he's choosing to keep touching you anyway.

The thought makes your stomach flip. 

You've heard things about what happens after prom. Rumors, mostly—stories that are probably embellished and definitely not things you should be thinking about right now with Zayne's thumb soothing your back and your heart beating so loud you're sure he can hear it through his chest.

“Zayne?”

“Mm?”

“What happens after the dance?”

His thumb stills against your skin. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You pull back enough to look up at him. “We go to prom, and then we leave. What's supposed to happen next?”

His eyes search yours and you can see him consider the question, holding it next to every boundary he's built between you, every rule he follows, every reason this shouldn't go where it's so clearly, so recklessly, so inevitably headed.

“I wouldn't know,” he says carefully. “It's been a long time since I went to a dance.”

“Pretend, then.” Your heart is hammering, but your voice is certain. “You're my date. You picked me up. You told me I looked beautiful—”

“You do look beautiful.”

“—and we danced. And now prom is over.” You hold his gaze, tilting your head slightly as you blink up at him expectantly. “What happens next?”

The kitchen is quiet except for the music and the sound of your breathing and the almost-audible sound of Zayne's restraint fracturing at the edges like thin ice beneath a tentative step.

“If I were your date,” he says slowly, “I would walk you to the door. I would tell you I had a wonderful evening.”

He stops. The music fills the quiet, though neither of you is dancing anymore.

“And I would ask permission to kiss you goodnight.”

He swallows, and you track the movement of his throat, the way his gaze drops to your mouth.

“So ask,” you whisper.

His hand is still spanning your back, warm against the goosebumps pebbling your bare skin, and the distance between your faces is small enough that you can feel his breath and count the variations of green and gold in his eyes.

“May I kiss you goodnight?” he asks, and his voice is so devastatingly earnest that it doesn't sound like a game anymore.

“Yes.”

He cradles your jaw, tilting your face upward as you close your eyes and wait for his mouth on yours—for the heat, the pressure, the culmination of everything that's been building since the slow dance, since the hallway, since the day you arrived at his doorstep with your suitcase and nowhere else to go.

Zaynes kisses the corner of your lips.

Not your mouth. The edge. The part where your lips meet the curve of your cheek, so precise it could almost be accidental, except nothing Zayne does is accidental. His mouth presses there softly, lingering for exactly one breath longer than polite, the kind of kiss you give someone at their front door under a porch light while their parents watch from the window.

“That's it?” you whisper when he pulls away.

“That's what a gentleman does.”

Your heart is doing something that’s probably clinically concerning, and the place where his mouth almost touched yours is buzzing like a live wire.

“And if he wasn’t a gentleman?”

His hand hasn't left your jaw. His thumb traces the line of it, soothing along the bone, and you can feel him weighing what comes next against everything he's supposed to be.

“Then I’d have to bury him,” he says simply, “which would really put a damper on prom night.”

“Zayne.” His name comes out shaky, but you don’t care anymore, intoxicated by the desperate need for him to answer the questions your mind can’t make sense of but your body understands fluently. “Please.”

He studies your face for hesitation, for doubt, for any sign that you're caught up in the hurt of the evening and reaching for the nearest warm body. He won't find it. You're not reaching for the nearest anything. You're reaching for him and him alone, the only person who has ever made you feel like wanting to be cared for isn't something to apologize for.

“I’m your prom date tonight,” he says, eyes never leaving yours, making sure every word lands. “Only tonight. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” You’re nodding before the word can make it out. “Only tonight. I understand.”

“And if it's too much—if any of it is too much—you tell me. Immediately.”

“I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, pulling you forward to kiss you fully this time, his lips parting yours, opening you for him in a way that’s not gentlemanly in any sense of the word. Your hands fist in his shirt and he lets you, lets you tug him closer, lets you set the pace for exactly as long as it takes you to realize that you don't want the pace you're setting at all. You want his.

He takes over without asking, sinking his fingers into your hair, angling you just the way he wants you, and the kiss becomes something infinitely more raw. His teeth catch your lower lip, sucking until you moan, which admittedly doesn’t take much time at all. He catches the sound with his tongue, stroking it against yours so thoroughly your knees go weak, his free hand holding your hip steady against the wall you didn't realize you'd been backed into.

He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as you both catch your breath.

“Turn around,” he orders. “Hands on the wall.”

You turn, your body responding to his command like instinct as you press your palms flat against the surface. The position arches your back, pushing your shoulder blades together, baring the full length of your spine to the air, to him.

Two fingers land at the nape of your neck and trace down, the touch barely there, following the line of your spine —between your shoulders, along the center of your back, to the point where fabric resumes. 

“I’ve been trying not to stare at this all night,” he says, voice has dropping into a register you've never heard before. “Since you walked out in this dress. The way the fabric just—stops. And everything underneath is—”

His mouth replaces his fingers, pressing a kiss to the top of your spine, then lower—open-mouthed and warm between your shoulder blades—then lower still, his lips tracing the path his fingers took, each kiss wetter and slower than the last. By the time his mouth reaches the small of your back, your arms are shaking and your cheek is pressed against the wall and you're making sounds you didn't know you could make.

He rises behind you, chest solid against your back as he reaches for your jaw from behind, turning your face toward his to claim your mouth once more—messier this time, louder, greedier, while his other hand spreads flat across your stomach, keeping you tight against him. You can feel where his cock presses hard and insistent against the curve of your ass, and the knowledge of what you're doing to him makes something bold and terrified flare in your chest.

You ease your hips back into his, testing the movement.

“Careful,” he warns against your mouth.

You roll your hips again even slower, even more intentionally, grinding back against him with the kind of reckless courage that comes from knowing you've already won, that whatever line that stood between you burned down the moment he took your hand in his. 

His head falls back with a rough groan.

“You want to play, sweetheart?” he murmurs, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Fine. We'll play.” 

His hand on your stomach tightens, pulling your hips back harder against his, and it’s too much and not enough all at once—his cock straining against his slacks, his breath hot at your ear, your palms flat against the cool wall, his composure in pieces on the floor.

“Your date isn’t a gentleman.” He says between kisses below your ear, down your neck. You tilt your head to give him better access, rewarded immediately with a firm roll of his hips against your backside. “He doesn’t settle for a kiss goodnight at the door.”

“Then don’t settle,” you breathe.

“Invite me inside.”

You take his hand and lead him out of the kitchen, down the hallway, into the living room, where the lamp casts the furniture in its dim, golden light.

“We have to be quiet,” you whisper. “My father is home.”

The words are in the air before you can overthink them, pulled from a part of you that’s never seen the light of day but has somehow decided to trust the amber glow of this room. The shift behind his eyes is instant, understanding first, then something darker—desire disguised as a game he should not be playing, a game he has decided to lose before it even begins.

“Your father,” he repeats, testing the shape of it in his mouth.

“Mhm,” you hum. “He's very strict. He wouldn't approve.”

“No.” His fingers find your spine once more, dragging a slow line up the center of your back. “I imagine he wouldn’t.”

“So we have to be quiet.”

“Then you’re going to have to behave.” He guides you toward the couch, and the whole thing is absurd, the way the only person you’re sneaking past is the version of himself you’ve agreed to pretend doesn't exist tonight—but when you sit down and he kneels between your legs, there's nothing absurd about the way he looks up at you. “Can you do that for me?”

“I—I think so.”

“We’re going to have to do better than think.” He parts your knees slowly, using the slit in your dress to push the fabric aside. His thumbs press slow, dizzying circles against the inside of your thighs. “Tell me. How do you like to be touched?”

“I don’t—” You shake your head. “I don’t know.”

His hands still after a moment, like his body has just caught up to what his brain just heard. 

“You don’t know?”

It’s the truth, even if the look on his face makes you feel like it’s the wrong answer. 

“No one’s—” You swallow. “I haven’t—”

“No one,” he repeats, and it’s no longer a question. His hands haven't moved from your thighs, but his touch has gone lighter, more aware of each point of contact.

“I was saving it,” you say quickly, because each second of silence feels enormous. “For a night that mattered. With someone who—”

“Don’t.” The word comes out tight, cutting you off before you can say anything else he won’t survive hearing. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I want to.” You make yourself look at him. “I wanted it to be someone I trusted. Someone who'd be—” You gesture at him, at his hands on your legs, at the careful way he holds everything he touches. “Like this. Like you are. With me.”

“Sweetheart—”

“I know you think you shouldn’t be here. I know this is—I know what this is.” Your fingers trace the boutonniere pinned to his chest, the one you put there before you knew the taste of his mouth, the way his voice sounds when his lips brush your ear. “But I also know you would never hurt me, and I trust you more than anyone, and I—I'd rather it be someone who cares too much than someone who doesn't care at all.”

His eyes close, and you watch his jaw work—the clench, the release, the negotiation between the man kneeling between your legs and the man who will have to look at himself in the mirror tomorrow morning. 

“You make it very hard,” he finally says, “to do the right thing.”

“Am I not the right thing?”

You know you’re not playing fair, know it’s not right to pull the man you have wrapped around your little finger further into your grasp than he has any right to be. 

“You’re the only thing,” he says simply, like a diagnosis he’s finally accepted. 

His eyes open again, and whatever war was being fought behind them has reached some kind of ceasefire. Not resolved, not entirely, but agreeing to stop fighting what’s already been lost, if just for tonight. 

“Then I’m going to make it right for you. Show you how it’s supposed to feel—” he says, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. “—with someone who cares about you—” His lips drag higher, higher, nipping the soft skin of your inner thigh with his teeth before soothing it over with his tongue. “—far too much.”

You feel his breath first, ghosting over your sensitive skin through the lace of your underwear—the tiny black pair you’ve been saving for tonight, the ones you washed yourself after Zayne went to sleep so he wouldn’t find them in your laundry. Then the flat of his tongue, dragging over the fabric in a long, lazy line that makes your thighs try to close around his head on instinct. His hands catch them, pressing them apart, holding you open as he draws the lace soaked with your arousal taut against his tongue. When his lips close around your clit and suck, you can’t contain the sound that escapes—too loud, too unguarded—sending his hand flying up to cover your mouth.

“What did I say, hm?” he breathes, eyes flicking up to yours. “Quiet. He'll hear you.”

You nod against his palm. His thumb hooks the waistband of your underwear, and you lift your hips without being asked—an instinct that makes your face heat, how quickly your body is learning to answer him. He slides them down your legs and tucks them away somewhere you don't see, and his mouth returns between your thighs like it never left.

The first stroke of his tongue against bare skin is almost too much, your hips bucking off the couch so fast his arm has to catch you and hold you down. He holds you still with a patience that says he expected that as he works you with his tongue, alternating between slow, hungry thrusts and deeper, demanding pressure. It builds and builds and builds until he takes you right to the edge—right there, and you—you're going to—

His mouth leaves you so suddenly you sob against his palm.

He kisses the crease of your thigh, infuriatingly close to where you need him most. “Tell me why I stopped.”

He slides his palm from your mouth to cup your cheek, giving you a chance to explain yourself, but all you can do is look at him, lips parted, the explanation drifting somewhere behind your eyes.

“Go on. Use your words.” His thumb drags across your lower lip. “I’m waiting.”

You swallow. “Because I was too loud.”

“That's right.” He removes his hand entirely, and you feel the absence like a void. “And we had a deal, didn’t we?”

“I’ll be quiet, Zayne, I promise—”

“You've been making promises you can’t seem to keep for the last five minutes.” He stands from his knees and you watch, dazed, as he undoes his belt, the button, the zipper. When he frees himself, hard and flushed and leaking from the tip, your thighs press together on their own accord. Because this is actually happening, this is real, this is Zayne standing above you with his cock in his hand and your taste still on his tongue. “So forgive me for adjusting accordingly.”

He takes a seat beside you on the couch, pulling you into his lap until you're straddling him. The dress pools around you both, the slit giving him room. 

“And you think this will make me quiet?” You’re face to face like this, closer than you've been to him, to anyone, every breath both yours and his. “Being closer?” 

His hands slide up your thighs, guiding your hips down until you feel the length of him flush against where you're still wet and aching from his mouth. The contact makes you both inhale sharply, his eyes locked on the shape of your mouth as you gasp.

“No.” His hand comes up to your face, thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. “But from here, when you forget yourself—” He tilts your chin up. “My mouth is right here to remind you.”

You lean forward to kiss him and he pulls back, just an inch—just enough that your lips chase his and find nothing, the denial sending a flare of heat through your stomach.

“Ah-ah.” His thumb presses gently against your mouth, holding you there. “Earn it.”

You try again. He tilts away, his eyes warm with something that's half-admonishment and half-amusement, and you make a frustrated sound against his thumb.

“Patience,” he murmurs, leaning in just close enough that his lower lip brushes yours before pulling back again. “You'll get what you want. When I decide you're ready for it.”

He shifts you forward in his lap with his knees, a small adjustment that presses the head of his cock directly against your clit.

“Zayne—”

“There,” he says softly. “That's it.”

He kisses you deeply, finally, thoroughly, the way you know better than to get used to, but you’re too far gone for that now. You melt into it, your hands gripping his shoulders, your hips rocking against him in small, helpless movements that make him groan against your tongue. When you pull apart, you look down between your bodies. At the reality of what's about to happen. At the size of him pressed against you, and the math your body is doing that doesn't quite add up.

“What if I can't—what if it's too—”

“Look at me.”

You look at him. His hands frame your face, thumbs resting on your cheekbones, holding you steady like the world could fall apart around him and he wouldn't move a muscle.

“I’m right here. You’re safe with me. And I will never let anything hurt you.” His gaze never wavers, making sure you feel the weight of each word. “Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” His thumbs stroke your cheeks once before pressing a gentle kiss to one corner of your mouth, then the other. “Tell me you trust me.” 

“I trust you.”

He lifts his hand to your mouth, tapping two fingers at the seam of your lips. “Open.”

You part them, and he presses his fingers in slowly, watching as your mouth closes around them. Your tongue moves against his knuckles on instinct, wetting them, sucking slightly as you taste the clean salt of his skin, and his jaw tightens as he watches you with a heat that goes straight to your core.

He withdraws his fingers carefully, holding his palm open beneath your chin.

“Spit.”

You hesitate for a second too long, heat creeping up your neck as saliva pools under your tongue.

“It's okay,” he assures in that patient voice, the one that’s talked you through blood draws and surgeries and every hard thing your body has to do. “It's just me.”

You lean forward and spit into his palm. It's graceless and embarrassing and makes your whole face go hot, but he doesn't blink—just closes his hand and reaches between your bodies, slicking himself in preparation, like he’s making sure this doesn't hurt you more than it has to.

His hand returns to your hip and you brace yourself for the pressure, the pleasure, the pain. It doesn’t come. Instead, his hand guides yours, wrapping your fingers around the base of him. The feel of his cock in your palm, throbbing against your grip, is almost too much to bear.

“Take all the time you need,” he murmurs against your temple, then presses a kiss to the same spot. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

You position him at your entrance, and the first press of him, blunt and warm and wide, makes your thighs flex around his hips.

"Breathe, sweetheart.” His hand grips the back of your neck, steadying your thoughts, your emotions, your body. "Don't tense up. Just let your body adjust.”

You sink down an inch. The stretch stings and your muscles resist and you stop, your nails digging into his shirt hard enough to leave marks.

“Stay with me.” His thumb strokes behind your ear. “You’re doing so well.”

Another inch, and your forehead drops to his shoulder with a sound that's closer to a whine than anything else. 

“It’s so—ah—”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know it's a lot. But you're taking it, aren’t you? You're handling it so perfectly.”

You breathe, letting your body accommodate every inch, and when you're fully seated the feeling is so overwhelming you have to press your face into his neck and just exist like that for a moment. He doesn't move or push, holding himself still with a restraint that you can feel costing him in the faint tremor of his thighs beneath yours, the way his fingers hold the back of your neck just a fraction too tight before he consciously loosens them.

“There you are. You have me,” he says into your hair. “We don't move until you're ready. There's nowhere to be. Just us, alright?”

You nod against his neck, feeling his heart racing beneath your cheek. It’s so fast and uneven and nothing like calm, measured rhythm you've fallen asleep to on the couch, the one you always thought nothing could shake.

“Is it—for you, does it feel—”

“You have no idea,” he interrupts, voice held together by a thread. “You have absolutely no idea.”

You stay connected, suspended in time for moment longer as your body learns the shape of Zayne’s, before you shift your hips against him. It’s a tiny movement, one that draws a curse from behind his teeth.

“Like that?” you whisper.

“Exactly like that.”

You start to move in small, cautious motions that make you gasp and his jaw clench. He lets you find your rhythm, lets you figure out the angle and the depth, his hands guiding but never controlling, letting this be yours. The leather creaks beneath you, quietly at first as the couch gives under the pressure, then louder as you grow bolder, deeper, less careful, the hesitation burning into a hunger that won’t let go.

“The couch,” you gasp.

“I hear it.”

“He'll hear it.”

“Then we’d better move,” he decides, but his hands pull your hips down, grinding you against him with a pressure that makes clench harder around him. “In a minute,” he groans low against your jaw. “Give me one more minute like this.”

He holds you there with your hips pinned to his, and he thrusts up into you from below—once, twice, then again and again, each stroke deep enough that your vision blurs. You give him the minute. You give him two, three, as he fucks up into you while his mouth catches every sound you make, his tongue stroking against yours in time with his hips. 

“Not a sound,” he says, lifting you up and off of him with painstaking care. “Hands and knees. On the floor.”

You slide to the carpet on trembling legs, palms pressing into the floor, and he's behind you immediately, gathering your dress and bunching it at your waist. His fist closes in the fabric at your back as his other hand covers your mouth from behind.

“What would my father do,” you whisper against Zayne’s fingers, “if he caught us like this?”

You feel the question land in the way his hand tightens on the dress, the way his cock twitches against your swollen cunt, the way his palm presses firmly over your lips in warning.

“He wouldn't knock,” he says, breath ragged at the shell of your ear. “He'd hear you from down the hall and he'd come in without knocking and he'd see you—” His hand over your mouth shifts, tilting your jaw so you're looking back at him over your shoulder. “—just like this.”

He pushes inside—one long, deep stroke that fills you completely, the new position so devastating your arms give out. You drop to your forearms with a moan his palm barely catches before both hands grip the curve of your waist, holding you in place as he adjusts to the new angle.

“And he'd lose his goddamn mind,” Zayne continues, holding still inside you, letting you feel every solid inch. “Seeing his sweet girl on her knees, ruining her pretty little prom dress. He'd never recover.”

With your cheek against the carpet, back arched, the angle deepens impossibly and you can't think, can't breathe, can only feel him everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.

“He'd watch,” Zayne says, voice wrecked around the edges. “He'd stand in the doorway and he wouldn't be able to look away. Because his little girl is making sounds he's never heard before—” He thrusts once, and you bite back a sob. “—sounds like that. Sounds you're giving to some boy who doesn't deserve a single one of them, letting him take care of you the only way your father’s not allowed to.”

He starts to move again, slow at first, his hands guiding your hips and pulling you back onto him with each stroke. The sounds you make are muffled against your forearm, spilling into the room with every thrust.

“And he’d send the boy home. Lock the front door. Come back to this room and look at you, still on your knees, still in this dress, still shaking and trying to catch your breath and looking so pretty underneath him it’s a problem.” His pace picks up, unrelenting now. “A real fucking problem.”

He slows his pace so abruptly you whimper. His palm smooths down the bare plane of your back, the slope of your ass, the curve of your thigh—before coming down in a short, sharp smack that makes you cry out and clench tight around him.

“And he’d remind you,” he says, rubbing the sting away with his palm, “who's been taking care of you this whole time. Who feeds you. Who drives you to school. Who stays up when you're sick and carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch.”

You try to push your hips back against his, chasing the friction, the pressure, the heat, but he won’t let you have it. He leans over you, chest pressing against your back, the petals of his boutonniere soft and cool against your shoulder blades as his mouth meets your ear.

“Who bought you a corsage,” he says quietly, “because he wanted your night to be perfect. Even if he wasn't supposed to be part of it.”

You moan, loud, and his hand covers your mouth for only a breath before sliding to your throat, his fingers framing the column of your neck like a collar.

“You can't keep quiet, can you?” he murmurs against your ear.

You shake your head.

“You want him to hear you?” His fingers flex where they rest against your skin. “Is that it?”

You nod. “Yes.”

“You want him to walk in and see his little girl like this?” His thumb traces the line of your throat. His pace picks up again, thrusting deeper, almost punishing, and his voice has gone raw in a way that doesn't belong to your prom date anymore. “The one he tucked into bed last week, on all fours on his carpet dripping down someone else’s cock?”

“Yes—”

“Then let him hear you,” he mouths against your neck. “Let him hear how pretty you sound when you come.”

His hand leaves your throat and slides between your legs, fingers finding your clit, working tight, perfect circles in time with his strokes. His other hand presses flat over yours, lacing your fingers together, pinning your hand to the floor. 

“Zayne, please—”

His pace builds, each stroke longer, more intense, and you can feel yourself climbing again, the orgasm he denied you earlier tightening in your core. The sounds you make get louder and more desperate and he doesn't try to quiet them anymore—just lets you be heard, lets his apartment echo with the damning evidence of what he’s doing to you under his roof. 

“Zayne—”

“I know. I’m right here.” His forehead drops to the space between your shoulder blades, slick with sweat, his breath coming rough against your spine. “Let it go. That's my girl. You've been so perfect for me tonight, haven’t you? Let me have it. Be good for me one more time and give me everything.”

You come with a cry that fills the room, his name ripping out of you like something set free. You clench around his cock and hear him swear, feel his hand on your jaw turning your face toward his, claiming your mouth over your shoulder in a messy, desperate kiss as his own orgasm hits. His hand tightens over yours on the carpet as his hips falter, the corsage petals crushed between your wrists as he fills you with the heat of his release.

His mouth lingers against yours as the kiss softens, slowing from greedy to tender until you're barely moving at all, held there by something neither of you wants to break. He eases out of you carefully, and you feel the loss of him like something vital's gone missing. But his arms don't go anywhere. They wrap around your waist and pull you back against his chest, and he holds you there on the living room floor while both of your heartbeats slow to a rhythm that almost matches.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register that your dress is destroyed. Three months of savings, wrinkled beyond anything a dry cleaner could forgive, and it never even left the house. You can't bring yourself to care even a little.

You stay tangled like that for a long time.

“You still haven't told me his name,” Zayne says after a long quiet.

You trace a scar along his forearm where it's wrapped around your waist. “Does it matter at this point?”

“No.” His arms tighten around you, and the possessiveness in his hold doesn't pretend to be anything else. “But I'd still like to have it. For my records.”

“If I tell you, do you promise not to do anything?”

“I promise not to do anything you'll find out about.”

You laugh, quiet and real, and feel his chest move against your back with something that might be a laugh too, or might be the exhale of a man who's holding something precious and knows it, something he has to return in the morning but is his for tonight. You close your eyes and sink deeper into his warmth, letting the night stretch on just a little while more.

Your date said he had better plans. And lying here on Zayne's living room floor, in the wreckage of stained silk and crumpled petals and everything you'll have to figure out when the sun rises, you think—yeah. So did you.

[dearokkotsu]

𝐻𝒾𝒹𝒹𝑒𝓃 𝒲𝒶𝓋𝑒𝓈 ⋆*･ﾟ༄

caleb xia x fem!reader

tw: dead dove. incest/pseudo-cest. yandere but it’s not the main plot, use of gege & meimei (a lot. too much even), size difference, mentions of childhood memories, caleb having gross thoughts early on, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected vaginal sex, creampie

wc: 6.8k

a/n: i think this is the longest fic i’ve written and it took me over half a year because i procrastinated too much. i think i tagged all the tw’s but if i missed anything please kindly let me know. i can’t guarantee there won’t be any spelling or grammar mistakes please forgive me. if you don’t like the taboo elements please just don’t read it

“you're going to catch a cold like this, meimei."

you feel your heart skip a beat at the unexpected voice, flinching before you turn to him with a guilty look on your face. "caleb," you greet him, a bit bashful as he puts the hat of his fleet uniform down on the dresser.

caleb sighs as he looks you up and down. hair damp, and he recognizes the large tshirt you're wearing as his own, your bare arms and legs glistening from the shower. 

for a second it reminds him of when you were half as tall as you are now; when you'd complain that you didn't want to take a bath, insisted that you were still clean after spending the entire day jumping into mud puddles. how then despite your initial resistance, you didn't want to get out of the bath, even when it was his turn. so he'd just get into the tub with you. he'd make you laugh by pretending like the bath duckie was talking.

"you're back."

"i am, meimei. why don't you wear the warm slippers i got you?"

you bite your lip, knowing you are in for another scolding. "i'm sorry, i was going to, though."

you can’t tell how his mission went based off of his mood. your eyes follow his steps to your closet. well, his closet originally, but since he had convinced you to stay on the farspace fleet with him for your own safety, you had taken over his bedroom. taken up over half his closet. traces of you apparent by the candy wrappers you left on the nightstand after a midnight snack. the two pairs of matching slippers, the two phone chargers, the pink and blue perfume bottles on the shelf; evidence of you.

you sit on the edge of the bed as you watch caleb grab a neatly folded towel, before he pulls out the sock drawer, fishing out a fuzzy pair. his boots are loud against the floor as he walks to stand in front of you. "you're going to give me grey hairs if you keep making me worry like that," he sighs, voice low and gentle. you pout. 

"i'm sorry, gege."

"it's okay. that's what i'm here for, hm? to take care of you?"

you nod without hesitation and he smiles. "you worry a bit too much sometimes, though." caleb starts gently patting your hair dry. "i know.. i do, dont i?" he sighs, "but i always worry. i can't help it. ever since we were kids, i've always been there to look out for you. it's hard to break the habit, even if you've grown into such a big girl now." 

caleb’s eyes are soft as they lock with yours, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. he thinks of little him chasing you up the stairs with a hairdryer in his hand, grandma calling out what the commotion is all about. but it was just stubborn, difficult little you, refusing to have your hair dried. too loud, you’d say. it would take him lots of “meimei, gege will buy you candy if you sit still”s for you to behave and let him dry your hair, only to be half-asleep by the time he was braiding it. 

he puts the towel down on the bed before he gets down on his knee in front of you. you wiggle your feet when he grabs one and puts it on his lap. “you don’t treat me like a big girl, though,” you comment as he holds your ankle. “you don’t act like one.” you huff at his words as he pulls the fuzzy sock over your foot. “i do!” 

caleb’s hand moves to your other foot, covering it in the warm material as well, as an amused huff escapes him. “yeah? you were calling about not being able to fall asleep while i was on the mission,” he teases. you feel your cheeks heat up and you nudge your foot against his chest in protest. “look. you were gone for two days, that’s too long.”

you expect a teasing clap back, but his eyes soften and his face relaxes and he sighs and squeezes your ankle and your cheeks feel warm. 

“are you saying you missed me?” caleb asks. it’s less teasing and more curious. you huff in embarrassment. “no!” 

he laughs, warm and low, and leans in until his forehead rests against your shin, the sound of his chuckle settling softly between you.

he tilts his head up from where he’s nestled against your shin, eyes heavy and drowsy in the low light. “it’s okay, meimei,” he murmurs. “i missed you enough for the both of us.” 

sometimes he wishes you were as vocal about missing him as you were back then. back then, you’d cry on the phone when he left for school trips, and he’d slip out of the bunkbed dorm after lights-out, just to talk to you. he remembers how you’d eagerly jump into his arm when he’d return from basketball training, breathless and bright, and begged him to teach you some tricks. you’d even insist on accompanying him to the mailbox. but it’s okay. caleb knows you still miss him when he’s gone, even if you don’t wrap it in words anymore.

a few moments pass in which you hold his gaze; your own eyes growing heavy as you exhale quietly, looking down at him. he affectionately squeezes your ankle again before you shyly nudge your leg against his head. 

“what?” you giggle and he grins back, all dimples, shaking his head. “nothing… you just smell good,” he murmurs, his tone dropping lower at the end, warm and quiet. caleb closes his eyes briefly before inhaling softly against your skin. 

“you used the body wash i love most….” his hand slowly traces up the side of your calves, feeling the goosebumps that rise in response to his touch. “for me to come back to?” he noses up your shin, his breath hot against your skin, his question making your cheeks heat up at the truth of it.

of course you did. it was the one he liked so much he’d end up using it himself, leaving the bottle half-empty and earning your complaints that he’d better buy the next one. “no. i just grabbed a random bottle,” you lie. 

caleb breathes a soft laugh, sliding higher along your calf until his cheek brushes against your knee. he settles his chin there, looking up at you with a knowing smile. “mhm… then your ‘random’ choices are getting suspiciously perfect,” he murmurs. you can barely hear the rain drumming against the windowpane over the sound of your heart drumming in your ears. 

“indulge me… let me bathe you next time,” he sweetly hums, earning a huff. “i can shower by myself, you know.” caleb presses his chin into your knee. “you can, can’t you? then let’s see if you’re all clean..” 

he nudges your legs apart, settling them on either side of his shoulders. “gege—!” you try to squeeze your legs back together, but he holds them apart. instead, he guides you closer, drawing you more toward the edge of the mattress while he sits at the foot of the bed.

in the process, his shirt you’re wearing rides up and bunches up at your waist, your panties catch caleb’s gaze for a moment. the white pair with the frills on the hems and the little bow make his throat dry up a bit. how cute. it reminds him of when you two used to live with grandma, and he had to sneak a pair into his backpocket everytime it was his turn to do laundry, after pressing them all against his nose and inhaling deeply; always picking the one’s which smelt most like you. caleb always preferred the cute ones. playful, with heart charms and frill. he used to feel this weird unease when he’d spot a new type of underwear; you must’ve gotten them when you had gone shopping with your friends. suddenly, there was lace and push-up bra’s and thongs. how angry he’d been. he had always told you your friends were no good and to stop spending time with them after school. ‘all they care about is boys, and it will ruin your grades’ and you could not start developing the same interests as them. you were still his precious sister even he refused to touch yet. 

but all of it had faded into insignificance. at last, he had you here with him in skyhaven, spoiling you to your hearts content with the inability to refuse you anything (except when you ask if you can go meet your friends in linkon). not after you fulfilled his biggest wish, letting him keep you tucked away where only he could reach, too high up for anyone else. 

your lower lip juts out in a pout as he pulls at the frilly trim of your panties before letting the elastic snap back against your skin, causing you to flinch. “owww.” he rubs his thumb over the skin apologetically. “i’m sorry meimei. these are cute.. but they’re in my way.”

his voice is soft, almost apologetic, but there’s no real remorse in it. his thumb hooks under the elastic again, but slower this time, deliberate, dragging the fabric down.

“caleb-“

he shushes you while his free hand slides up to cup the back of your knee, holding you open for him.

“shh, meimei. let gege check properly.” his eyes are dark and heavy lidded as they flick up to meet yours

goosebumps chase his touch. you can feel the heat of his breath ghosting over your skin now, so close you’re hyperaware of every exhale. “mhmm..” his lips brush the inside of your knee. it’s barely a kiss, more like he’s testing your reaction and you twitch as a small, involuntary sound escapes.

caleb noses higher, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. the rain outside taps insistently against the window, but it’s drowned out by the thud of your pulse in your ears. his hand on your other thigh squeezes once. it’s reassuring.

“lift your hips for me, meimei.”

you hesitate only a second before obeying, arching just enough for him to tug the fabric down your legs. he pulls them off completely, letting them dangle from one ankle before they drop forgotten to the floor.

there’s a long moment where caleb just looks, his gaze dragging over you like he’s memorizing every inch and you see the way his throat bobs and his eyes grow heavier.

“so pretty.”

you feel the mattress dip slightly as caleb shifts closer, his broad shoulders keeping your thighs parted. the cool air of the room kisses your newly exposed skin and makes you clench on instinct, but he doesn’t let you.

“stop staring, ugh,” you huff in embarrassment, and he can’t help the fond chuckle escaping him, feeling caught. this wasn’t a new or unfamiliar sight to him at all; but it didn’t mean it didn’t still leave him uncomfortably hard and out of breath hard every time. “am i?”

you nudge your leg against his head, “yes. freak. caleb’s laugh is breathy, almost fond enough to disguise the darker edge beneath it. he doesn’t answer right away. instead he leans in and drags his nose along the crease where thigh meets everything else, breathing you in so shamelessly your whole body flushes hot. he’s not even pretending to be subtle anymore.

“you’re so wet already, meimei,” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing the very top of your mound. “did you touch yourself while i was gone? hm? thinking about gege coming home?”

your breath hitches and you try to squirm higher up the bed but he hooks both arms under your knees and yanks you right back to the edge until your ass is barely still on the mattress.

“don’t run,” he says, softer than he means to. almost pleading. “let me see. let me taste how much you missed me.”

you cover your face with both hands. “caleb…”

“say it.” his voice drops into that low register that always makes your insides clench. “tell gege you missed him so much you.”

he feels perverse. he knows it. the shame used to burn but now it just makes him harder; makes him want to push every boundary until you’re crying his name the same way you used to when you fell off your bike and needed him to carry you inside. he’d check your body for bruises and give you what he had left of his pocket money after to cheer you up.

you peek through your fingers and see that his eyes are locked between your legs like nothing else exists, pupils blown wide.

“…i missed you,” you admit into your palms.

caleb groans, deeply, low and rough against you, and then his mouth is on you. no more teasing. he licks a broad, slow stripe from your entrance all the way up, flattening his tongue so he can feel every twitch and flutter. when he reaches your clit he sucks it between his lips. he’s greedy. he’s always been greedy for you. even when all he could steal were glances and laundry and the occasional brush of fingers when you passed him the salt at dinner. now he finally has permission, or maybe he just stopped waiting for it, and he’s making up for every single year he held back.

his tongue circles your clit with slow, deliberate pressure, the kind that makes your thighs tremble around his ears almost immediately and he hums against you, it’s deep, satisfied, vibrating right through your core. the sound pulls another small, broken noise from your throat before you can swallow it, while your fingers find his hair.

he flattens his tongue again, drags it up slow, collecting every bit of you like he’s starving. he is. two days away felt like two years. missions used to be bearable because he could picture you waiting. safe, sulky, probably eating too much candy and leaving crumbs on his pillow. but the longer he stayed gone, the worse the itch got under his skin.

caleb was already ruined back then. already pressing his face into your pillow after you left for school, already stealing glances at the way your skirt flipped up when you ran up the stairs, already hating every boy who looked at you longer than three seconds. he told himself it was protective brother stuff. but brothers don’t get hard when their little sister falls asleep on their chest during movie night. brothers don’t press their nose to sweaty gym shirts in the laundry hamper and jerk off so hard they see stars while picturing your confused little face if you ever caught him and handwash it at 3 in the morning so grandma wouldn’t notice

he groans again, rougher this time, and sucks your clit harder, letting his teeth graze just enough to make you jolt.

“gege—!” your voice cracks, half-warning, half-plea. he pulls back only far enough to speak, lips shiny, breath ragged against your soaked skin.

“what’s wrong, meimei? too much?” his voice is wrecked. teasing, but the kind of tease that’s barely holding together. “you’re dripping down my chin.” your thighs twitch. he can feel the embarrassed heat rolling off you in waves.

“it’s okay.” he noses back in, kissing the hood of your clit soft, almost sweet. “gege’s got you. just let it feel good, hm?”

you’re shaking already, like fine tremors running under your skin every time the tip of his tongue flicks just right. your fingers twist tighter in his hair, not pulling him away, just holding on. and it feels so fucking good.

caleb pulls back just enough to watch his own fingers slide through your folds, two of them, thick from years of training, looking obscene against how soft and swollen you are. he spreads you open with them, groans low when he sees how you clench around nothing.

“look at that,” he breathes, almost to himself. “pretty little hole fluttering like it’s begging for something.” his thumb circles your entrance, not pushing in, just teasing until your hips jerk. “should i give her what she wants?“

you kiss your teeth in frustration. “don’t be mean…”

“i’m not mean.” he presses the pad of his thumb inside just barely, feels you try to suck him deeper. “i’m patient. there’s a difference.” another slow circle. “you weren’t patient though, were you? touched this needy pussy while i was gone?”

your silence is answer enough. shame fills you, and you wish you could tell him you didn’t. but you couldn’t even wait 2 days? were you really this desperate? and disobeyed orders, at that.

caleb’s thumb stills for a second, like he’s savoring the way your body betrays you before his lips curl into something darker than a smile.

“thought so,” he murmurs, voice low. “couldn’t even wait two days, hm? my poor greedy girl… fingering yourself in my bed, using my pillow between your thighs probably.”

your whole face burns. you try to snap your legs closed again but his shoulders are too wide, his grip too steady. he doesn’t even look mad. if anything he looks pleased. smug. like he caught you doing exactly what he hoped you would.

he replaces his thumb with his middle finger, and pushes in, slow, until the first knuckle disappears inside you. you gasp, hips twitching up without permission.

“there she is,” he breathes, watching the way your cunt sucks at his finger like it’s trying to pull him home. “did you use two fingers? three? or were you too shy and just rubbed your little clit until you cried?”

you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste copper. the shame sits heavy and hot in your belly, twisting tighter with every slow drag of his finger. you want to lie. want to say you were good, that you only hugged his pillow and tried to sleep and nothing else. but your body’s already confessing by clenching greedily around that single thick finger like it’s starved.

“two…” the word slips out small and cracked. you squeeze your eyes shut. “i-i tried three… but it-it didn’t feel the same.”

caleb exhales roughly through his nose. two. three. you curled up in his sheets, legs spread, little fingers stuffed inside the same hole he’s staring at right now, chasing the ghost of him. he should be angry. should lecture you about waiting. but all he can think is how many times you came while moaning his name into his pillowcase.

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, so low you almost miss it. then louder, softer, “good girl. telling me the truth.” he crooks that finger inside you, slow and deliberate, searching until the pad presses right against your most sensitive spot

your mouth falls open on a silent cry. thighs shaking violently now. it’s too much and not enough and you hate how easy it is for him to unravel you, like he’s mapped every weak place since you were small enough to fit under his arm during thunderstorms.

he adds a second finger and the stretch burns sweetly, your walls flutter hard around the intrusion. you can hear how wet you are, the filthy little sounds every time he pumps in and out, controlled deep.

“look at me.”

you shake your head. you know your face is red, you can feel the heat. “meimei.” his voice dips into that deep register. “look at me while i play with you.”

you peek through your fingers. his eyes are almost black. lips parted. cheeks flushed. hair messy from your pulling. he looks wrecked and he hasn’t even taken his clothes off yet.

“there’s my girl,” he murmurs. praise drips like honey over broken glass. “so fucking pretty when you’re embarrassed.”

caleb leans in again, tongue flicking your clit in quick, mean little strokes while his fingers curl on every drag out, it’s relentless. your hips buck uselessly and you’re making sounds you don’t recognize; they’re high, hiccupy, desperate while the coil in your belly is winding so tight it hurts.

it’s the same boy who carried you home when you skinned both knees racing him down the driveway, and now his mouth is on you, his fingers are inside you. and you’re going to come all over his face like some needy, shameless thing.

shame makes the pleasure sharper. you’re crying a little, with hot embarrassed tears slipping into your mouth. you almost hate how your body arches toward him like it’s the most natural thing.

“g’nna—caleb—gege—” your voice splinters. “yeah?” he groans against your clit. “gonna come for me?” he sucks hard at the same moment he grinds the heel of his palm against your clit and curls both fingers deep

you can’t answer. the pressure snaps and it hits like a fist. your whole body locks, back bowing, thighs clamping around his head so hard he groans in approval as you fall back and let your back hit the mattress. your cunt spasms violently around his fingers, wet gushes coating his hand, his chin, dripping down onto the sheets. you’re shaking so badly your teeth chatter. little sobs punch out of your throat with every pulse. it’s too strong, too deep, too much and your vision whites out at the edges and for a second you’re just floating in it, in him, in the obscene wet heat of his mouth still working you through it.

caleb doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from overstimulation, weakly pushing at his forehead. only then does he pull back, still slow and reluctant. his lips and chin are obscene, shiny with you and he licks them deliberately while holding your glassy gaze.

“still with me, meimei?” his voice is hoarse. thick with want. you nod shakily in response but you can’t speak yet, your chest heaving.

he rises slowly, knees cracking from kneeling so long. towers over you for a second. broad and hard in his uniform pants, then leans down to kiss your forehead. soft. tender. then your temple, then the salty corner of your eye where those embarrassed tears still cling. his mouth is still wet with you and the realization makes fresh heat crawl up your neck.

you taste yourself when he finally reaches your lips, and it’s slick, tangy, unmistakably filthy, and he doesn’t rush the kiss. he just presses in slow, lets his tongue slide against yours. you whimper into his mouth at how obscene it feels. your own cum smeared between you both like some kind of claim. his hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking over your cheekbone while he licks lazily into you.

“you taste so sweet,” he mumbles against your lips, not even pulling back far enough to speak properly, which makes your breath hitch. “always have.”

caleb breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth down your jaw, then to the side of your throat where your pulse is hammering.

your thighs are still quivering, weak little aftershocks rolling through you every few seconds. you can feel how soaked the sheets are under your ass, how sticky your inner thighs feel, how your own slick is cooling against your skin now that his mouth isn’t there to warm it.

caleb pulls away from your neck to properly kneel between your legs and shrugs the jacket off, lets it drop behind him without looking before his fingers find the top button of his uniform shirt and pop it open without looking away from you. your eyes feel heavier at the sudden expanse of skin, the familiar scars you’ve traced with careful fingers before, the way the dog tags clink softly against his chest.

“you’re staring now,” he teases, low and smug, as he unbuckles his belt. the metal clinks. your stomach flips.

“am not.”

“are too.” the belt slides free with a long leather hiss. he doubles it once in his hand, then drops it to the floor with a dull thump. he drags his zipper down so deliberately you feel every tooth separate. he shoves the fabric past his hips and steps out of them, kicking boots and socks off in the same motion until he’s just in black briefs that do nothing to hide how thick and heavy he is.

you stare. you can’t help it. he’s always been bigger than you in every way. shoulders, hands, height. but seeing him like this, stripped down, cock straining against the cotton, makes something inside you clench again despite how sensitive you still are.

he hooks his thumbs in the waistband and drags the briefs down inch by inch. when his cock springs free it slaps wetly against his stomach. it’s flushed dark, tip already leaking, veins standing out and he wraps a fist around himself once, slow pump from base to tip, and hisses through his teeth.

“fuck… look what you do to me.” his voice cracks just a little. “two days thinking about this pussy and i’m already leaking.”

your t-shirt, his t-shirt, is rucked up under your breasts now, nipples stiff against the damp cotton from the way your chest keeps heaving. caleb’s eyes drag down your body again, slower this time.

“at least i waited. unlike someone.”

you feel the words land like a slap, which makes your thighs twitch together instinctively, but caleb’s still kneeling between them, keeping you spread, keeping you open. the cool air hits your soaked folds again and you whimper, half from embarrassment, half because your clit is still throbbing, oversensitive and greedy even after your previous orgasm.

“that’s not fair,” you mumble, voice small and wrecked. “you were gone.”

“i know.” his fist lazily strokes himself. slow, deliberate pulls, thumb swiping over the slit every time he reaches the head so a fresh bead of precum wells up and slides down the shaft. “doesn’t change the fact that my sweet little meimei couldn’t keep her hands off herself for forty-eight hours.”

“i tried,” you whisper, barely audible. your voice cracks on the last word and you hate how pathetic it sounds.

caleb’s hand stills on his cock. he tilts his head, studying you like he’s trying to decide whether to tease or comfort. the corner of his mouth quirks.

“i know you did, meimei.” softer now. almost tender. “doesn’t make it any less pathetic.”

he leans over you again after he lets go off his cock, caging you with his forearms braced on either side of your head. the heat rolling off his bare skin makes you shiver. his cock brushes the inside of your thigh. it’s hot, heavy, and slick at the tip and your whole body jolts.

“easy,” he murmurs, nosing along your cheek. “i’m not mad.” you swallow hard. “feels like you are.”

“nah.” he drags the head of his cock through your folds, slow, unhurried, coating himself in the mess you already made. just the blunt pressure of him sliding against your swollen clit makes your hips twitch up.

another slow glide. he notches himself at your entrance without pushing in, just rests there, letting you feel how thick he is, how wide he’d stretch you. your cunt flutters uselessly around nothing and he groans low in his throat.

“fuck… she’s still greedy even after coming all over my face.”

your arms come up on instinct, looping around his neck, fingers digging into the short hairs at his nape. you hide your burning face against the side of his throat and he chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.

“hugging me so tight already,” he teases, voice rough. “scared i’ll leave again?”

“…maybe.”

he stills. just for a second. then his free hand slides under your lower back, lifting your hips so he can grind against you more deliberately. the slick slide of his cock dragging over your clit, then back down to nudge your hole, over and over. lazy. almost sweet. like he’s got nowhere else to be. “not going anywhere tonight,” he promises against your temple. “gonna stay right here.”

you whimper into his neck. the friction is perfect. it’s too soft to hurt your oversensitive nerves, but firm enough to keep the low simmer in your belly from fading. every time the ridge of his head catches your clit you make a small, broken sound and he answers with a quiet grunt.

“feels good?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

“mhm…”

“tell me.”

your thighs tremble where they’re hooked loosely around his waist. “feels… really good, gege.”

he hums, pleased. rocks a little harder. the wet sounds between you are loud in the quiet room. rain still tapping the window, your shaky breaths, the filthy slick glide of skin on skin.

“good girl.” he kisses the shell of your ear. “you always get so clingy after you come.“

caleb laughs under his breath before he shifts his angle so the length of him slides right over your clit with every lazy roll of his hips. your breath catches hard. your arms tighten around his neck like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.

“gege…”

“hm?”

“inside,” you whisper. the word feels huge. shameful. desperate. “please.”

he groans like you punched him in the gut. his forehead drops to your shoulder for a second while he gets himself under control. “you sure?” even now he checks. even with his cock throbbing against you, leaking all over your folds. “don’t want to hurt you.”

“won’t hurt.” your voice is small. “i want it. want you.”

he exhales roughly. kisses the side of your neck once, open-mouthed and slow. “okay, meimei.”

he pulls back just enough to look down between you. wraps a fist around the base of himself, lines up properly. the blunt head presses against your entrance again. this time he doesn’t pull away.

he pushes just the tip inside. slow. careful. enough that you feel the stretch right at your entrance, the fat head popping past your hole, and nothing else. he stays there, perfectly still except for the way his hand grips his base tightly, keeping the rest of him from following.

your breath snags because it’s lewd; the way your cunt flutters helplessly around just that first thick inch, trying to pull him deeper like it has a mind of its own. your walls keep rippling, greedy little squeezes that make his jaw flex.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, barely a sound. “feel that? just the tip and you’re already sucking on me like that.”

shame floods your chest again, sharp and syrupy. you shouldn’t like how obscene it sounds, the wet click every time he rocks the tiniest bit forward and back, only letting the head dip in and out. it’s shallow and filthy and makes your hips twitch up without permission, chasing more, but he’s stronger; he keeps you pinned with that one steady hand on your hip and the other still wrapped around his cock.

“easy,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and fond at the same time. “not yet. let her get used to it first.”

you hide your face in the crook of his neck again. you can’t look. can’t watch how your own body betrays you, how your slick keeps leaking out around him, coating his fingers where they grip himself, dripping down to pool under your ass. every time he pulls out the head catches on your hole and you make this tiny, mortified hiccup of a sound.

another slow nudge. in. out. just the head again which makes your thighs tremble hard around his waist. “gege…” your voice cracks, small and pleading. “please… more…” he shushes you gently, lips brushing your temple. “i know. i know you want it all.” he rocks again. shallow, obscene little thrusts that make wet clicking noises every time he pops back inside.

“you’re doing so good already,” he keeps whispering, voice thick. “just let me take my time with you.”

another shallow rock, followed by a slow drag out until the ridge catches, then gentle push back in, only the head again. your cunt clenches hard every single time like it’s trying to keep him there forever. the sound is filthy, wet little pops and sticky glides that make your ears burn. you can feel how much you’re leaking now, how it’s running down between your cheeks, soaking the sheets even more.

“just… give it to me. please, gege,” you mumble against his throat, voice small and cracked. he kisses your temple once. “okay,” he rasps. “okay, princess. you asked so pretty.”

he finally lets go of his base and both hands slide under your hips now, lifting you just enough that your lower back arches off the mattress before he starts to sink in properly. it’s slow, almost torturous. the stretch burns sweet and deep as inch after thick inch slides inside, spreading you open in a way your fingers never could. your walls have to yield, fluttering and spasming around him like they’re trying to decide whether to push him out or pull him home. you gasp sharp against his neck, nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders.

“breathe,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours now. halfway in he pauses, lets you feel how full you already are. your cunt is clenching rhythmically, milking what he’s given you, and he hisses through his teeth.

“shit… look at you. swallowing me like you were made for it.” the praise hits like a spark straight to your clit. you whimper, hips twitching up instinctively, trying to take more. it makes him chuckles lowly in his throat. “greedy little thing. always have been.”

he rolls his hips once, a slow, deep grind that makes his pelvis press right against your clit and his cock drag against every sensitive spot inside at once. your whole body jolts, a broken moan punching out of you before you can swallow it.

“there,” he breathes, doing it again. another lazy grind, pelvis flush to yours, pubic bone rubbing slow circles over your swollen clit while he stays buried to the hilt. “feel that meimei?”

your thighs trembling where they’re hooked around his waist and every grind sends sparks shooting up your spine, the pressure building fast again even though you just came. your cunt keeps fluttering around him, wet and hot and so full it feels obscene.

he starts moving properly then, with long, deep strokes that pull almost all the way out before sliding back in until your pelvises kiss again. every thrust ends with that same grinding roll, his hips circling so his cock stirs inside you.

“gege—!” your voice cracks high and desperate. “you can take it,” he groans, voice wrecked. “you’re taking it so fucking good.” he presses down harder on the next grind, making sure you feel every inch stretching you, every throb of him inside. your walls clamp down hard in response and he swears under his breath.

he keeps the rhythm slow at first, long deliberate drags out until just the head catches on your rim again, then sinking back in deep enough that his hips meet yours with a soft, wet slap. every time he bottoms out he grinds down hard, which make your toes curl against his lower back.

your breath comes in short, hiccuping gasps against his throat. the fullness is overwhelming, it’s thick and hot and unyielding, stretching you so wide you can feel every vein, every pulse of him buried inside. your walls keep fluttering helplessly around the intrusion, trying to adjust, trying to grip, but he’s so much bigger than anything you’ve ever taken that it borders on too much. the burn has faded into this syrupy, aching pleasure that makes your eyes water again.

you try to hide your face but he catches your chin gently, tilts your head back so you have to meet his eyes. they’re dark, heavy-lidded, pupils blown so wide there’s almost no hazel left. “don’t hide,” he says softly. “let me see you fall apart.”

another deep thrust. he pulls out slow, lets you feel every inch dragging against your walls, then snaps his hips forward until your pelvises grind together again. the pressure on your clit is perfect. it’s too much and exactly right and your whole body arches off the mattress with a broken sob.

“gege—too deep—”

“you can take it deeper,” he groans, voice low and filthy. “you’re taking it so well already. look how pretty you open up for me.”

he hooks one of your knees higher over his elbow, spreading you wider, changing the angle just enough that the next thrust hits something inside that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. your mouth falls open on a silent cry. your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks and he hisses in approval, hips stuttering for a second before he picks up the pace. no more lazy grinds now. he starts thrusting properly with long, powerful strokes that make the headboard tap softly against the wall in time with the rain. every time he bottoms out there’s that same filthy wet smack of skin on skin, his balls slapping lightly against you, your slick making everything glide obscenely easy.

“tell me how it feels,” he rasps against your mouth. “tell gege.”

“f-full,” you whimper, voice cracking on every thrust. “so full—gege—can feel you everywhere—”

“yeah?” he grunts, slamming in harder.

your thighs are trembling violently now, muscles jumping every time he drives deep. the coil in your belly is winding tighter again, faster this time, sharper. every thrust punches the air out of your lungs in little breathless sounds you can’t control. your cunt is clenching rhythmically around him, fluttering hard on every outstroke like it’s trying to keep him inside forever. he feels it. groans rough and low in his throat.

“fuck… gonna come again, aren’t you? already?”

you nod frantically, tears slipping down your temples into your hair. “can’t—can’t help it—gege please—”

“go on,” he growls, hips snapping faster now, relentless. “come on my cock. let me feel it.”

the next thrusts are brutal, deep and grinding, and hit that spot again, over and over. your whole body locks up. back bowing so hard your breasts press against his chest. thighs clamping around his waist like a vice. your cunt clamps down viciously around him, spasming in violent, rhythmic waves that milk every thick inch buried inside you. you come so hard it hurts. a broken, keening cry tears out of your throat as your vision whites out completely. wet gushes flood around him, soaking his pelvis, dripping down his balls, making every thrust even slicker, louder. your whole body convulses, little sobs punching out with every pulse. your nails dig into his shoulders hard but he doesn’t stop, just fucks you through it with deep, punishing strokes that prolong every wave until you’re whimpering from overstimulation.

caleb’s rhythm falters for the first time. his breath is ragged against your neck, hips stuttering as your walls keep fluttering and squeezing around him like they’re trying to pull him over the edge too.

“fuck—meimei—you’re gonna make me—” he cuts off with a low, guttural groan, “take it, fuuuck. take it.”

he buries himself to the hilt and grinds down hard one last time. his cock throbs violently inside you, swelling even thicker as he comes in hot, pulsing spurts that you can feel painting your walls. he keeps rocking through it, shallow little thrusts that push his cum deeper, mixing with your own mess until everything is slick and overflowing.

he collapses over you carefully, weight braced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you, forehead pressed to yours. both of you are shaking, breathing hard in the quiet room.

he kisses you slow and lazy, tasting like salt and you and him all mixed together, his moans hoarse and soft. “my good girl,” he murmurs against your lips, voice wrecked and soft. “took me so well.”

you can only whimper in response, too overwhelmed to speak, arms still wrapped tight around his neck like you’ll never let go. he stays buried deep even after he finishes, hips still pressed flush to yours like he can’t bear the thought of pulling out yet. his cock twitches inside you every few seconds, aftershocks making him leak a little more, warm and thick, until you feel it start to trickle out around where you’re joined, sliding slow and sticky down between your cheeks to the already ruined sheets.

your whole body feels liquid, boneless. thighs still trembling where they’re draped over his hips, chest heaving against his, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can feel it through his ribs. every tiny shift of him inside you sends little sparks skittering up your spine, oversensitive and raw, and you whimper softly into the crook of his neck without meaning to. caleb exhales long and shaky against your temple, nose brushing your hairline.

“still with me?” he asks, voice tender before he kisses your forehead. your eyelids. the tip of your nose. soft. reverent. “uh-huh…”

“seems you’ll have to take another shower. come on, i’ll help you, meimei.”

[xiayizhou04]

✦ big bro caleb copping a feel ☆ smut [cw] incest

“You’re so gross, gege.”

You bat his hand away when you feel his fingers reach under your skirt from behind you. The mall is packed today, filled with others browsing and looking for something to buy.

“No panties?” Caleb trails after you, hand slipping under again. His fingers trail up to your hips, feeling the waistband. “Hm… let me guess. Your red lace ones with the bow.”

“Stop touching me,” you hiss, mortified that he knows which pair you’re wearing just by touch alone. “Wait ‘till we get home. I haven’t found the shirt I wanted yet and you said you’d let me stay as long as I wanted today.”

“I know, I know, don’t throw a fit,” he hums, hand settling to rest against your hip. “What, I can’t touch my girlfriend?”

“Sister,” you correct. “We’re in public. Stop acting weird, what if someone like Gideon sees us?”

Caleb shrugs, not bothering to answer as he follows you towards another store.

You go through the racks, humming to yourself as you browse the colourful array of clothing. Suspicious of the silence behind you, you turn to look behind you.

“…Caleb,” you whine. The cold case of his phone brushes your inner thigh, unshamefully keeping you still by your waist when he realizes he's been caught. As you squirm, he repositions his phone under your skirt to take another picture of the fabric pressing against your plump folds. “You pervert…”

Caleb quickly pockets his phone with a smile as he looks down at you with innocent eyes. "What? I was just adjusting your skirt. It looked crooked." He reaches out to 'fix' your non-existent wrinkles, his fingers deliberately brushing against your skin.

You feel your face heat up, embarrassed that he took a picture in such a crowded store with shoppers just feet away. "Delete it. Now." Your voice comes out breathier than intended, which only makes his smile widen.

His arms wrap around your wrist, tugging you closer to press your back against his chest. “I have a better idea.”

—

“I hate you!” The public bathroom is empty, the only sounds coming from Caleb’s slick hand and spit covered cock.

He grunts as he glides his thumb against his throbbing, flushed tip. “Didn’t you say you wanted that top? I’ll buy it for you, just listen to gege.”

You're holding your skirt and panties stiffly away from your body by the waistband, open for him to stare all he wants as he hunches over you. “Yes but…”

Caleb groans, fingers tightening around his length as he continues to jerk off. His eyes are trained on your puffy folds, imagining how it'll look after he finishes on them. "Come on, lil’ sis. You can have whatever you want... just stay still." He bites his lip, eyes flicking up to see your cutely scrunched face as you fidget, your skirt riding up.

“This is embarrassing…!” You complain, aware that it will probably turn him on further.

He ignores your protest, his breathing becoming heavier as his rhythm picks up. "You're doing so good for me, pips." His free hand reaches out to squeeze your thigh desperately. "Be a good girl for big brother and stay like this a little longer."

“Hurry up,” you hiccup, cunt clenching as you watch him pleasure himself at the sight of you. His cock is leaking precum all over his fingers, trailing down the veins of his length and towards his full, heavy balls. The large amount of slick pools down to the dark patch of hair at his base, staining the zipper of his pants.

“So impatient… fuck. I'm gonna cum. Let me see your tight lil’ cunny, baby. Still sore from yesterday?” Panting and bucking his hips into his hand, he carefully aims his tip towards the gap you’ve been holding open to unload thick, sticky ropes, his warm cum latching onto your panties and chubby folds.

Riding out his high, Caleb head tilts back as he squeezes the tip of his engorged cock trying to rub out every last drop of cum. “Fuck, lil’ sister, you look the prettiest when covered in big brother’s cum.”

You bite back a whine, focused on the degrading aftermath of his cooling semen clinging to your skin. This is humiliating, you think to yourself, as you watch him tuck his softening cock back into his pants to zip up. He adjusts your panties and skirt for you, patting your sensitive mound through the damp fabric.

“Let’s go get that top, baby sister.” Caleb presses a kiss to your temple. “Keep those panties full for me, yeah? Maybe later we won’t need lube.”

xiayizhou04’s masterlist

[xyzlilies]

Zayne leaving flowers on Caleb‘s grave once he finds out just how thoroughly that man groomed you

[applefishing]

medical kink with zayne doctor/patient, dubcon, cum as medicine

You’ve only been seeing him a few weeks when he suggests you have a full checkup. He's calm, composed and professional when he explains exactly what that means, and it should be completely normal.

But he's not just your doctor. The unspoken agreement to ignore the relationship you shared as children during each appointment has suited you perfectly fine. But as he hands you a small thin gown and draws the curtains around the small bed so you can change, you suddenly find yourself wishing you’d faced the elephant in the room before now.

The rhythmic tapping of his keyboard is the only accompaniment to your undressing. And it’s only when you hook your thumbs into the elastic of your underwear that you find your voice. “Do you think… maybe I should see another doctor for this?”

He stops typing. Silence, 1… 2…

A draw slams.

Your nails dig into your hips as you jump, startled.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says. Calm. Matter of fact. Final. “Are you ready?”

You quickly let your underwear drop and slip into the flimsy hospital gown. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m… ready.”

You blink into the light as the curtain is pulled back, exposing you the full glare of the fluorescents.

A large shadow offers you a little relief.

“Lie down for me, please,” he instructs as he snaps a pair of blue gloves onto his hands.

It starts just as you expect, you lace your fingers together across your stomach and stare at the white ceiling and pretend it’s normal to have your childhood friend positioning himself between your legs under bright fluorescents at 10 in the morning, or at all.

He parts your thighs with gentle confidence. “It’s just a quick look,” he says. “Nothing invasive. Try and stay still for me.”

You nod, closing your eyes to seek a little false privacy.

His chair squeaks as he adjusts himself between your legs, but apart from a hand on your thigh, he doesn’t touch you. The air hits you, remining you of your starkness, and it’s unlike anything else, that feeling of exposure.

You attempt to keep your breathing steady, to match his own.

Then his chair squeaks again, and you can feel he’s closer. So close his breath warms the skin of your thighs. “Mm,” he hums, “just a little cold from the gloves now.”

You hold your breath. The chair squeaks. And despite your best efforts, you flinch at the light brush of his gloves. It’s not from the cold. In fact, they aren’t cold at all. You can feel the warmth of his hands through the plastic. But you were expecting something a little more assured, firm, purposeful.

This touch is light. So light it almost tickles.

“It’s alright,” he says. “Just do your best to stay still.”

You suck in a deep breath, and his finger returns. Still far too light. One single, continuous stroke from your mound to your entrance. Feather-light.

That’s how he touches you for what feels like minutes.

It’s long enough that the moment he applies a little pressure to part your lips, you don’t flinch at all—accustomed to his touch. Maybe that was the purpose, you ponder. Maybe this was normal.

“Are you sexually active?” he asks suddenly, his fingers continuing their inspection.

Your eyes blink open into the harsh light. “No,” you mutter.

“Pardon?”

“No,” you answer, loud enough to reach him this time.

“At all?”

You shake your head. A gesture he must catch, because he doesn’t repeat his question. Instead, he hums, continuing his prodding and stroking. He mumbles something too. You’re sure of it. But you can’t bring yourself to question him, and he doesn’t repeat himself, so you assume it’s unimportant.

When the tip of his index finger brushes directly over your hole for the first time, your knees involuntarily snap shut. Or at least, they make an attempt.

He catches your thigh. “Did that hurt?”

“No. Sorry, I—”

“It’s okay,’ he says. “I’m not going inside, remember? Just touching.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, letting your legs relax again.

“Good girl.”

Your breath hitches. Your eyes fix to one spot on the ceiling. Good girl. You have to breathe again. You could breathe. You force yourself to breathe.

You’d misheard him.

This was normal.

His finger prods at your entrance, like he was testing how much pressure he would have to apply to breach you.

Then, “What do you use for menstruation?”

You blink, processing like he was speaking a foreign language you’d just started to pick up.

“Tampons? Pads?” he adds.

“Pads.”

“Have you tried tampons?”

“No.”

He hums. “And have you used any toys?”

You take a shaky breath in. “Toys?”

“Sex toys.”

His warm hand presses against your thigh, holding you spread open before him. “I… No.”

“Fingers?”

Your breathing is uneven now. You can’t control it. You’ve lost the reigns and the only thing you have to ground you is the eye-watering white light above you.

“A little.”

His finger prods, still not breaching. “A little?”

“Mm,” is all you can offer in response.

And then you feel it. His finger moves just enough to spread a little wetness across your skin.

Oh god.

Your eyes squeeze shut.

“It’s okay,” he soothes. “It’s healthy.” He’s only used one finger from the start. And it’s the same index finger that now works to spread your own humiliation up from your entrance to your mound, where he started. “It’s perfectly healthy,” he says again. “Do you know what it’s for?”

Yes. Of course you did.

You’re silent, focusing on breathing. You take a few shaky breaths. He waits.

Then, without yet understanding why, you shake your head.

His finger pauses. A heavy moment of silence. Then his chair squeaks. His breath brushes against the top of your thigh.

“It’s to reduce friction,” he says as his finger works up and down your slit. “Keeps you nice and comfortable…” His voice is different now, you realise. Distracted. “So it’s very good that you get so slippery,” he continues. “So, so healthy. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

There’s one press after that: one you are sure will push past that little cushion of resistance and slip inside.

He rolls back right at the moment you’re sure he’ll enter, separating himself from you with such a suddenness you are laying there spread wide for an embarrassing long moment before pulling your knees together.

He walks across the room. You don’t dare watch him directly, just track him through your periphery. His gloves snap off and fall into a bin.

He clears his throat.

Then he’s at your bedside. He blocks the light from above you, towering—his normal stoic expression gracing his pretty features. “Sit up for me,” he instructs, all confident professionalism again.

You tuck your knees up into your chest as you pull yourself up.

Then he reaches for his chair and tugs it around to the bedside. “Legs over the edge.”

They hang between his knees like this, and you have no escape. You’re facing him directly now. So you stare at the I.D tag on his chest as he speaks.

“Just a quick breast check. Alright?”

You immediately regret the way your eyes flash up to meet his, dropping them back to his chest as you nod.

He leans forward, right into your space, and it takes you a moment to release he’s reaching behind you to untie the flimsy little string holding your only form of protection against your body.

You grab his forearm, fingers resting against one of his many smooth scars.

His green eyes flick between your own, waiting.

Your arm drops.

His finger brushes against your bare skin as he gently pulls the thin fabric down over your shoulders.

There’s a poster on the wall behind him. A childlike drawing of a boy and a girl playing together on a swing set. You can’t make out the text. But as your doctor’s ungloved hand cups your breast for the first time, you're thinking of the last time you saw him, before all this—not as your doctor, as your playmate.

Your breathing is harder to disguise now. It’s almost more exposing than when he was between your legs. You have nowhere to hide. Your chest rises and falls as he squeezes and gropes–-examines you.

“Do you do regular self-checks?”

You shake your head.

He looks up at you. You keep your eyes fixed over his shoulder.

“You can do it when you shower,” he says. “Just like this.” His fingers press into your skin, each hand working at one breast each now. “Okay?”

You nod.

“Good g–-” His lips press together. Your eyes had snapped to his face at the word good. Quick enough to catch him stop himself.

When he stands, you assume it’s all over. You’re tugging at your gown when he settles his large hand over your wrist to stop you. Then he sits on the bed and shuffles back a little, arranging his long limbs behind you.

“Not quite done,” he says. “Lean back.”

You don’t move, unsure, despite his clear instructions. Lean back… into him?

He applies gentle pressure to your shoulder, guiding you back against his chest. And after a moment of tension, your muscles relax. This was better somehow. You couldn’t see him—weren’t forced to avoid his gaze.

But then his hand falls to your stomach, and his breath hits the shell of your ear as he looks over your shoulder at your exposed breasts. “Easier to show you like this,” he says. His large hands cup you, lifting their weight entirely from your chest. “Just wash as usual,” he starts as his thumbs brush past your nipples. “It’ll be easier when you’re all soapy and slippery. Less friction. Like I explained before. That way you can be nice and thorough. Take your time.” His grip tightens, squeezing in a way that forces you back against him. He lips brush the shell of your ear. “You can do that, can’t you?”

You nod. Then, “Yeah.” It’s a pathetic little sound. A squeak more than anything.

“Does this hurt?” he asks as he fondles you. There’s no precision in his movements now. Not like there was when he was between your legs.

“No.”

“That’s good,” he says with a hum, and you’re sure his lips brush your neck.

“I’m healthy?”

He inhales deeply, his lips touching your bare skin again. “So healthy,” he exhales. “Perfect.”

Your eyes flutter shut, and your head falls back, and you go limp. You thought you’d let your muscles relax before. You’d thought wrong.

His breath continues warming your skin as he speaks—as he gropes and presses you firmly against him. “I should do one more check without gloves,” he mutters. “Just wanna make sure.”

“Mm,” you hum, feeling entirely docile now—pliant. A passenger.

One of his hands leaves your breasts and works at the fabric bunched up at your hips, so he can slip his bare hand between your legs. He barely touches you. His entire palm ghosts over your entire cunt, cradled between your thighs. Then a finger drops down, right at your hole, tapping at your slick—playing with it. Like tapping at his keys.

“Feel that?” he says from his position over your shoulder. Tap, tap, tap. “You have such a soft, healthy, drippy little hole.” His lips press against your neck, confident now. No plausible deniability. No accidental brushes. He’s kissing your neck.

Then, without warning, he dips inside. Thick and warm, guided by all your wetness. “I know you’ve never had anything in here. But you’re made for it.” His breathing is heavy. Hot against your skin. “Feel the way it sucks at my finger?” His prods you, dipping in and out, just at the entrance. “It’s all empty. Not good for you to let it get all desperate like that.”

“I—I didn’t know.”

“I know,” he soothes. “You’ve always been so good.”

His other hand lifts from your breast to your chin, then his fingers are against your lips. He almost fumbles around a little before his thumb tugs at your fuller lower lip.

“I can help you,” he mutters, breathy. “I can get it all nice and full, warm and sticky and full. It’ll be so good for you. Like medicine.”

“Medicine?” The word comes out a little wonky, distorted from his continued exploration of your lips.

“Mm,” he hums. “Medicine.”

“Mm, ‘Kay.”

He inhales again, deep and long, with his nose pressed into your skin. Then you’re being manipulated—rearranged onto your back with a scratchy pillow beneath your head. His warm hands, one wet from slick, the other from saliva, press your thighs back so you are exposed beneath him. It’s nothing new. Your eyes meet the familiar white ceiling and you cradle one breast in your palm for comfort as his large body settles between your legs.

It’s the first time you’ve seen his face since he was sitting in front of you. It’s all different now. His lips are pinker—wetter. They rest a little apart, relaxed. All the controlled stoic professionalism has been replaced with… something else. Less tension. Less control. His movements aren’t careful and precise. He fumbles with his belt. He tugs a little at his tie, like it bothers him. And the entire time his eyes don’t move from your pulsing cunt.

You’re long past shame.

You ache.

And when he rests his heavy cock on you, you’re consumed. “Medicine,” you whimper.

His eyes snap to yours.

You nibble on your knuckle, unsure what to do with your hands.

When it’s clear you aren’t repeating yourself, he grips himself. “Pardon?”

Your hand snakes down your stomach, haulting at your mound, and curling into a fist before going slack. “Medicine.”

He leans forward, touching his leaking tip to your hole and applying the slightest pressure. “That’s what you need? You need your doctor to fill you up with medicine?”

His eyes fix on your lips as he nudges at your entrance, as you nod, as you suck your own finger into your mouth. “All right, sweetheart. Your doctor will make sure you stay exactly like this… just this perfect… give you lots and lots of medicine.” He slips up between your folds a few times, playing in all the wetness he’d worked so hard to tease from your hole and spread over you.

And when he’s worked himself inside, it doesn’t take long before he’s falling over you, before he’s muttering something about checking your mouth, before he’s mumbling about how healthy you taste around tangled tongues, before he’s grinding his hips into yours and telling you how important it is he gets the medicine nice and deep.

[applefishing]

caleb checks if he'd fit inside size difference, size kink, excessive use of gege

He was kind, and gentle, and patient. That was how you knew him. Even when tension radiated off his body after a long absence with the fleet. Even when you pestered him, pushed him, secretly hoping he might snap and finally, finally let you make it better.

It's no different now, as he sits there across from you, helping you finish a model plane you'd been working on for weeks.

You crawl across the carpet to him, frustrated with the fiddly parts. "I can't make them fit," you pout, holding out two pieces for inspection.

"Hm?" he hums, placing his own little piece of the project down beside him. "Let me see."

You watch him work on slotting the two parts together, his large, vascular hands manipulating the delicate plastic with a gentleness that reminded you of yourself––of the restraint he showed when holding you.

He was bigger, after all. So much bigger. All of him.

"There," he says, holding out the expertly joined pieces for you to take. "They fit."

"You forced them."

He looks at the pieces, then to you. "Nah, they fit perfectly. See?" He gestures for you to take them––to see for yourself.

You refuse, unmoving.

He tilts his head. "What's wrong?"

"You're stronger than me."

His lips twitch a little in one corner. "Only a little."

You shake your head, frowning.

"Alright," he says, "Much stronger. Happy?" He asks, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"And bigger."

His eyes drop, analysing, like he hasn't noticed before. Then, a little smile. "Only a little."

You crawl a little closer. Settling on your knees in front of him. "Much bigger."

"Is that right?" he questions, amused.

"Look," you say, holding your palm up for him to meet with his own. His eyes make a slight flick away from your face to your joined hands—to the way his fingers curl over yours comfortably.

"Maybe I just have very… very, large hands," he says as his fingers make a path down your palm to wrap around your wrist. His eyes flick across your face. Then, "Should we check the rest of me, too? Check how much bigger I am?"

He was teasing. Playing. Testing. You could turn around and return to your model, and he'd continue on just as he had before: a calm, warm presence.

Instead, you untuck your legs from beneath you, and keeping your eyes on his, you lower yourself onto your back––hair splayed out across the carpet. He’s pulled a little towards you as he refuses to release your wrist, angling down over you.

A pause.

"Alright," he says finally, much like he had when you'd passed him your two difficult plane parts. "Let gege see."

He lifts himself to his knees and shuffles even closer. Then he lifts your legs and arranges them around his waist and hips, slotting himself up against you.

"Hm," he hums, looming over you, blocking out the sun through the window behind him. "You do look very small like this." His hand snakes up your thigh. A smile pulls at his lips. "You'll stay still for me while I check, won't you? You can be good for gege and stay nice and still.”

Despite your nod––a silent promise to obey, to be good––he keeps his grip on your ankle as he works to undo the button at his waistband. Control. You didn’t mind it at all. Control was safe.

And when he shoves his pants down just below his ass, he closes the gap between you again, pressing himself between your thighs.

His movements are slow, precise, like they’d been as he manipulated the tiny little plastic pieces. A hand snaking its way up your calf. His warm palm wrapping around your thigh as his heavy cock, confined in dark briefs, rests against your white cotton underwear.

“See?” you squeak as he rocks his hips once against you. “All of you is bigger. We wouldn’t fit.”

“Wouldn’t fit?” he questions, mocking.

Then, without warning, he hooks his thumb into the waistband of his briefs and tugs them down to free himself. Hard, and a little pink at the tip, it adds to his looming presence over you.

Using one hand to hold your hips slightly off the ground, up against him nice and close, he uses the other to press his cock down against your belly.

His head tilts a little.

“I could make it fit,” he announces, sounding a little distracted, eyes fixed where he measures himself against you. “Would stretch your pretty little hole open,” he says. “Might hurt a little… But you could bite my hand, yeah? You can take it out on gege.”

You shift a little, starting to squirm.

“Might just take the tip…” he continues as his hand works a little over himself. “But if you were really good for me… so, so good… you could hold on to me tight and let me sink all the way inside… would fill your belly up nice and deep… but we’d fit. Gege promises.”

[cyberlillies]

routine body inspections with caleb gege!

cw: incest, body inspection, manipulation, nipple play, hole inspection, squirting, scummy gentle caleb refers to himself as gege all the time.

wc: ~2.8k

your elder brother caleb took over the role of your guardian ever since you could recall. he did everything a caretaker is supposed to. he fed you, made sure you went to school, helped you in your studies, protected you from bullies, did your laundry and sometimes even helped you wash. it was a given for caleb to know everything about you — he had no other choice, had to take care of you after all — and that included knowing your body in its entirety.

caleb was overprotective and obsessive, you were his dear meimei, and he was devoted to you. you were his goddess, the most perfect specimen presented only to him. wanting to observe your body, the way it changed over time, the way it bloomed beautifully in front of his eyes, he carefully convinced you into his scheme.

gege is just looking for 'abnormalities' on your body, you don't want to fall sick right? hospitals are scary with big bad doctors threatening to put big big needles into you. don't worry, gege will make sure you never need to go there. just stay still and let gege examine your body!

if it's gege, then he must be right! so you let him inspect your body under the guise of a purely innocent examination. caleb was ecstatic, he'd already seen your body from the times he cleaned you up on days you felt lazy, had left lingering touches all over but never had the chance to touch you with such intention, with your doe eyes following his every move, your skin anticipating his every touch.

"pipsqueak, come on. it's time for the examination." caleb gently nudges you, trying to hide his excitement. you were sprawled on your bed, busy reading a book before bedtime. you had completely forgotten about the examination until caleb reminded you.

"oh..." you put down the book reluctantly, your actions a little hesitant. caleb sensed it. sitting beside you, he placed a hand on your exposed thigh. "what's the matter? you know this is important, right?"

you nodded slowly, eyes refusing to meet his. "you feel scared?" caleb asked you, you simply nodded again. sighing, he inched closer to you. "this won't hurt, if that's what you're worried about. you know i will never."

"i know, gege." you replied. you weren't scared of that, you were just shy of being exposed infront of your very attractive big brother. you know you weren't supposed to feel this way but he made your heart flutter too easily sometimes. like now, sitting a bit too close, leaning a bit more closer, his breath teasing the edges of your ear as he pulled you to him, trying to relax your nerves by pulling you into a hug.

"undress for me, pretty girl." caleb whispered into your ear. "let gege see your body."

moving slowly but surely, you stripped the layers off of yourself. caleb drank in every single exposure, pupils almost shaking as he saw the smooth expanse of your skin, the smallness of your body in comparison to his never failing to take his breath away. he might be a sinner, but if you were the temptation, he had no regrets.

reaching out to caress your shoulders, caleb ran his hands along your neck till your arms, feeling for anything unusual. your arms were crossed over your chest, thighs clenched together, trying to cover up. he held your hands up to his face, prying the crossed arms open, exposing your breasts to the room.

he kissed your fingertips. "such pretty hands." you flushed at the compliment, watching him bring your hand to his mouth. caleb bit your palm lightly, causing you to gasp. "pain receptors in the hands are fine." he kissed over the bite, licking the spot lightly while looking you in the eye.

"don't hide yourself from me." caleb maintains eye contact with you. "let me do my job easily, yeah? after this we can do something you like."

"...like watch a movie?" you asked.

"yeah, anything." he kissed the top of your head.

"okay." you replied, a bit more upbeat now. you relaxed your body, letting your limbs loose as he easily picked you up and situated you on his lap, your whole body on display for him.

"hmm." caleb hummed as he ran his hands along your sides, feeling the softness of your skin. you were so pure, unblemished, untouched, every part of you sculpted by the gods. his warm hands made you shiver as they reached your abdomen. you were a little ticklish there, so you jumped with a squeal when he splayed his hand on your tummy.

"tickles?" he looks to you for your reaction. you reply back with another yelp as he poked your waist. caleb almost smirks. "good. normal response here." hands travelling upwards, he enclosed your breasts in his large palms. soft, he sighs to himself. fingers sensing for any atypical growths, he pressed and kneaded the pudge of your bosom, skillfully checking the sides, the under, and closing in on your areola.

your breath gets heavier, skin prickling under his touch. his fingers grazed your nipples lightly and you jerked with the shock sent all over your body, pleasure shooting straight to your core. you grab his wrists, stopping any further movement on his part. "gege... feels weird!" you complain.

"weird?" caleb raised an eyebrow. "good, or bad?"

"i-i can't tell..." you bit your lip.

"that means i have to do it again." he pressed both his thumbs onto the flat of your nipples, rubbing the hardening buds till you're gasping and shaking. "it's important you feel good here. does it feel good?"

"wait— ah!" you can't help but arch your back away from his touch. "ah, ah! gege!"

"use your words. good or bad?" caleb asks again.

how could you, when you couldn't even understand the sensation. it made you want to cry and scream, yet it also made you want to laugh and dance at the same time. it didn't feel bad, no, gege's touch never felt bad.

"g-good!" you cry out.

"good." caleb echoes with a smile as his hands leave your breasts.

your hands reach up to your chest, replacing his touch with your own. you feel your nipples, intrigued by their stiffness. "gege, why are these so hard? is this normal?" you sound panicked. caleb can't believe how oblivious you were, his baby sister, knowing nothing about her own body and looking up to her big brother to teach her everything. big brother will definitely teach you everything!

"yes, pipsqueak. this is very normal." he pats your hair. "your breasts are here to help you make milk. your nipples, they get hard so it's easier for babies to drink milk from them."

"milk? babies? i'm gonna make babies?" your confusion only increases.

"no, not yet, pipsqueak. all in due time." caleb traced stray circles onto your tummy travelling upwards, his gaze fixated on your chest. "we've gotta make sure every function of your body is proper."

"this might feel funny, but it's important i check myself." caleb dips his head to latch onto your hardened nipple. you let out a squeal, the foreign sensation of his wet and soft tongue flicking the bud shot sparks of pleasure down your front. he took his sweet time sucking on the nip, biting and tugging with his teeth, using suction force to pull on them enough to have half your flesh in his mouth. his hands focused on massaging the outer areas, starting at your sides then pressing inwards, almost as if milking you.

"mmpf— so soft..." caleb groaned into your skin, mouth full with your breast. you felt the vibration of his voice on your nipple, now emerging as squeals of your own.

caleb hungrily sucked your tits, alternating between the two. your nips were quite swollen, to the point that they weren't hard anymore, and wouldn't become hard no matter how much he abused them with his teeth and tongue. you were a shaking mess in his embrace.

every little touch, bite, scrape on your tits made you feel headier than before. your tummy felt weird, no, not your tummy, something more... below. your hands braced themselves on his shoulders as you unknowingly grinded on his lap while letting out pathetic noises. you were scared, you couldn't stop your movements, it was as if you were being possessed!

"gege! wait!!" you pushed on his shoulders. caleb stopped, immediately looking at your face for signs of distress. "what happened? did it hurt, pips?" he cupped your cheek lovingly. you shake your head.

"no.. it didn't hurt, but it felt weird!" you grab his free hand and bring it to your lower belly. "it feels all tingly here... why!? gege, i'm scared! is there something wrong with me?" you start to tear up, all kinds of thoughts turning the unknown sensations into fearful monsters in your head.

"calm down, pipsqueak. it's all normal. you trust gege, right?" he waited for your response, satisfied with a simple nod from you. "good girl, everything is fine. buuut, gege will check just to make sure. okay?"

"...okay." you hesitated for a bit. "can you hug me first?"

caleb complied with your request, a large grin replacing the tense in his jaw. he pulled you to his sturdy chest, his warmth enveloping you as you exhaled in the comfort he granted you. looking down at your small frame, he couldn't help but feel giddy. you had no idea how happy you made him. every time he worried that he may hurt you or offend you, you keep proving him wrong. you were so good to him, beyond what he deserved.

your heart pounded loudly against your lungs, so loud you could feel it all over your body. with how closely you were slotted together with caleb, he could feel it too — in his chest that pressed against yours, in his hands that held you close to him. every moment had you redder in the face, realising that caleb could in fact feel you, and was holding in his laugh.

you smack him in the arm. "ow!" caleb faked hurt but he couldn't stop his boyish snicker. you glare at him, lifting your hand to hit him once again. "ah, wait! i'm sorry! were you embarrassed?"

"i couldn't help it, pips. you're just so cute." he ruffles your hair as you pout, a smile breaking through your lips with his praise.

"ready to continue?" he asks you. you nod and he gently lays you on the bed, his huge frame sliding down to settle between your legs. his hands hold either of your ankles, trailing along your legs to rest at the top of your thighs. his palms sink into the plush of your thighs as you gasped, his actions not helping with the tingles.

leaning down till his breath teased the skin on your stomach, he brought his fingers to the waistband of your panties, a light colored simple cotton one with tiny apples all over it — that he had personally picked for you.

"so, tell me. where did you say it felt weird? here?" his touch ghosts over your tummy.

you slowly shake your head. "no? should i go further down?" you nod, maybe a bit too eagerly. caleb's fingers trailed down, a feather touch over the clothed skin, skillfully navigating right onto your clit. you almost jump when he applies pressure, that was exactly the source of your tingles, how did he know?!

"this must be it." caleb patted his thumb over the bundle of nerves, causing you to happily yelp. "yuuup, isn't that right, pipsqueak?"

caleb circled your clit with his thumb, using his fingers to push the fabric of your panties into your folds, watching a wet patch form on them. "baby... you're wet down here."

"w-what..? gege, i swear i didn't pee myself!"

"i'll only know if i check myself. lift your hips."

caleb pulls your panties off your legs, pocketing them before you could notice. he spreads your legs against your weak resistance for whatever modesty you were trying to protect.

caleb's face is dangerously near your clit, mouth slightly agape as he practically salivates over having the little nub between his lips. his thumb rubs up and down your folds, dipping itself in your arousal. "it's so wet, princess. be honest, are you usually leaking?" you squirm as every word hits your clit before your ears.

"n-no! it's because of the tingles you gave me!" you cry out.

"oh? i gave you the tingles? then i must fix it." a finger breaches your hole, wiggling around inside you. caleb groaned at how tight you were, and why would you not be, you had remained untouched under his careful watch, all for his taking.

you let out little high-pitched moans as caleb swirled his finger inside you, feeling and stretching your walls. you feel something oncoming, a wave of pleasure threatening to drown you and you didn't know what to do. you tightly clench your thighs around his hand.

caleb gives you a disapproving look. "pipsqueak. be obedient. don't make gege force you." he warns, his other hand prying open your thighs once more. "tsk, silly girl. this is for your own good. now hold this position as gege checks your precious parts, okay?"

you have no choice but to obey. you didn't want to make caleb mad, he's always been nice to you and this is also a part of it... right?

caleb uses his arms to spread you wider, settling between your legs, his eyes directly on your pretty little cunt, observing how your tender opening fluttered around his girthy finger. you struggling to take even a finger was a sight he wanted to burn in his memories forever.

prodding carefully, he checked for your hymen, making sure it was intact. there would definitely be a day he'd gladly breach through that barrier to claim you completely, but not today, not till he had you prepared, till he had your pretty little mind fully under his control.

entranced by your juicy clit, his mouth watered for a taste. he hadn't planned it but his lips had a mind of their own as they latched onto the little bud, suckling on it, rolling it with his tongue. you twisted in his hold as his finger still worked on your hole, curving upwards to stroke your clit from the inside.

"ah, ah— gege, gege, gege!" you cried for him in midst of your haze, senses overstimulated by his assault on your pussy. he barely hummed a response on your skin, too engrossed in your taste, in the way your tiny body humped against his tongue desperately.

only when you started sobbing his name did he stop to take a look at you. "gege... gege.. please.." your eyes were squinted shut, possibly out of fear. "something's coming.. i-i'm about to pee!" you sobbed with urgency.

caleb's eyes flickered with thrill, his free hand finds itself on your lower tummy, pressing down right on your bladder. "ah!" you scream, hands instantly trying to fight his heavy one. "no! please, i'll pee!" you screamed, worried.

"shhh, it's alright, princess. just let it go, okay?" caleb encourages with a soothing tone, the finger stroking your insides speeding up, the pressure on your tummy becoming unbearable, your urge to release growing with every second.

caleb feels the rush of your release around his finger, your hole tightens and then all of a sudden, you're squirting all over his hand and face. he removed his finger to watch your muscles spasm as you squirt release after release, your hole now struggling with the sudden emptiness, a gaping void left as a reminder of his presence.

"that's it... that's my good girl." he praises you, eyes filled with infinite adoration. you're breathless, chest heaving to fill the lack of oxygen in your brain, feeling lightheaded being brought to your first orgasm with such intensity. you watch your release drip down his face, watch as he wipes himself off with his already wet hand, licking some of it off his palm, savouring your taste.

"gege... was that okay?" you were so innocent, his heart swelled at your words.

"yes, baby. that was perfect." caleb hummed in delight. "let me clean you up and then we're done, okay?" he was finished playing with your body, despite the glaring problem in his own. he could take care of it by himself for now, it was too early to trouble you for this.

his lips return to your quivering pussy, stealing a taste right from the source. his tongue licks you eagerly, lapping up your folds and replacing your arousal with his saliva. he doesn't tease your sensitive parts anymore, your clit was already pretty swollen, all you needed now was rest and lots of cuddles.

finished with his work, he picks you up and heads for the bath. you grab onto his neck as he princess carries you. "so, gege, is everything okay?" you ask concerned, you really didn't want to see the doctors at all. caleb laughs at your furrowed brows, soothing them down with his thumb.

"no need to worry, pipsqueak. you're as healthy as ever!"

a/n: this needs a second part who knows when T_T

[xyzlilies]

cockwarming caleb while he’s drying your hair

sitting on his lap while he’s being so gentle and caring, massaging your scalp and braiding your hair all cute, but his jaw is just a little bit more tense than normal

keeping it quiet cause grandma is one room away but you squeeze around him anyway, just to get a reaction out of him

whispering in his ear that you’re safe today, he doesn’t have to pull out

him turning the blow drier back on even though your hair is done, but putting his big hand over your mouth just isn’t enough

[xiaprint]

Which of the Lads men love getting called daddy during sex from most to least and why? I need a glimpse inside your mastermind on this one.

you came to the right girl. been calling my men daddy since 1873. daddy kink is my favorite.

that being saidddiffjekejfjdj i only really think it suits two of them.

most

sylus: not only is he quite literally a father by association with luke & kieran, he’s just that provider type. he exudes the energy of a man who likes being in the highest of power, dominating in every sense of the word really. let it slip once and he does a double take, one of the few ways to catch sylus by surprise.

once he eases into it? filthy. nasty. just loves to use it against you because it makes you cum the hardest.

“daddy’s girl, huh? all you need is to get fucked hard enough to let your dirty little secrets slip. show daddy how much you love him, let yourself cum, sweetie.”

caleb: is this self indulgent and biased? perhaps. do i feel as though caleb is more likely to enjoy being called daddy over og3? also perhaps.

nothing gets caleb off more than being needed by you. he wants to help make life easier, he wants to be implemented into your daily routine, he wants to stick to you like glue. if you happen to hold him at that standard, putting your pleasure in his hands and letting the name slip? well, who is he to reject any of that?

“that’s a new one,” he’d laugh, a breathless chuckle that morphs into exasperated grunts once he gains a harder pace. “yeah, sure. i’ll be your daddy, honey. i’ll take care of you the way you want. sit back and let daddy do all the work.”

zayne: zayne will always be a hard read for me, honestly. i still wanna delete the little post i made about him a few hours ago because i’m not super confident in my characterization of him.

he’s a man in power. he’s used to being in the spotlight and the highest position of authority in a hospital setting at the very least. i do feel like he’d be into daddy but in the sense that he controls your pleasure and sensation?

“you need daddy’s fingers to help you cum, love? is that what’s wrong? oh, don’t make that face. daddy’s here, i’ll take care of you.”

xavier: sorry i kinda feel like he would recoil the second you accidentally call him that? it doesn’t exactly turn him off but he gets confused with the correlation, y’know? he doesn’t see the appeal and i feel like his high levels of possession with you would make him only accept you calling him by name during sex!!

he wants to hear his name. choke on it, cry it out, moan for him and repeat it until you’re sick of saying it. moreso just a preference i guess but again i think he’d be a bit puzzledjdhdjef

rafayel: rafayel might laugh in your face i’m so sorry. he loves to be worshipped, he loves praise, he loves indulging you more than life but he can’t take it seriously. i think it would be a nice little lighthearted moment (which with rafayel, you have so many of those during sex. it’s the most comfortable atmosphere ever with him).

howeverrrrr explore more nicknames!! daddy is probably a bust in my opinion but experiment with compliments, honorifics, etc. he might not be into daddy but i think he’d loveeee master, sir even.

least