Zeal wasn’t born yesterday and nor is he blind. But his lovely, usually careful, self-contained boyfriend has been ravenous lately, and Zeal is nothing if accommodating. And maybe wondering what’s stirred this hunger.
The café a few streets away from the campus where Freodore teaches is sleepy in that midmorning way, soft jazz humming low over the clink of cups, and the occasional hiss of steamed milk. It's been around for the last ten years now, maybe. Zeal remembers when they closed down during their undergrad days for four months and they had to put up with the vending machine near the library until Freodore took up coffee as a hobby.
Zeal steps inside, brushing a curl of dark hair back into place, a small smile already forming when he spots Freodore near the back. His boyfriend is hunched slightly over a laptop, brow furrowed, pen tapping the edge of a marked-up essay beside it. He looks up as Zeal approaches, and the furrow lifts, but only marginally.
“You’re early,” Freodore says, in that even tone he always uses, sparing him but one glance which is also meant to tell Zeal, take a seat. Zeal knows him well enough to spot the very faint downturn that he masks with a focused stare at his laptop screen, but he just does as silently told and slides into the chair next to Freodore, setting his keys on the table.
“Couldn’t stay away,” Zeal teases, leaning in to press a kiss to the side of his head, whichever part he can reach, arm reaching around to hold his boyfriend by the waist. “I figured I’d spare you the walk back. Or rescue you, depending on how dire the undergrad writing is today.”
Freodore doesn’t answer immediately, but he does smile a little—a small involuntary thing that gives him away before he seems to remember there’s someone else sitting across from them at the same table. He shifts slightly, likely feeling a bit awkward to be the one to bridge this introduction.
“Zeal, this is Kaelix. The new grad student I mentioned. He’s going to be TAing for me this term.”
Zeal’s attention shifts. And… oh.
“Hi!” Kaelix’s smile is bright like he hasn’t chosen graduate studies and academia politicking to be his career. He’s a little taller than Zeal. White hair, blue-green eyes, a mouth that looks like it’s always a second away from smiling. He leans back in his chair, back straight without being tense, carrying himself with the effortless grace of someone who hasn’t had to think too hard about how others perceive him.
“Freo’s told me a lot about you.”
“Zeal Ginjoka,” Zeal replies, feeling, oddly, like this calls for something a little more official than his usual cadence, and so his whole government name comes out. He offers his hand anyway, because it’s easier than showing what’s really on his mind. “And you’re the one grading with him willingly. Should I be worried for your wellbeing?”
Kaelix laughs, shaking it in return. It’s warm and firm. “Oh, absolutely. He’s terrifying.”
Which Kaelix says in a way that does not make it seem like he finds it terrifying at all.
Zeal raises an eyebrow. “You say that like you enjoy it.”
“I kind of do,” Kaelix admits, shrugging. “In a this might kill me but I actually want to see if I can keep up kind of way. A lot of professors like to handhold these days.”
Zeal hums, glancing at Freodore. “Looks like your TA’s got a good read on you, huh?”
Freodore doesn’t look up from what he’s reading, but there’s a tell—just the faintest tilt of his head, like he’s listening despite pretending not to be.
Kaelix adds, “It’s definitely not boring. I’ll take intimidating over dull any day.”
Freodore makes a soft noise of amusement but doesn’t look up right away. Zeal glances at him again, noting the way his eyes linger on Kaelix’s cup of tea to-go, the sleeve spun around and fidgeted with.
He leans a little closer to Freodore, under the pretense of reading something over his shoulder. “I did say I’d come after lunch,” he murmurs, letting the introduction lapse as Kaelix goes back to his notes.
Freodore’s mouth twitches. “You did.”
“I could go and eat, then come back to get you?” Zeal offers gently , but Freodore shakes his head because he doesn’t particularly enjoy it when Zeal can dote on him over the littlest things.
“No, let’s head back. We’re pretty much done here,” he says, sounding offhand.
Zeal watches, quiet, as Freodore turns to Kaelix, tone still even as he reminds him of a few remaining tasks—slides to finalize, a few papers to organize and some summaries he needs to send. It’s businesslike on the surface, but there’s a softness in the way he speaks carefully.
Kaelix listens attentively, nodding as he lists it down with his messy scrawl on his notebook. “What time do you need those in today?”
“No rush,” Freodore replies. “Tomorrow’s good.”
Freodore is kind in general, reserved, sometimes distant when he's thinking too hard—but he’s gentle with Kaelix. Patient. Zeal files that away, quietly. If he had to guess, Kaelix is probably one of maybe five people in the world who might know what it’s like at the receiving end of it.
The drive to Zeal’s isn’t long from the university, but neither of them speak in the car, letting music fill the silence, which is more or less par of the course for them.
Zeal is playing him something he’s working on, only half done but still six whole minutes long because he hasn’t decided what to cut out of it yet. While Freodore helps him ponder that in his quiet, Zeal’s thoughts drift back to the table at the café. Kaelix’s easy smile, Freodore’s almost-but-not-quite reluctance when Zeal ends up arriving earlier than he’d intended, the way it seemed like Freodore was vacillating from holding himself a little tighter at the seams and then cracking a little bit under the pressure of Kaelix’s lilting laugh when he says something funny—most of the time unintentional.
None of it really means anything and none of it has too. But Zeal turns it over in his mind like a warm stone off the lakeshore, testing it for its ability to ripple after he throws it in the water.
Dating Freodore has always been it’s own quiet sort of wonder.
Although it didn't quite start out that way. Some four years ago, Freodore had cornered him in the dim, echoing expanse of their campus parking lot as undergraduates, one of them newly re-introduced into society with a degree. Zeal had been fresh off a failed job interview, halfway through a podcast about crime statistics at the time. When he looked up and saw Freodore’s unreadable face approaching fast, he’d genuinely thought he was about to be mugged.
He didn’t get shanked, obviously. Freodore had just stood there and said, “Would you want to go out sometime?” Clear as glass. Direct enough to flay him open with the shards. So, okay, maybe it was kind of like he got mugged.
Zeal, dumbstruck and convinced this probably had to be some errand-based proposition, had asked, “Like, to get groceries?” Which Freodore had blinked at. And then said, “No,” with the same flatness he used when critiquing poor thesis statements of his peers. “Like a date.”
They ended up sleeping together that same night. Freodore had kissed him with quiet precision, every movement carefully well thought out but never hesitant. Zeal, caught up in the rush of it, hadn’t thought to slow down, hadn’t thought to ask how fast they were really going. He just kept pace with Freodore, half in awe that this serious, sharp-eyed man, someone he’s known throughout university and has quite literally seen him at his very worst, wanted him in the first place.
That’s what it’s always been like. Zeal, ready to amble on along after him. Freodore, rarely reaching out or turning back but always, always holding on once he did. And Zeal had never minded. Freodore was surprisingly affectionate in private, and Zeal had fallen into the rhythm of them with startling ease.
But tonight, something new itches at the back of his thoughts. A shape forming, indistinct, but not quite uncomfortable. He’s never been possessive. He doesn’t think he’s jealous. He’s not even sure there’s anything to be jealous of.
Still, he remembers the subtle inflection in Freodore’s voice when he’d said, “You’re early,” and to Kaelix, "No rush."
And then there was Kaelix’s laugh, and how Freodore looked at him like he really hadn’t meant to do so but also couldn’t help it.
It’s not exactly something, but it’s not totally nothing either.
The apartment is quiet when they get in, the afternoon light pooling across the hardwood. Zeal closes the door behind them with a soft click, drops his keys in the bowl near the entryway and follows Freodore into the rest of the room. He’s still half in his head turning over the same scenes, the same words—Kaelix’s smile, Freodore’s eyes, that subtle thread of tension he's been teasing between his fingers since the café like a game of cat’s cradle he’s playing alone.
Freodore shrugs off his jacket without ceremony, tosses it onto the couch, then turns. Zeal opens his mouth to say something, probably thoughtful and too meandering, but Freodore steps into his space and kisses him instead. No preamble. No warming up. Just Freodore’s mouth on his, decisive, familiar, and close.
Zeal’s hands come up automatically to Freodore’s hips. “Oh,” he breathes, a touch startled. “Hi.”
Freodore hums. It's not exactly annoyed, but there’s an edge to it. Zeal knows that hum. It's the same one he uses when a student turns in something subpar and thinks they’ve gotten away with it.
They make it only as far as the couch before Freodore pushes Zeal back into it. Zeal lets him, blinking up at him with a crooked grin. “You wanna talk about it?”
Freodore sinks to his knees.
“…Okay,” Zeal murmurs, eyes widening slightly. “I guess that's a no.”
There’s no fanfare, no slow teasing here. Freodore gets his jeans open with quick fingers, deliberate, focused. He wets his lips. Zeal feels his breath hitch as Freodore leans in without a word, mouth closing over the tip of his cock first before taking the rest of Zeal into his mouth with practiced ease. It leaves no room for overthinking. Freodore’s hand curls around his thigh, holding him there like it’s him in control of the tempo and not Zeal’s own sudden, shuddering gasp because his dick is caught in something warm and wet.
Zeal’s head tips back against the couch.
“Hah,” he laughs, breathless. “A little distracted today, sweetheart?”
Freodore glances up, eyes cool and steady, but his mouth—god, his mouth doesn’t pause.
Zeal exhales sharply, hand threading through that light, swooped hair he always pretends not to notice is perfect. “You’re such a hypocrite,” he murmurs, affectionate and dizzy. “And I love you for it anyway.”
Freodore’s only response is a soft, satisfied hum that makes Zeal's thoughts scatter into a fine dust, groaning as Freodore’s other hand services the rest of him that he can’t fit down his throat.
By the time they make it to the bed, the sun’s gone down a little lower and the room is lit in the low, amber hush of evening. Freodore’s shirt is off, hair mussed from where Zeal’s hand had pulled him in by the back of the neck earlier. They don’t do this all that often anymore. Not for lack of want. It’s just the shape of their lives now. Long days, full calendars, and a kind of comfort that doesn’t always press toward urgency.
But tonight, Freodore’s the one who seems to need it.
Zeal can tell by the restless little shift in his hips, the way he doesn’t quite meet Zeal’s eyes as he lays back against the pillows. This is the first time in a long while he’s lost count of the ways in which he could take Freodore apart and pull him back together.
He’s flushed, warm after hours of lovemaking, and Zeal reads his every cue with ease. They’ve always been good at this part, even when it’s rare.
Zeal brushes his hand over the gentle arch of his hips. Freodore is still recovering from being taken from behind at the edge of the bed.
But Zeal knows he can take more—that, tonight, he wants more, if the answering shudder to when his mouth finds the inside of Freodore’s thigh is any indication. His legs fall open a little wider.
“Still worked up?” Zeal asks softly, grinning against his skin.
Freodore gives a breathy, noncommittal sound. His head tips back, lashes low, fluttering faintly against his pretty face. Not denying it.
Zeal kisses higher. Then higher still, increasing in pressure as he moves upwards and relishing in the soft little sounds that follow because Freodore is both overstimulated and insatiable.
When he finally closes his mouth over Freodore’s cunt, he does it with the kind of patience that’s earned.
Zeal’s tongue is slow, then firm. His hands keep Freodore open and steady.
Freodore sighs, one hand sliding up into Zeal’s hair, but he doesn’t pull. He cards a hand through instead, pushing Zeal’s hair back gently, his lavender eyes blown wide, looking down at Zeal in that adorable, endearingly startled way that makes him look like a newly born fawn still trying to figure out how to use its fumbling legs. Freodore’s chest rises and falls visibly, watching him.
Zeal works him over gently, mouth pressing kisses against his folds before tonguing at his slit and letting that seamlessly taper into a long drawn out drag upwards against soft, pink flesh, until Freodore starts to pant soft little sounds that Zeal knows better than any language. Only then do his fingers move lower. Slow press of one, careful and slick, easing in as he suckles softly on his clit alongside it.
Zeal shuts his own eyes even though he does quite enjoy seeing his lover fall apart in this specific way.
The quiet, but still slightly pitched, “—Zeal!” that shuddering breath that follows, makes it worth it and he capitalizes on the involuntary cant of Freodore’s hips upwards, moving his free hand to just below the small of Freodore’s back to push him against him even more.
“Hah—wait—ah—right there!”
It’s music too, the way Freodore moans, broken, raw, from the back of his throat. Short, sharp sounds that come in intervals, like his body can’t keep up with the way it’s unraveling or has been. It’s the most noise he ever makes that aren’t whole sentences, and Zeal drinks in every fractured bit of it.
It’s not until Freodore tightens around the three fingers inside of his cunt that Zeal starts to think—not even meaning to—how long it might take before his pussy might be able to fit two. Not because that’s ultimately the goal, at least not tonight. But Zeal wasn’t born yesterday and nor is he blind. But his lovely, usually careful, self-contained boyfriend has been ravenous lately, and Zeal is nothing if accommodating. And maybe wondering what’s stirred this hunger.
This far into it, it doesn’t take very long before Zeal’s steady, insistent tongue is rewarded with the unmistakable clench of Freodore, followed by the helpless way his hips stutter, his breath catching hard in his throat, and then breaking as his pleasure mounts and then crests just as quick.
“Zeal, enough—” He moans helplessly, even as he lets Zeal work him through his orgasm, weakly pushing against him this time. Zeal lets up at his own pace, enjoying the way Freodore shudders down from it.
Freodore adjusts the way he’s pillowed against Zeal’s sheets, but he doesn’t move, which is the prompting.
Zeal sits back, slick fingers drawing away carefully from Freodore’s pussy, and he takes himself in hand instead. His cock is flushed, hard and leaking again, and he pumps slowly, lazily—half to buy Freodore time to catch his breath, half because the sight of him like this is enough to make Zeal’s brain go soft around the edges.
Freodore’s sprawled, flushed all the way down his chest, dusty pink nipples pebbled, eyes half-lidded. His breathing is just beginning to settle when Zeal lifts one of his legs, cradling it gently under the heel. He kisses the ankle like it’s something precious, notched it against his cheek as he murmurs, “You’re so goddamn beautiful like this.”
Freodore blinks at him, eyelids heavy. His mouth opens but no words come out. Just a slow, simmering blush, high on the pretty cheeks.
Zeal’s lips part in a grin, and he doesn’t resist the urge to press his mouth to the side of Freodore’s foot, warm and firm. Then his teeth graze just enough to make him jolt.
“Zeal,” Freodore says, voice rough, warning.
“Just appreciating the craftsmanship,” Zeal says innocently, letting the leg fall gracefully, only for it to drape around his waist. Freodore’s knee draws in a little, locking him closer, and Zeal doesn’t fight it. He lets the pressure bring their hips flush, cock sliding along Freodore’s slick, sensitive folds, teasing but not pressing in. Not yet.
He grinds slow and deliberate, just enough to spread warmth and pressure between them, to watch the look on Freodore’s face begin to sharpen again.
“That’s not—” Freodore starts, but he sucks in a breath when Zeal nudges right where he’s still aching and sensitive.
“What you want?” Zeal murmurs, voice dipped low. “Enough?”
Freodore’s nails curl against the sheets. His eyes flash. “Keep doing it and find out.”
Zeal hums, smile lazy as ever. “Oh, my sweet prince,” he says, rubbing again, just to be a menace.
As expected, Freodore bristles faintly, even redder at the tips of his ears when he hears Zeal call him that, jaw tightening like he wants to scowl but hasn’t quite committed to his indignation yet or like he wants to bite but can’t decide where. Zeal watches the shift with quiet satisfaction. That little flash of embarrassment, never enough to stop him, and more importantly, never enough to make him ask Zeal not to say it again.
Besides, he knows he secretly likes it.
A dog-eared, time-worn book sits on Zeal’s shelf in the living room—it’s creased spine, underlined passages, margins littered with two distinct styles of handwriting, something they passed back and forth in that elective literature class where they first met in Freodore’s freshman year, Zeal in his third. Zeal recalls he was supposed to write something complex and educated about the significance of the desert in the story—except he only remembers telling Freodore once in passing, rambling a little bit about his non-existent essay outline.
“Just like you,” without elaborating.
Freodore had only raised an eyebrow at him and asked, “and you’re the pilot?”
“And I’m the pilot,” he affirmed.
He thinks of the book’s yellowing, mottled pages, an old coffee stain that didn’t quite dry right.
He thinks Kaelix, the brightness in his eyes, his unrestrained laughter when he gets going, jokes he’s barely able to crack before he can land the punchline. His face, his candor that says the sky’s the limit. He thinks of his presence, his guileless charm. He thinks of the way Freodore’s voice softens at the edges in the face of it. There’s no malice in it, just something gentle and steady, building.
He thinks, this might’ve been how Kaelix tripped on a small crack in Freodore’s heart. Thinks of what the fox had said,“But if you tame me, then we shall need each other.”
Perhaps, it’s only fair that Freodore take some responsibility for doing just that, taming someone without ever meaning to.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Freodore mutters, voice low, still a little breathless, eyes narrowing.
“And you’re being oddly impatient,” he murmurs next, rubbing slow again, coming back to the present as he lets the head of his cock slip through the mess he’s made of Freodore.
Freodore’s chest rises sharply. His glare says, how dare you, you menace. His body says yes, please.
But that’s as far as Zeal’s going to get—at least for now.
Still, Zeal likes him like this. Stubborn, bristling, trying to hold his ground even as the rest of him gives him away.
They’re not far apart in age and based on old, tired stories, they did grow up on mostly the same things. But like this, the gap yawns between them and Freodore sometimes seems younger than he is when Zeal can get him to behave like this.
He’s starting to really feel the thick, coiling need pressed hard at the base of his spine. Because friction is friction, and the wet slide of Freodore’s folds against him is maddening. Every slow grind is a new kind of tension, slick and hot and not enough. Not even close. Zeal’s cock twitches against Freodore, and his hips twitch with it, control starting to fray.
He could push in anytime. He knows it. He could take it now and give them both what they’re teetering toward. Freodore wouldn’t stop him. Might even thank him for it eventually.
But Zeal keeps still, just so. Lets his cock drag again to hear the way Freodore’s breath stutters. Lets his hand skim over Freodore’s hip, thumb circling just beneath the ridge of bone.
He knows Freodore better than Freodore likes to admit. Knows that underneath all his careful control, he also likes to be challenged, even if he acts otherwise. Likes when Zeal pushes back, gets a little mean. When the teasing turns precise, and patience—from either of them—becomes its own form of dominance.
Zeal enjoys the way his sweet little prince starts to crack around the edges, when wide lavender eyes go wider—surprise flaring in his expression, that rare, startled vulnerability brought through to the surface with want. Stark and involuntary and beautiful. And that moment alone always makes the slow build worth it.
Zeal’s version of “mean” isn’t cruelty. It’s keeping his cock hard and ready, rubbing right where Freodore is aching for him, but never giving in to the pull of just the tip, more, inside. It’s his fingers and mouth and breath and pressure until Freodore starts to shake, trembling from how much he’s been touched, how deeply he’s been stretched and filled and made to come undone without Zeal ever putting it in.
Freodore moans, quiet but full, shoulders trembling as Zeal grinds down just right—again. His hands reach up blindly, curling into Zeal’s shoulders and tugging him closer, down into the cradle of his body. Zeal goes willingly, their mouths meeting in a kiss that’s breathless, greedy, and just this side of desperate.
When they break apart, Zeal rests their foreheads together, sweat-damp and warm.
Freodore’s voice is rough. “Why are you dragging it out this long?” he asks, words half-whined, half-suspicious. “You know we’re going to get tired. We’ve gone two for two. We still have to make dinner.”
Zeal is amused by how Freodore sounds like he’s keeping score.
He just smiles at his boyfriend, lazy and fond. “We can order something.”
Freodore huffs, but doesn’t argue. His legs stay tight around Zeal’s waist. He shifts under him, a not-so-subtle grind up that Zeal doesn't reward.
“Say you want it,” Zeal murmurs, mouth brushing against his. He tries for tried and tested coaxing. “Go on, sweetheart. I’ll be good to you.”
“No,” Freodore snaps, but it’s a soft sound, almost a pout. “You know what I want. I'm not saying it.”
Zeal laughs under his breath, because of course not. His little prince is never going to give in that easy. But Zeal doesn’t mind working for it. He always has.
So he switches tactics.
He figures it’s time.
Zeal pulls back just slightly, before, with more force, pressing his cock against the slick seam of Freodore’s pussy, rubbing upwards slow enough that even he himself begins to wonder if this is the right move, the feeling heightened simply because of how lewd it looks between them.
Freodore’s fingers dig into his shoulders a little harder, likely willing his hips to stay still as Zeal draws this out, repeating the motion, increasing in fervor only incrementally—never enough. Then, he takes this opportunity to lean over Freodore, close enough to whisper against his lips, “Mine or his?”
The words land like a dropped stone in still water.
Freodore gasps, a sharp and involuntary sound he tries to swallow too late.
Zeal grins.
“Ah-ha,” he says, delighted, if a little wicked. “There you are.”
And with that, he pushes in just an inch. Just enough to make Freodore keen softly, jaw going slack, legs tightening with immediate urgency.
“Your honesty deserves a reward,” Zeal murmurs, kissing him again, slow and deep, while his cock throbs with the promise of more.
“Zeal—” Freodore moans, raw and a little broken, like the sound was torn straight from his throat. His hands grip at Zeal’s back now, desperate for anchor, for more than teasing friction.
Zeal kisses the side of his face, slow and fond, his breath warm against Freodore’s flushed skin. Then he draws back just slightly, eyes searching his prince’s expression with that familiar, steady patience. “That’s not your answer, is it?” he asks softly.
Freodore blinks up at him, chest rising and falling. The haze of pleasure clings to him like sweat, but Zeal can see in real time as something clears behind his eyes in understanding, a thought snapping into place.
His tongue wets his bottom lip—always a tell before he has to say something careful knowing the words won’t quite match.
“Both,” He murmurs, knowing better than to look anywhere else but into Zeal’s eyes when he finally admits it.
Zeal’s smile blooms into something unguarded and true.
“Good boy,” he praises, nuzzling their noses together, affectionate as he touches his forehead to Freodore’s.
Freodore closes his eyes, face scrunching. Zeal only lets himself think it’s cute for all of half a second before he pushes into him in one smooth thrust, sliding deep until he’s buried to the hilt.
Freodore’s gasp turns into a trembling groan. His legs tighten around Zeal’s waist again, nails digging in as his body arches into the stretch, taking him in fully, beautifully.
Zeal lets out a shaking breath, kissing the corner of his lover’s mouth as he starts to move, pounding into Freodore’s warm cunt in steady, measured thrusts.
Zeal isn’t done with him yet. Not by a long shot.
Freodore may have given him the truth, may have gasped out what he really wanted with that kiss-bitten mouth, but it’s so rare that Zeal gets to tease him like this and have it land.
He knows Freodore’s probably stewing under the surface now, too. Embarrassed. Marginally guilty, maybe. Because saying both means admitting he wants Zeal and Kaelix—and maybe that he already has. Zeal files that away for later, carefully. He’s not naive, but he does like his truths whole. And he intends to get the rest of this one in pieces, torn loose as Freodore drowns in his pleasure.
He shifts them without a word, guiding Freodore onto his side, tucking in close behind him. One leg hooked over Zeal’s thigh, body curled open and trembling as Zeal lines up again and slides back in, slow and deliberate. The angle’s sharper now, deeper. Zeal groans at the feel of it and doesn’t waste time before setting a rhythm, fast and punishing for a handful of strokes, then slow enough to make Freodore whine and squirm, needing more but never quite getting what he wants.
“You’ve thought about it then,” Zeal murmurs against the shell of his ear, lips brushing hot over flushed skin.
Freodore twitches. His body, breath, everything, stutters in response.
Zeal smiles and rolls his hips forward, grinding in deep, then pulling out just enough to slap back in again. Freodore jolts, a high, needy sound breaking loose from his throat.
“I want to know what you’ve thought about,” Zeal breathes, hand sliding between Freodore’s legs, finding the give of his pussy, sliding upwards to find his clit and flick his fingers in time with his thrusts. “What you imagine when I’m not here. What you think about when he’s close. Tell me.”
He pounds into him a little harder, letting the rhythm punctuate his words.
“Has he touched you? Or do you just wish he did?” His voice stays low, coaxing. "Did you think about me watching you?"
Freodore doesn’t answer yet. But he’s close. Zeal can feel it in the way his body clenches around him, in the way he’s gripping the sheets now like they might keep him from coming undone completely.
Zeal keeps going—steady, relentless, gentle only in voice. He wants to hear it. Wants to know. And he’ll fuck him through every last piece of denial until Freodore gives him what he wants this time.
Freodore’s fingers clutch at the sheets, knuckles white, body straining between tension and surrender. Zeal doesn’t ease up and keeps fucking into him with a slow, devastating rhythm, rolling his hips deep with each thrust, grinding the length of him inside until Freodore is gasping open-mouthed against the pillow.
It takes a moment, but then, quiet, breathless, Freodore starts to speak.
“I thought about… both of you,” he manages, voice strained and high. “Watching. Touching me.”
Zeal exhales through his nose, slow and sharp, and thrusts in deeper, harder. Freodore’s back arches, a full-body shudder rocking through him.
“I thought—” Freodore goes on, broken by a moan, “thought about you telling him what to do. What to touch.”
Zeal groans low in his throat, fingers tightening on Freodore’s waist.
“There you go,” he breathes, voice low and honeyed. “Keep going, Freo. I want to hear every dirty little thing you think I don’t know.”
Freodore’s next sharp intake is bracing and when he exhales it’s to unravel more of himself for Zeal.
“You’d watch,” Freodore says, eyes squeezed shut. “Or—oh, god—you’d make me ask him. To touch me. You’d make me ask him to touch me, a-and I would. Fuck, Zeal, I would.”
He sobs the last word out like confession, raw and vulnerable, hips pressing back into Zeal because he wants more, because he needs it. Zeal obliges, slamming into him hard enough to make the bed frame jolt.
He mouths at Freodore’s neck, breath hot and unforgiving. “You liked thinking about me making you say it, didn’t you?”
Freodore whimpers, but nods. “Yes,” he gasps. “Yes.”
“He’s a quick study too, isn’t he? He’d listen so well, don’t you think?”
Freodore mewls, the thought permeating his senses. Zeal doesn’t need to be told what the answer is to that.
“Of course you liked that,” Zeal hisses, cock pulsing inside him. “I’m sure you liked pretending he’d behave for both of us, too.”
Freodore shudders like the words alone undo something in him. His hands twist in the sheets, his legs trembling. The answer’s written in the way his pussy clutches at Zeal’s cock, how his hips tilt back into every thrust like he’s offering more of himself without realizing it.
He gasps something close to a yes and then another, and then another.
Zeal groans, biting down softly against the slope of his shoulder, grounding himself. The thought—the image—of Freodore’s head pillowed on his lap while Kaelix learns how to take him the first time is almost too much.
But still, Zeal doesn’t stop. He rocks into him, relentless, wanting to draw every last thread of honesty out of his lover.
And when Freodore chokes on another moan, eyes wet and unfocused, Zeal leans in close and kisses his temple.
“Thank you,” he whispers, gentle even as he rocks into him again and again. “Thank you for telling me.”
Freodore doesn’t answer, because at this point he can’t. His breath stutters out in short, broken bursts, hands fisting helplessly into the sheets. Every time Zeal thrusts back in, it knocks another sound from him, soft and aching, as if his body is speaking the things he no longer has the voice to say.
It builds fast, his body already stretched thin from before, already primed and aching, so it really doesn’t need much more at this point. Zeal can feel it in the way he trembles under him, the way his hips twitch like they’re trying to meet each movement and retreat from it all at once.
Zeal isn’t even properly stimulating his clit anymore, his palm is just pressed flat against Freodore’s cunt, cupping him there while his arm wraps around his waist to draw him in closer as he fucks up into him from behind, his head pressed against Freodore’s shoulder, damp with sweat. Zeal’s hips drive in without a rhythm, frenzied but going as deep as he possibly can.
And then there it is for Freodore.
Zeal only has to ask him, his own voice starting to sound ragged, “here?” As he hits the same spot inside of his lover without pause.
Freodore arches, legs tense, a sharp cry torn straight from his throat as he falls apart completely this way. There’s nothing quiet about it this time. No trying to muffle it, no biting it back. Just pure, unfiltered release as his back bows and his body clenches tight around Zeal, pulsing through the last of it.
Zeal groans deep in his chest, the sound torn out of him like it’s caught on something sharp. The way Freodore shakes beneath him, the way he’s still gasping, glazed eyes fluttering as if he’s trying to hold on and failing—it all becomes too much for him too, and it’s quick.
“Fuck, fuck, Freo,” He pushes in once more, hips jerking, and he comes with a harsh, breathless curse into the curve of Freodore’s neck. His fingers flex against Freodore’s waist, holding him there as he rides the last waves of it out, shuddering, every nerve lit up and alive.
For a long moment, neither of them moves. Just the sound of their breathing, tangled and slowing. Skin to skin, warm and shaking as they reckon with the aftermath.
Zeal doesn’t say anything. He just stays close, head pressed into Freodore’s shoulder, which he kisses a few times as a hand gently rubs at Freodore’s side like he’s trying to tell him, I’m here, without words.
It’s evening now, the apartment dim, pleasantly cool for an the evening in May.
Their bustling in the bathroom, and blessedly dinner after that, had soon been replaced with the soft rustle of papers on Zeal’s counter, the click of a laptop trackpad here and there.
Freodore sits perched on a high stool in the kitchen, dressed only in one of Zeal’s shirts—too long in the sleeves, unbuttoned at the cuffs. His damp hair falls in clean swoops as he scrolls through his slides, one hand flipping lazily through lecture notes, the other resting on the trackpad. His eyes are sharp again, but there’s a softness to them too, if a bit red-rimmed. Like something had been wrung out of him gently.
Zeal stands behind him, towel in hand, finishing the last careful passes through Freodore’s hair. He can’t resist leaning forward a little, glancing at the laptop screen over his shoulder. The slide currently up is cleanly designed and well thought out.
“These are good,” Zeal murmurs. He drapes the towel over the empty space left on the counter, wraping his arms around Freodore’s shoulders, chin brushing against his temple. “He made these for you?”
Freodore nods without looking up.
Zeal hums, kisses the top of his head, and then, trying his best to make it sound like an afterthought, asks, “So, you two have never…”
“No, never!” Freodore says instantly, a rare treat to get his voice to raise in proper indignation. “I would never, Zeal. I…”
He stops. Doesn’t finish the sentence. His voice trails off, swallowed by the sound of the fridge humming quietly behind them.
Silence settles for a moment.
Then, quieter now, eyes fixed somewhere below the screen, Freodore murmurs, “I’m sorry.”
Zeal exhales slowly, kisses his cheek in response. Then he steps around and gently maneuvers Freodore on the barstool so he’s facing him fully instead, legs brushing between his.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” Zeal says, meaning it. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
Freodore doesn’t look up right away. Zeal waits.
Then, he asks, “you don’t know how to approach him about this, do you?”
Freodore’s eyes flick to his and then away again, a tiny shake of the head.
Zeal watches him for a beat, then nods once. “But you want to.”
Freodore’s lips part, hesitating.
“Only if it’s okay with you…” he says, barely above a whisper.
Zeal smiles, soft and thoughtful. He leans forward and kisses him again, slower this time, just once. He doesn’t answer yet but offers him just his warmth. Just consideration, or the start of whatever might come next.
Zeal’s hand presses on Freodore’s thigh, tapping an absentminded beat on his skin with his fingers. He’s quiet for a moment, trying to think. He could say yes now. He wants to say yes now. But there’s a small part of him, still cautious, still careful, that needs a little more convincing.
So after a beat, he says, “Let me get to know him, then.”
Freodore’s legs swing beneath the stool, just once, idly. Like he’s a schoolboy waiting for a treat. It makes Zeal’s heart twist in his chest, and he has to actually physically restrain himself from cooing. Or grabbing him. Or folding on the spot.
He schools his face. Do not melt, he tells himself. Do not melt just because he’s swinging his legs like a pleased, spoiled, little prince. Although Freodore would never own up to it if Zeal would ever tell him out loud.
Freodore nods solemnly, though there’s a hint of mischief blooming in his eyes. And then he leans in, parting his legs a little bit to let Zeal crowd into his space. He puts his arms on Zeal’s waist where he can reach and then kissing him with a surprising force—deep and long and unguarded, full of thanks and maybe even relief. It’s grateful, yes, but greedy too, like he wants to take that yes before it’s even been fully given to him.
Zeal groans softly into the kiss, hand curling against the back of Freodore’s neck. It’s too good. Too much. If he were a lesser man, he’d already have Freodore on the counter, shirt shoved up, thighs spread, thanking him with his body in a very specific and enthusiastic way.
But somehow, miraculously, Zeal doesn’t cave.
Though he is very, very close.
He pulls back just enough to catch his breath, eyes a little glazed, voice low. “You are trying to kill me.”
Freodore’s mouth quirks, smug and pink and far too pleased with himself. “Not my fault you’re weak.”
“He should know you’ve actually got it in you to be a little brat, you know? Might throw him in for a loop.”
“I am not,” Freodore says, reflexively indignant, then pauses—like he’s thinking about it. After a beat, he adds, “All these years of you calling me ‘sweetheart’ and ‘my little prince,’ and you don’t expect me to be waited on at least once?”
Zeal huffs a laugh, that’s as fond as it sounds a little defeated, he gently nudges his forehead back against his lover’s, half in surrender.
“Same thing.”