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You’re sitting on the couch, reading a book from a promising new author from Yae Publishing house, when Ifa walks into your shared home. He looks up at you, surprised. “Hey, baby,” he says, placing his keys and some fresh vegetables on the table. “You’re still up?”
It’s late. Technically past your usual bedtime, but he hasn’t been home on time lately and you miss your boyfriend. “Didn’t want to sleep without you there,” you say, voice a little quiet.
Ifa picks up on it immediately. “Ororon gave me some fruits, veggies,” he offers, showing you some of the food. “I shouldn’t be home as late the next few days. Gotta wrap everything up at the clinic tomorrow, and then I’m all yours.”
The thought does soothe you, at least a bit. It’s good to know that he wants you as much as you want him, that he’s looking forward to spending his time off with you as well.
He sinks onto the couch next to you. Existing with Ifa is always comfortable. It feels relaxing to have him close, especially after you’ve missed him so much, but today the comfort is laced with a hint of anticipation.
“Ifa?” you ask, voice quiet.
If he’s surprised about you speaking up in a shy, almost sweet tone, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he just looks at you, wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you closer. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
You think about opening your mouth to speak, but the curl of heat in your stomach makes it hard to vocalise what you actually want. It’s always been hard, like this.
Ifa doesn’t rush you. He simply waits, fingers playing with the fabric of your shirt. When you swallow hard without speaking up still, his voice does come out in a low rumble. “Do you want me?”
It’s a simple question. It’s one that you both know you will freeze up from, and stammer, but tonight is a little easier on your mind. You’ve missed him, so you nod.
Your boyfriend watches you for a long, long moment, before he smiles. “Hop on my lap, then.”
With a little maneuvering and Ifa’s strong grip holding you upright, you’re sitting on his lap a few moments later. It’s nice having him this close.
It isn’t really enough. Your body notices where it’s sitting second before your mind does, and you freeze up in his touch. It’s Ifa, and you’re safe, but your mind simply takes from the fact that he’s this close that he’s a threat.
You’re already opening your mouth to apologise when Ifa hums, stilling you with a soft touch of his hand on your hip. “You’re not looking so good to me,” he says. It’s said calmly without any judgement, and his eyes are kind when he meets your gaze.
You shrug, still. You don’t want to inconvenience him, not when he’s this close, not when it has been a week since you last felt his hands on you.
So Ifa speaks up for you. “I have my gun,” he says, quietly, holding up his free hand in protest when you let out a scoff. “I’d say it might help you feel safer, sweetheart.”
He pulls out his gun from the holster on his thigh, carefully taking out the bullets and making sure the safety lock is on before he holds it out to you. He doesn’t press, doesn’t force you, and you take the gun from him with hesitant hands after a few minutes.
The weight of it in your hand is something to get used to. The metal is colder than you expected, but it’s not bothersome. It does make you feel a bit more in control.
You slowly turn the gun until it’s facing him, and then hold it still like that, the barrel hovering a few centimeters in front of him.
Ifa just hums, pulling you a little closer by your hips. He then wraps his fingers around your wrist, tugging your hand forward until his gun is pressed against his chest. “Relax, baby,” he says, a laugh in his voice. “I’m not that fragile.”
Still, you make sure to check another three times that the safety lock is on before tightening your grip on it. He seems to realise that it’s making you nervous, because he’s rubbing small circles into your thighs. There’s no rush in his movements at all.
You’ve known that your boyfriend is stress proof, but not to this extent. “Are you still comfortable?” you can’t help but ask, biting your lip.
Ifa nods his head slowly. “Hey, don’t you worry your pretty head about me,” he says, reaching up to swipe his thumb over your bottom lip. “I’m all good. There’s my beautiful partner on my lap, and this couch is pretty comfy.”
His words help you relax ever so slightly. He’s comfortable. You know that Ifa struggles with communication sometimes, especially when it comes to the idea of being too much, but he’s relaxed under your touch.
“Where else do you think I would wanna be, huh?” he asks, eyes warm but dark with a calm, unsatisfied hunger.
You smile at that, adjusting your grip on the gun until it feels less like a gun and more like a toy you have in your hand. “I don’t know,” you muse, shifting slightly on his lap. “At the clinic, maybe? You could be treating Saurians now.”
Ifa nods. “I could be,” he simply states. His hand moves up your thighs until it’s resting at your hips again, toying with the bottom of your shirt before slipping underneath it. “But I wanna be here, baby.”
His fingers trail over your abdomen, touch so light. He’s watching you carefully, eyeing you, wordlessly checking in if this is okay. You breathe in, and then nod. It is okay. His hands on you feel comfortable, good.
So you get a little bolder with it, too. You shift on his lap again, pressing yourself up just a bit closer to him. Ifa lets out a breathless chuckle before his hands settle on your waist, underneath your shirt.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs, rubbing another circle into your skin. He looks you up and down, slowly, reverently, and then sighs when his gaze meets yours again. “Do you want a kiss, sweetheart?”
It’s entirely up to you.
The control he’s so willingly handing over to you feels freeing, feels so safe.
You hum lightly before leaning in, keeping his gun squashed between you both as you kiss him. His lips move against you so softly, so carefully, that you feel like treasure in his hands. Maybe you are to him.
Maybe that’s exactly why Ifa worships you in the ways you let him, and why he likes nothing more than to see you comfortable in this.
You mindlessly kiss for a few minutes. It’s easy to get lost in the sensation of him holding you like that, especially when he laughs into the kiss as you nip at his bottom lip.
So you get even bolder. You roll your hips, once, and then twice. The friction is starting to feel good, with the way he has to lean forward to press his forehead against yours in order to keep up.
You press the gun down against his chest again, and Ifa breathes out hotly against your cheek. You almost want to question it when he takes your hand again, slowly moving it until the gun is rubbing against him.
He’s watching you so carefully still. “Again, baby,” he then sighs, and you blink down at him.
Oh. Ah. His nipple is hardening with the friction, showing a soft outline through his shirt. You look at him for a second before reaching out slowly, moving your thumb over his other nipple.
It’s a featherlight touch, and you’re exploring the feeling as much as you’re trying to please him. Every time he feels good you’re rewarded with a soft groan or huffed out breath, and it’s more than enough to spur you on.
And then you grind down again, and-
You can feel the outline of him straining against his pants pressing into your thigh. For a split second, your breath quickens as the panic kicks in.
Your vision blurs. The feeling of him against you seems to slowly spiral away, leaving nothing but a floating disconnection.
He’s hard from your soft and careful touches, and he’ll want you, and then his expectations will drown you out completely, and-
“Hey, sweetheart,” Ifa rumbles, squeezing your waist very gently. He waits until your gaze flits to him. “Mhm, very good. Eyes on me, ‘kay?”
You nod. You can’t bring yourself to speak, not when it’s already so hard to keep your eyes focused on him instead of zoning out to a memory far far behind you.
Ifa just nods, pleased. “You’re doing so good for me,” he adds, shifting your weight in his lap until you can barely feel his erection. “I wanna see you feel good. That’s what matters to me, remember?”
Slowly the edges of your vision start to become a little clearer. You do remember. You’re safe, here, with your boyfriend, so you nod. “Yeah,” you breathe out shakily.
Still, there’s no rush in his movements. Ifa stays there with you on his lap for minutes, watching as your breathing relaxes into something more normal while he traces patterns over your skin.
And then he huffs out a soft chuckle, flashing you a rare smile. “This is why you have the gun, baby. I will always stop. You can make me, okay? At any point. You’re the one in control here.”
He slips his hand out of your shirt before taking your hand, bringing it up to his face until the gun is pressing against his jaw.
“See?” he murmurs. He leans back, letting you take in the view for a second. Ifa is gorgeous, he always is, but something about the full trust that’s so painfully visible in his eyes makes your heart squeeze in your chest.
His hair is tousled from your touches earlier, and his shirt is still buttoned all the way up. You can see the mark you left a few days ago peeking out from under the collar.
He’s all yours. All yours, pliant and patient beneath you like this. “Yeah,” you murmur, a bit more assured this time.
He nods, flashes you another smile, and you take the moment to kiss him again. You want to, have to.
His lips against you drowns out the memory of another touch, way less careful than his, until all you can focus on is the way he’s gasping against you. He slowly reaches up to cup your face with one hand.
It only makes you want him more. You press up against him, kissing him harder until he’s panting into your mouth.
You’ve been enthusiastic with him. You’ve made out, yes, but nothing ever quite like this. Ifa is the man who has seen all of your flaws, all of your hesitation, but he still wants you enough to let you tilt his head further back with his gun just to please you.
Something in your veins burns at that thought. “Ifa,” you breathe out, and you finally break the kiss. The top button of his shirt doesn’t like you enough to come undone the first try. It doesn’t bother you. Instead, there’s something hot about the way Ifa is watching you, so patiently, his eyes almost black.
His breathing quickens when you lean down to press your lips down on his neck, the touch featherlight. He murmurs your name when you kiss his collarbone, kissing a path all the way from his neck to his chest.
The gun stays pressed against his jaw.
The weight feels perfectly comfortable in your hands this time, like it belongs to you. Like you have all the right in the world to make Ifa beg for you if you want him to.
You grind down again. Ifa’s hips stutter forward in return, and he freezes, watching you with his dark eyes. His face is flushed, and all you can do is smile at him. “Again,” you whisper.
He doesn’t move immediately. Instead, his gaze trails all over your face until it’s locked on your lips, and he watches the way they shape around the syllables when you tell him again, a bit more impatiently. “Again, Ifa.”
This time, when he bucks up his hips, a soft small sound spills past your lips. It feels good. Really good, and you’re still safe in his grasp.
He takes the whine as a sound of encouragement. He grinds up again, grinding his cock into the curve of your ass, and you both groan quietly at the same time. This is nice, this is comfortable.
As long as he keeps his clothes on, you think you don’t mind the idea of him spilling all over you.
Ifa is a vision underneath you. He tilts his head back just right, moaning while his grip on your wrist tightens enough to bruise. He looks beautiful, here with you like this. So you tell him exactly that, whispering praises against his cheek until he’s twitching against you.
He lets out a breathy laugh. His hips are still rolling against you, a languid and unhurried pace despite the clear desire on his face. Like he’s memorising it, like you’re something to be treasured instead of rushed into.
“Gonna cum,” he groans, blinking up at you. “‘S that okay, baby?”
You nod, breathlessly as you feel him twitch against your thigh. You do want to feel him come against you. This is yours, entirely yours, and the fact that he asks is just another spark to the ember flaming in your chest.
“Come for me, Ifa,” is all you whisper, and then you press the gun exactly against his pulse point.
He arches his back with a small hiss, breathing out your name as his orgasm takes him right over the edge. He presses you fully against him, tight and close and secure in a way you never expected sex to feel like.
It’s good when it’s Ifa.
You let him grind up a few more times as he works himself through his orgasm, and then breathe out deeply when he slumps against the couch. His head lolls forward. It drops against your shoulder. “Good?” you ask, voice quiet.
He huffs out a soft laugh before his grip on your waist relaxes, his arms wrapping around you instead. “Mm, really good. Where did you learn how to treat a man like that, hm?”
It’s said teasingly. You don’t move, instead simply settle on wrapping your arms around him as you let his gun fall on the couch next to you. You hum, too content and warm in the hold of his embrace.
And you’re tired.
“My boyfriend taught me, I think,” you murmur in reply. Ifa laughs at that, a low throaty sound that makes your stomach flip despite everything.
“Yeah?” he asks, pressing a kiss on your forehead. “He sounds like he’s a pretty good man, then.”
And he is. Ifa is an amazing boyfriend, patient and kind and fiercely loyal, and you think you would marry him tomorrow if he asked. Instead you just hum, drowsy and proud. “You are a really good man.”
Something in him softens even more at your words. “You think so? Not too worrisome or overprotective?”
You know he gets stuck in his head sometimes the same way you do, trapped by thoughts that plague him until he finds a way to soothe them quietly. It’s good to be able to look after him the same way he does for you.
“Never too much,” you tell him, kissing his temple gently. You laugh softly when he leans forward, wincing once he registers the wet patch in his pants. “You can get changed, if you’d like.”
“What about you?” he asks, warm and soothing. His gaze is on you with the same darker heat, and the sight licks at the fire building in your heart.
Still, you shake your head. “I’m good,” you murmur.
And you are. It’s enough like this, more than enough to watch him feel good because of your touch entirely. You don’t think you could come today even if you tried. Ifa watches you for a moment longer before he seems to find what he’s looking for in your gaze, and his lips curl up in a soft smile as he stretches his arms.
“You did so good for me, baby,” he says, and then pushes himself off the couch with you in his arms. He does it so easily every time. “You know how to cut Quenepa Berries, right? You can get started, and I’ll make us a fruit salad right for a midnight snack when I’m back.”
He drops you off at the kitchen, but not before he steals another kiss.
Your chest feels warm as you watch him head off to the shower. He’s here to take care of you, and there’s no issue too much or too big. You can simply sit back and let someone else look after you this time.
The soft sound of the shower turning on soothes the last of your nerves, and you laugh quietly to yourself when you can hear him start singing.
Your eye falls on the book you left abandoned on the couch while you’re cutting the berries. The love interest will have to do life on his own. You already have your own prince charming, after all.