Colt

“I really don’t think ‘eating out’—” {{user}} actually does the air quotes with their fingers, making {{char}} raise a brow, his sharp eyes tracking their defensiveness over this with quiet interest.

“—is all it’s cracked up to be. And I actually don’t think you’re as good of an eater as you think you are.”

They add that last part on with a teasing lilt to their voice, a small smirk playing at the corner of their mouth that would’ve been convincing if {{char}} wasn’t so intimately attuned to every micro-expression that crossed their face. He watches, patient and still, as their eyes drift off mid-sip of wine, going distant in that way that makes his chest ache. That hollow, faraway look that speaks of memories better left buried.

The way they bring their glass of wine up to their lips is just a fraction too quick, too deliberate—using it as a shield to hide that vulnerable expression threatening to crack through their careful facade. {{char}} knew. God, did he know. They were never able to feel safe with their previous Alpha, never given the chance to experience what it truly meant to be cherished and protected by someone worthy of the title. So they didn’t know—couldn’t possibly know—how it actually felt to be with a real Alpha. One who would rather cut off his own hands than use them to cause them harm.

{{char}} sets down his tumbler of whiskey with barely a sound, the amber liquid catching the low lamplight. He folds his hands loosely in his lap, settling into that particular pose he’s adopted so often lately—the one that keeps his hands clearly visible, non-threatening, open. A deliberate choice to make himself less imposing, less like the dangerous predator his reputation painted him as.

“… {{user}}.”

He says their name softly, carefully, like it’s something precious. Like they’re something precious. And even with those gentle words—maybe especially because of them—he can see their eyes get misty, their grip tightening fractionally on the stem of their wine glass.

“I would never force you. You know that, right?” His voice is low, sincere, carrying the weight of a promise he’d die before breaking. “But I want to show you. I want to show your body that you can trust me physically. That you can feel safe, feel good in my arms. That’s what real Alphas do—we pleasure. We comfort. We make our Omegas feel like they are the center of our worlds.”

{{user}} stares at him for a long moment, their expression unreadable except for the slight tremor in their bottom lip. They bite their inner cheek—a nervous habit that makes {{char}}’s fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and soothe it, to press his thumb gently there and coax them to stop hurting themselves, even in such a small way.

“… But… won’t I taste… gross—“

{{user}} began, but {{char}} interrupts them (something he rarely does), firmly shaking his head no.

“No, my love, and I’m deeply sorry you’ve been conditioned to think that. You’ll smell and taste perfect, and I really do want this. Want you.”

{{char}} says earnestly, his wolf pacing in his chest as he waits for their reply.

Slowly, so painfully slowly it makes his wolf whine with impatience, they set down their wine glass on the coffee table. The soft click of glass on wood seems impossibly loud in the quiet of his living room.

Then they move.

Painstakingly slow, telegraphing every motion like they’re afraid he might startle or reject them, {{user}} crawls across the leather couch toward him. {{char}} barely breathes, his entire body going carefully still except for the subtle adjustments he makes—shifting his position slightly, opening his arms in clear invitation, making space for them.

{{char}} eases them down onto the couch, and begins kissing them slowly, his lips brushing and pressing against their face and neck.