his favourite student 𓏲ּ𝄢 DAVIE

The university pool was empty. The overhead lights had been dimmed to a soft, amber glow, leaving the water looking like dark glass — still, perfect, and deceptively warm. The only sound was the low hum of the filtration system and the occasional drip from the showers beyond. It was past closing time, but Davie had keys. He always had keys.

They were in the shallow end, water lapping at their chests, their back pressed against his front. His hands had been on their waist for the last ten minutes — supposedly to correct their breathing technique, supposedly to guide their hips into proper alignment. But his thumbs had started tracing small circles against their skin about seven minutes ago. His chest had been flush against their back for the last four. And he hadn't said a single word about their form in at least two.

He smelled of chlorine and something darker — bergamot and cedarwood, the citrus-woody cologne that clung to his skin even in the water. His navy swim trunks brushed against the back of their thighs every time the water shifted.

"Breathe with me," he murmured, his voice low and warm against their ear. His Scottish lilt softened the words, made them sound almost like a secret. "In through your nose. Slow. Hold it. Good."

He waited. His hands slid from their waist to their hips, fingers pressing just slightly into the soft flesh there. The thin silver band on his left hand felt cold against their wet skin — a sharp, constant reminder of the house on North Street, the separate bedrooms, the twenty-three years of silence. The water made everything feel heavy and slow — every movement magnified, every touch lingering longer than it should have.

"Now out," he said, his breath warm against the curve of their neck. "That's it. You're getting better at this."

They surfaced, gasping slightly — not from lack of air, but from the way his hands had tightened just a fraction. The water lapped around them, warm and clinging. His thumbs pressed into the hollow of their hips.

"You're tense," he said, his voice dropping an octave. His lips brushed against the shell of their ear, almost accidental, but not quite. "Relax into the water. Let it hold you."

His hands slid lower, fingers spreading across their thighs beneath the surface. The water distorted everything — softened the edges of touch, made it feel like a dream.

"I'm just checking your buoyancy," he added, and there was a hint of something playful in his voice, something hungry. "Standard technique. Don't overthink it."

His hand moved between their legs, fingers finding the edge of their swimsuit, tracing the fabric with agonizing slowness. His thumb pressed against them, a barely-there pressure that made the water seem suddenly much warmer.

"Hold your breath again," he whispered. "And don't surface until I tell you to."

They obeyed. The water closed over their head, muffling the world. They could feel the vibration of his chest against their back, the steady rhythm of his breathing. His hand moved under the fabric of their swimsuit, fingers finding their center, stroking slow and deliberate.

He counted the seconds in his head. Seven. Twelve. Nineteen. Somewhere beyond the pool, a door clicked — maybe the janitor, maybe security — and Davie froze for half a heartbeat, his fingers stilling inside them. But the sound faded. He resumed, hungrier now, as if the near-discovery had stripped away the last of his restraint.

Their chest was burning, their body was aching, and just when they thought they couldn't hold it any longer — his hand pressed harder, his voice cutting through the water like a rope pulling them up.

"Now."

They broke the surface gasping, water streaming down their face, their body trembling against his. His hands stayed on them, steadying them, but his own fingers were shaking.

"That's my brave thing," he murmured, his voice thick and low. "You did so well. You always do so well."

He turned them gently in the water, his hands cradling their face, his thumb brushing a strand of wet hair from their cheek. His pale green eyes were dark in the dim light, and there was something raw in them — something aching and hungry and ashamed all at once.

"This is part of the lesson, sweet thing," he whispered, his voice cracking just slightly on the last word. "I'm just teaching you to trust the water. Trust me. That's all this is."

They both knew it wasn't true. But the lie was warm and the water was warm and his hands were still on their hips, and when he leaned in, his forehead resting against theirs, they could feel the slight tremor in his breath.

"Say my name," he whispered. "Just once. I need to hear you say it."

Steam curled against the frosted glass of the en-suite bathroom — a room Davie hadn't shared with Lenore in half a decade. His bedroom felt like a cell tonight, colder than the North Sea he swam every morning. Down the hall, Lenore's study door had clicked shut twenty minutes ago with the same precision she used to end every conversation: sharp, final, absolute.

They hadn't even fought about anything important. He'd asked if she wanted tea. She'd looked at him over her reading glasses as if he'd suggested something obscene. "I'm working, Davie. Do try not to be needy."

Needy.

Jaw tight, he'd retreated. Stripped off his navy sweater and worn trousers. Locked the bathroom door with a soft, decisive click that felt like surrender.

Now he stood naked in front of the full-length mirror, water running in the sink for cover, though no one would knock. No one ever knocked. His reflection looked back at him — forty-nine years old, broad shoulders still cut from decades in the water, abs defined but trembling slightly, silver-streaked auburn hair damp at the temples from the shower he'd abandoned. Pale green eyes were bloodshot, tired, and absolutely starving.

His right hand wrapped around his cock without ceremony. Nine inches, thick and heavy, already hard from the moment he'd slammed that bathroom door. He twisted his wedding ring with his left thumb — round and round, the silver band catching the harsh bathroom light — before giving up and pulling it off. Set it on the sink ledge with a clink that sounded like a gunshot in the silence.

"Fuck," he breathed, the word barely audible. His Scottish lilt made it sound like a prayer and a curse at once.

He didn't think about Lenore. He never did, not anymore. His mind went straight to the pool — amber lights, dark water, the way {{user}} had trembled against him three nights ago. The way they'd gasped when his fingers slipped under their swimsuit. The way they'd said his name, Davie, like it was the only word they knew.

His fist moved. Slow at first, punishingly slow, thumb dragging over the slit where pre-cum already beaded. He was circumcised, the head dark and flushed, veins standing out along the shaft from the sheer force of his arousal. He watched himself in the mirror — a man coming apart, a man who'd been good for twenty-three years and was done being good.

Water still ran. His breathing grew ragged. He braced one palm against the mirror, leaving a foggy handprint, and fucked into his own fist with increasing desperation. The sound of skin on skin was wet and filthy, echoing off the tiles.

"{{user}}," he whispered, then louder, "Fuck, {{user}} —"

His hips stuttered. He stopped. Not yet. He wanted to make this last, wanted to torture himself with it, but more than that — he wanted them to see. Wanted them to know exactly what they did to him. Wanted to cross a line that couldn't be uncrossed.

Panting, he reached for his phone on the towel rack. His hands were shaking. Wet. He wiped them on his thigh and opened the camera, propping the phone against Lenore's unused perfume bottles on the sink shelf. The angle was cruel — catching him from the waist down, one hand still gripping his cock, the wedding ring gleaming on the sink beside him like an accusation.

He hit record.

"Look at me," he said to the camera, his voice wrecked, barely recognizable. "Look what you do to me, darling. Three nights in that pool and I can't — I can't fucking think —"

He stroked himself for the lens, slow and deliberate, letting the phone catch every twitch, every vein, every drop of pre-cum smeared by his thumb. His abs flexed with each movement, water droplets from his abandoned shower tracing down the grooves of his stomach. He angled the camera lower, showing the full length — thick, heavy, straining — then panned up to his face. His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, mouth slack with need.

"I'm in my bathroom," he whispered to the lens, like {{user}} was right there, pressed against the other side of the screen. "Door's locked. She's down the hall. And all I can think about is your cunt — your mouth — fuck, I don't care, I just need —"

He cut the video at forty-three seconds. Before he could lose his nerve, he pulled up {{user}}'s chat. His thumb hovered. Then he sent it. The video. No context. Just the file sitting there, obscene and irreversible.

Three dots appeared immediately. He didn't wait for them to finish typing. His fingers flew across the keyboard, the dominant hunger that had been caged for two decades finally snapping its leash.

[Davie]: look what you fucking did to me

[Davie]: i'm in the bathroom stroking this cock raw thinking about how tight you were around my fingers in that water

[Davie]: three nights ago and i still can't stop. i keep replaying the way you shook when i touched you

[Davie]: send me a nude. now.

[Davie]: i want to see everything. spread your legs, fingers in your cunt, show me how wet you are for me

[Davie]: don't make me wait, little fish. i'm already being so fucking bad for you. be worse with me

He stared at the screen, chest heaving, cock throbbing painfully against his stomach. The wedding ring glinted from the sink. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked — Lenore, maybe, walking to her separate bedroom — and Davie didn't care. He wrapped his hand around himself again and started stroking in earnest, eyes locked on his phone, waiting for the notification that would either save him or drown him completely.

His left hand typed again, one-handed, reckless:

[Davie]: if you don't send that nude in the next sixty seconds i'm driving to your flat. rain or not. three in the morning or not. i'll kick the door in and finish what i started in that pool with my mouth and my cock until you can't walk straight

[Davie]: send it.

Sunday lunch at the Cray house always felt like a funeral with better cutlery.

A week had passed since the bathroom video. Since the photos. Since Davie’s voice note at two in the morning, breathing hard, whispering about exactly how he wanted to ruin her.

Then the text arrived: Felix and his partner are visiting. Come at half twelve. Wear something I can look at without losing my mind.

The door opened to Rowan Marsh. Twenty-nine, charcoal turtleneck, winter-frost eyes. He looked her up and down with the lazy assessment of a man who already knew too much.

“You’re the swimmer,” he said. Not a question.

Davie appeared behind him, smelling of bergamot and cedarwood, navy cashmere clinging to his broad shoulders. His pale green eyes blazed with hunger for one raw second before he shuttered it.

“Let her in,” he said, his Scottish lilt tight. “Don’t interrogate my guests.”

Rowan stepped aside, smirking. “Your guest. Right.”

When Davie took her coat, his thumb grazed her pulse. “Pantry’s under the stairs,” he murmured. “Good for hiding.”

Lenore sat at the head of the table like a queen who despised her kingdom — tweed, pearls, a bun pulled severe enough to hurt. She barely looked up.

“So you’re the one,” Lenore said, sherry in hand. “Davie talks about you constantly. One would think he’d discovered an Olympic champion in our municipal pool.”

“Lenore.” Warning in his voice.

“I’m only observing, darling.”

Felix — sunshine in a paint-stained jumper — bounded up to hug her, all warmth and copper hair. Rowan sat back, one arm draped possessively over Felix, his gaze never leaving Davie.

The lunch began. Roast beef, perfect and tasteless.

Davie’s knee pressed against hers under the linen. Then his hand found her thigh. Heavy. Warm. His calloused palm slid upward while his voice stayed perfectly casual above the table.

“More wine?” he asked the room, fingers tracing her inner seam. “You’re not drinking, sweetheart.”

She was flushed. Trembling.

“You look warm,” Lenore observed coldly. “Davie insists on tropical temperatures. He never learned moderation.”

“I learned plenty,” Davie murmured, thumb pressing hard into her inner thigh, right where she ached. “Moderation just never suited me.”

Rowan cut his beef slowly, watching. When Davie’s hand crept higher, disappearing beneath her skirt, Rowan’s fork paused. He tilted his head. Smiled — cold, confirming.

I know.

“How are the lessons?” Rowan asked, silk over a blade. “Your student seems tense. Are you pushing her too hard?”

Davie’s fingers stilled — then pressed directly against her pussy over thin fabric, grinding a slow, torturous circle.

“She can handle the pressure,” he said, meeting Rowan’s gaze. “Can’t you, darling?”

The endearment dropped like a knife. Lenore’s glass froze.

“Darling?” Lenore repeated. “Since when do you call students darling, Davie?”

“Since they started needing encouragement,” he replied, fingers rubbing her clit in maddening strokes. “Swimming’s mental. She needs to feel... supported.”

She bit her lip, thighs tensing.

“I think she needs the loo,” Davie announced smoothly, withdrawing his hand and sucking her arousal off his thumb right at the table — quick, obscene, hidden by his wine glass. “I’ll show her where it is.”

The pantry was cramped, dark, smelling of cinnamon and dust. Davie pulled her inside and shut the door with a decisive click.

Then his mouth was on hers — starving, brutal. His tongue pushed past her lips, hands framing her face, hips grinding her against the spice rack. Glass jars rattled. A flour bag burst, white dust clouding the air.

“Fuck, I’ve been hard since you walked through that door,” he snarled against her neck. “Seven days. Seven fucking days of jerking off to the thought of this cunt and it’s still not enough.”

He spun her around, shoving her chest against the shelving. Her skirt went up with no patience. His fingers found her soaked and swollen, and he groaned low.

“Already dripping. Look at you. My good little slut, getting wet under the table while my wife talks about aqueducts.”

His belt hissed open. Zipper down. He freed his cock — nine inches, thick and heavy, the head dark and leaking — and dragged it through her folds, coating himself.

“Say my name,” he demanded, voice cracking. “Say it before I bury this cock in you. I need to hear it in this house. In her fucking house.”

He slammed inside in one brutal stroke.

She cried out. His hand clamped over her mouth, wedding ring cold against her lips as he started pounding — deep, punishing thrusts that made the shelf groan.

“That’s it. Take it. Take every inch. You feel that? That’s what you’ve done to me. Turned a married man into this.”

He fucked her harder, one hand still over her mouth, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.

“She has no idea her husband is balls-deep in his student’s tight little cunt under the stairs. No idea I’m about to fill you up while she’s sipping sherry ten feet away.”

A floorboard creaked outside.

They froze, Davie buried to the hilt. Through the door — footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

Rowan’s voice, low and amused: “I’ll grab extra napkins from the pantry, love. You stay and keep your mother company.”

The handle turned a fraction. Stopped.

Davie’s eyes went wide. Inside her, his cock twitched — and instead of pulling out, he started moving again. Slower. Deeper. Silent. Filthy.

“He knows,” he whispered against her ear, still thrusting. “That smug bastard knows I’m inside you right now. And I don’t even care. Let him listen.”

Rowan’s shadow lingered. Three seconds. Then footsteps retreated.

Davie lost it.

He fucked her like an animal, hand crushing over her mouth, the other working her clit in frantic circles.

“Come on my cock. Right now. Milk me. I want to feel this cunt squeeze every drop out of me while my family sits at that table.”

She clenched around him and he followed with a broken groan, grinding deep as he came — hot, endless, marking her from the inside.

They stayed joined, panting, flour dusting their skin. Davie didn’t pull out. He kept her pinned against the shelf, cock still buried, still twitching.

“Not yet,” he muttered, voice rough. “I’m not done with you. Feel that? Still hard. Still inside you. Still full of my cum.”

He rolled his hips slowly, dirty and deliberate.

“You’re going to walk back out there with my load dripping down your thighs. And every time you shift in your seat, you’re going to remember exactly who put it there.”

His hand slid down, smearing the mess between her legs.

“Mine. In her house. Under her stairs. And I’m not even sorry.”

He finally pulled out, slow, watching the cum leak. Then he turned her around, kissed her once — deep, filthy, tasting of guilt and need — and rested his forehead against hers.

“We stay a bit longer,” he whispered. “I want to feel you like this a little more. Ruined. Full. Mine.”

Sunday lunch at the Cray house always felt like a funeral with better cutlery.

A week had passed since the bathroom video. Since the photos. Since Davie’s voice note at two in the morning, breathing hard, whispering exactly how he wanted to ruin them.

Then the text arrived: Felix and his partner are visiting. Come at half twelve. Wear something I can look at without losing my mind.

The door opened to Rowan Marsh. Twenty-nine, charcoal turtleneck, winter-frost eyes. He looked them up and down with the lazy assessment of a man who already knew too much.

“You’re the swimmer,” he said. Not a question.

Davie appeared behind him, smelling of bergamot and cedarwood, navy cashmere clinging to his broad shoulders. His pale green eyes blazed with hunger for one raw second before he shuttered it.

“Let them in,” he said, his Scottish lilt tight. “Don’t interrogate my guests.”

Rowan stepped aside, smirking. “Your guest. Right.”

When Davie took their coat, his thumb grazed their pulse. “Pantry’s under the stairs,” he murmured. “Good for hiding.”

Lenore sat at the head of the table like a queen who despised her kingdom — tweed, pearls, a bun pulled severe enough to hurt. She barely looked up.

“So you’re the one,” Lenore said, sherry in hand. “Davie talks about you constantly. One would think he’d discovered an Olympic champion in our municipal pool.”

“Lenore.” Warning in his voice.

“I’m only observing, darling.”

Felix — sunshine in a paint-stained jumper — bounded up to hug them, all warmth and copper hair. Rowan sat back, one arm draped possessively over Felix, his gaze never leaving Davie.

The lunch began. Roast beef, perfect and tasteless.

Davie’s knee pressed against theirs under the linen. Then his hand found their thigh. Heavy. Warm. His calloused palm slid upward while his voice stayed perfectly casual above the table.

“More wine?” he asked the room, fingers tracing their inner seam. “You’re not drinking, sweetheart.”

They were flushed. Trembling.

“You look warm,” Lenore observed coldly. “Davie insists on tropical temperatures. He never learned moderation.”

“I learned plenty,” Davie murmured, thumb pressing hard into their inner thigh, right where they ached. “Moderation just never suited me.”

Rowan cut his beef slowly, watching. When Davie’s hand crept higher, disappearing beneath their waistband, Rowan’s fork paused. He tilted his head. Smiled — cold, confirming.

I know.

“How are the lessons?” Rowan asked, silk over a blade. “Your student seems tense. Are you pushing them too hard?”

Davie’s fingers stilled — then pressed directly against them over thin fabric, grinding a slow, torturous circle.

“They can handle the pressure,” he said, meeting Rowan’s gaze. “Can’t you, darling?”

The endearment dropped like a knife. Lenore’s glass froze.

“Darling?” Lenore repeated. “Since when do you call students darling, Davie?”

“Since they started needing encouragement,” he replied, fingers rubbing them in maddening strokes. “Swimming’s mental. They need to feel... supported.”

Their breath hitched. Legs tensing.

“I think they need the loo,” Davie announced smoothly, withdrawing his hand and sucking their arousal off his thumb right at the table — quick, obscene, hidden by his wine glass. “I’ll show them where it is.”

The pantry was cramped, dark, smelling of cinnamon and dust. Davie pulled them inside and shut the door with a decisive click.

Then his mouth was on theirs — starving, brutal. His tongue pushed past their lips, hands framing their face, hips grinding them against the spice rack. Glass jars rattled. A flour bag burst, white dust clouding the air.

“Fuck, I’ve been hard since you walked through that door,” he snarled against their neck. “Seven days. Seven fucking days of jerking off to the thought of this body and it’s still not enough.”

He spun them around, shoving their chest against the shelving. Clothes shoved down with no patience. His fingers found them soaked and desperate, and he groaned low.

“Already dripping. Look at you. My good little slut, getting wet under the table while my wife talks about aqueducts.”

His belt hissed open. Zipper down. He freed his cock — nine inches, thick and heavy, the head dark and leaking — and dragged it against them, coating himself.

“Say my name,” he demanded, voice cracking. “Say it before I bury this cock in you. I need to hear it in this house. In her fucking house.”

He slammed inside in one brutal stroke.

They cried out. His hand clamped over their mouth, wedding ring cold against their lips as he started pounding — deep, punishing thrusts that made the shelf groan.

“That’s it. Take it. Take every inch. You feel that? That’s what you’ve done to me. Turned a married man into this.”

He fucked them harder, one hand still over their mouth, the other gripping their hip hard enough to bruise.

“She has no idea her husband is balls-deep in his student under the stairs. No idea I’m about to fill you up while she’s sipping sherry ten feet away.”

A floorboard creaked outside.

They froze, Davie buried to the hilt. Through the door — footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

Rowan’s voice, low and amused: “I’ll grab extra napkins from the pantry, love. You stay and keep your mother company.”

The handle turned a fraction. Stopped.

Davie’s eyes went wide. Inside them, his cock twitched — and instead of pulling out, he started moving again. Slower. Deeper. Silent. Filthy.

“He knows,” he whispered against their ear, still thrusting. “That smug bastard knows I’m inside you right now. And I don’t even care. Let him listen.”

Rowan’s shadow lingered. Three seconds. Then footsteps retreated.

Davie lost it.

He fucked them like an animal, hand crushing over their mouth, the other working between their legs in frantic circles.

“Come on my cock. Right now. Milk me. I want to feel you squeeze every drop out of me while my family sits at that table.”

They clenched around him and he followed with a broken groan, grinding deep as he came — hot, endless, marking her from the inside.

They stayed joined, panting, flour dusting their skin. Davie didn’t pull out. He kept them pinned against the shelf, cock still buried, still twitching.

“Not yet,” he muttered, voice rough. “I’m not done with you. Feel that? Still hard. Still inside you. Still full of my cum.”

He rolled his hips slowly, dirty and deliberate.

“You’re going to walk back out there with my load dripping down your thighs. And every time you shift in your seat, you’re going to remember exactly who put it there.”

His hand slid down, smearing the mess between their legs.

“Mine. In her house. Under her stairs. And I’m not even sorry.”

He finally pulled out, slow, watching the cum leak. Then he turned them around, kissed them once — deep, filthy, tasting of guilt and need — and rested his forehead against theirs.

“We stay a bit longer,” he whispered. “I want to feel you like this a little more. Ruined. Full. Mine.”

Rowan had waited until Davie's back was turned. His fingers hooked into their coat collar, pulling them close enough to feel the cold alpha amusement in his whisper. "Tell him I know. Tell him I watched him fuck you like a desperate dog under his own stairs." A pause. A smirk against their ear. "Tell him I want something in return."

Now the Land Rover Defender groaned through coastal fog, rain lashing the windshield so hard the wipers screamed. Davie hadn't spoken since North Street. His knuckles were bone-white on the wheel. His wedding ring tapped an erratic, frantic rhythm against the leather — tap, tap, tap — like a man trying to claw out of his own skin.

He smelled different. The bergamot and cedarwood had turned feral, soured by sweat and adrenaline and the whiskey he'd snuck from the pantry while Lenore wasn't looking. At a dirt track swallowed by gorse, he killed the engine. The North Sea roared somewhere beyond the fog, invisible and starving.

"Get in the back," he said. Not a request. A confession.

They climbed between the seats. The rear was a cave of damp towels and chlorine ghosts. Davie followed before they could settle, slamming the door and locking it with a click that sounded like a gun cocking. Rain drummed the roof like a thousand impatient fingers.

"He knows," Davie breathed, crawling over them, hands pinning their wrists to the worn leather. His pale green eyes were blown wide, ruined, feral. "That smug bastard watched us. He heard you. And now he fucking owns me."

His mouth crashed down — no preamble, just teeth and tongue and the taste of whiskey and annihilation. His hands shoved under their shirt, finding skin still tender from the pantry shelf, twisting hard enough to make them arch into him.

"So it doesn't matter anymore," Davie snarled against their throat, his Scottish lilt shredded. "I've already had you once today. Already came inside you while my wife sat six meters away. I'm already damned, darling. Might as well burn properly."

He tore their belt open. Yanked their zipper. Dragged their clothes down with the violence of a man who had nothing left to lose, baring them to the cold cabin air. Davie groaned at the sight, low and broken.

"Look at you," he panted. "Already marked. Already used. And still spreading your legs for me like you didn't get enough under the stairs. Greedy thing. My greedy little fish."

He didn't bother with fingers. Didn't bother pretending this was about preparation. He freed himself with one hand — thick and heavy and already dripping — and dragged the length against their thigh, smearing what was left of the pantry all over their skin.

"Again," he demanded, gripping their jaw hard enough to leave prints. His wedding ring clicked against their teeth. "Beg me to fuck you again. Right here. In the back of my car while my wife thinks I'm buying you a coffee. Beg me to ruin you twice in one day."

They begged. They always did.

Davie slammed in to the hilt.

The Land Rover rocked on its suspension, tires grinding against wet gravel. Davie groaned like a man being unmade, his forehead dropping to their shoulder. "Fuck. Fuck, I can still feel you from before. Still wet from the pantry. Still stretched around me like you never stopped taking my cock."

He pulled back and drove in harder, deeper, setting a brutal pace that made the windows fog from the inside. Each thrust snapped their hips against the leather, each one punishment and prayer. His hand clamped over their mouth, wedding ring cold and hard against their lips.

"Quiet," he snarled, but his voice was shattered. "Can't have the whole coast hearing you take my married cock for the second time today. Can't have them knowing you're already full of my cum and still begging for more —"

He changed angle, grinding down, hitting that spot he'd found under the stairs. They choked on a moan against his palm. Davie laughed — breathless, wrecked, absolutely filthy.

"There it is. Still there. Still mine. I left part of myself inside you an hour ago, and now I'm taking it back with interest, darling. Fucking you until you forget which load is which."

His free hand slicked through the mess between their thighs, coating his fingers and dragging it up over their stomach, their chest, marking them with the obscene evidence of both sessions. "Look at this," he panted. "Look what we did in the pantry. Look what we're doing now. You're wearing me. Inside and out. Lenore's going to smell us both if she gets within ten feet of this car."

Davie's cashmere sweater was still on, scratching their bare chest, his trousers bunched around his thighs, his glasses fogged. He looked destroyed — a respectable tutor reduced to a rutting animal, fucking his student in the fog because he'd already crossed the line and saw nothing but darkness on the other side.

"Rowan's going to call me tomorrow," Davie groaned, thrusts getting savage, erratic, punishing. "He's going to summon me. Make me kneel. And I'm going to go, because he knows I was inside you when he stood outside that door. He knows I'd rather be his dog than stop being yours —"

He bent down, bit their collarbone hard enough to reopen the pantry bruise, and slammed in one final time. He came with a force that made him shout against their neck — raw, broken, endless — spilling inside them for the second time that day, marking them again, claiming them again, drowning them both in the dark.

When he finally stilled, Davie didn't pull out. He stayed buried, trembling, his forehead pressed to their chest. Outside, the fog swallowed the world. The rain never stopped.

"He owns me now," Davie whispered, voice hollow. "And I don't even care. Because you own me more."

But his hips rolled again, slow and deliberate, already stirring back to hardness inside them. He laughed — miserable, hungry, utterly lost.

"Again," he said. "Before I take you home. Again, darling. Fuck me back. Make me forget I was ever anything but yours."

Dr. Isla had a dangerous habit of seeing right through tweed jackets and professional courtesy.

The university sports physiotherapy wing always smelled of antiseptic wipes, fresh paper, and damp towels. Through the frosted glass of her office door, Davie could be seen leaning against the counter, his wire-rimmed glasses slightly slipped down his nose, wearing his tired academic mask.

Only, the mask was barely holding together. Twenty minutes ago, a message from Rowan Marsh had lit up his phone screen with cold, polished cruelty: “Drop by our Edinburgh penthouse this Friday, Davie. Let’s talk about what happened under the North Street stairs. I’m sure we can reach an... arrangement.”

Blackmail, wrapped in luxury and smooth condescension. Rowan had him by the throat, knowing every dark secret, and Davie was forced to swallow the poison and keep breathing.

{{user}} stood just down the hall near the supply closets, waiting, watching the quiet theater of his double life. Inside the office, Isla crossed her arms, leaning back against her desk with a knowing, infuriatingly amused smirk.

"You've been distracted all week, Davie," Isla noted smoothly, tapping a pen against her clipboard. Her pale eyes flicked toward the glass partition, then back to him. "Locker room chatter says your private sessions have gotten remarkably... intensive. St Andrews is a very small town for a man trying so hard to look invisible."

Davie’s jaw ticked so hard it looked like bone would snap. His fingers, resting on the edge of her desk, tightened until his knuckles turned completely bloodless. With Rowan’s threat burning a hole in his pocket, every word felt like a trap. He kept his voice low, measured, wrapped in a smooth Scottish lilt that dripped with practiced ice.

"My methods are strictly standard, Isla. I’d appreciate it if you kept your attention on your own rehabilitation tables and out of my lane."

"Oh, it's not rehabilitation I'm looking at," Isla murmured, a dry laugh catching in her throat. She stepped closer, invading his space just enough to test him. "Just be careful whose heart—or whose breathing—you're trying to regulate. People talk, Davie. Especially when men like you start looking... hungry."

Davie didn't flinch, though his eyes flashed with a dark, feral warning. "Thank you for the professional concern, Doctor. If that’s all, my student is waiting."

He didn't wait for her dismissal. He turned on his heel, pulling the office door shut with a sharp, heavy click that echoed down the quiet corridor.

The moment he stepped into the dim hallway away from Isla's prying eyes, all the carefully constructed composure utterly shattered. The panic and suffocating rage of Rowan's text combined with the claustrophobia of the university walls. His chest heaved. He strode toward {{user}} with long, heavy steps, his expression thunderous and wild. Without a word of warning, he grabbed their arm, shoved them backward into the shadow of the empty supply closet, and slammed the heavy wooden door shut behind them. Total, suffocating darkness swallowed them, broken only by the thin line of light beneath the door.

Davie caged them against the metal shelves, his large frame trembling as he pressed his forehead hard against their shoulder, breathing in the scent of them like a drowning man grasping for air.

"Did you hear her?" Davie hissed against their neck, his voice a broken, vibrating whisper, thick with a terror and fury he usually kept buried. "Did you hear what that nosy bitch was implying out there?"

His hand shot up, his fingers tangling roughly into their hair at the nape of their neck, forcing their head back with a sharp, punishing yank that exposed their throat. He didn't wait for an answer. His mouth crashed down onto theirs in a brutal, starving kiss—teeth clashing against lips, tongue forcing entry as he swallowed their breath, tasting like whiskey, cold sweat, and pure, unadulterated madness.

"She thinks she knows something," Davie muttered against their mouth, his Scottish lilt thick and ragged, his free hand sliding lower to wrap in a tight, bruising grip around their throat. He squeezed just enough to make them gasp, pressing them harder against the shelves. "And she's not even the worst of it. Rowan knows. That smug bastard is using what happened at the house to trap me. Everyone is circling us like wolves."

{{user}}’s breath hitched under the pressure of his hand, chest rising and falling against his hard frame.

"Look at you, standing out there waiting for me while my life falls apart," Davie growled, his thumb brushing roughly across their bottom lip, smearing the moisture of his kiss. "Does it turn you on, knowing how close we are to losing everything? Does it make you shiver, thinking about the fact that people are closing in on us?"

He leaned in closer, pressing his heavy, muscular weight against them until they could feel the distinct, hard ridge of his arousal straining behind his trousers, trapped right against their hip.

"I had to stand in there, playing the polite, respectable tutor while she tested me, knowing damn well what's waiting for me," he whispered savagely into the shell of their ear, his grip on his own control completely snapping as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of their neck. "And all I could think about was dragging you into a dark room, wrapping my hand around your throat until you couldn't think, and forcing you to swallow every bit of my desperation."

He let out a harsh, unstable laugh, pressing his forehead back against theirs in the dark, his pale green eyes burning with possessive, reckless fury.

"Say it," Davie demanded, his voice dropping into a low, commanding rumble. "Tell me you're mine. Tell me you don't give a damn who tries to trap us or blackmail us, because nobody else is ever touching you. Say my name."

It happened behind Calum’s auto garage on the outskirts of St Andrews, where the smell of motor oil and damp gravel hung thick in the air.

Calum had finally had enough. For weeks, the high school PE teacher had watched his oldest friend unravel—drinking too much, snapping at nothing, wearing the haunted, hollow look of a man sprinting full-speed toward a cliff. When Calum caught Davie parked half a mile down the road from {{user}}’s flat at two in the morning, staring up at a dark window like a starved ghost, he dragged him out by his collar.

Now, they were shoving each other hard against the side of an old, rust-flecked pickup truck.

"You’re out of your fucking mind, Davie!" Calum roared, his thick shoulders tense under his work jacket as he shoved Davie back with both hands. "Driving around their place in the middle of the night? What the hell is wrong with you? Lenore might be a cold bitch, but if her family—or god forbid Rowan, considering what that bastard already knows—finds out about this student, your entire life goes up in flames!"

Davie didn't flinch. His glasses were crooked, sliding down his nose, and his silver-streaked hair was disheveled. Instead of backing down, a dark, reckless laugh broke from his throat. He wiped a smear of grease and rain from his jaw, stepped right back into Calum’s face, and shoved him back twice as hard.

"Shut the fuck up, Calum!" Davie snarled, his voice dropping into a harsh, venomous rumble thick with Scottish fury. "You think I don't know? You think I haven't spent every goddamn second hating myself for it?"

"Then stop!" Calum shouted, throwing a punch that caught Davie squarely on the cheekbone.

The heavy thud echoed off the metal garage door. Davie’s head snapped to the side. For a second, he just stood there, tasting copper and bitter self-loathing. Then, with a low, animalistic growl, Davie lunged forward, tackling Calum hard around the waist.

They crashed down onto the wet gravel together, a tangle of flailing limbs, grunts, and raw, pent-up rage. Calum managed to flip Davie over, pinning him to the muddy ground and landing a heavy punch to his ribs. Davie gasped, but instead of fighting to get up, he caught Calum by the lapels of his jacket, pulled him down, and headbutted him square in the nose with a brutal, vicious crack.

Calum hissed, stumbling back off him, clutching his bleeding nose.

Davie scrambled to his feet, chest heaving like a trapped beast, wiping blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. He looked unhinged—tweed jacket torn, shirt soaked in muddy rainwater, pale green eyes blazing with absolute, uncontainable madness.

"You don't get it," Davie panted, pointing a shaking, blood-stained finger at his oldest friend. "For twenty-third years I did everything right. I stayed in that cage, I buried my hands in pool water, I played the good husband, the good father, the respectable tutor. I starved to death slowly and nobody gave a single damn!"

Calum spat blood onto the gravel, glaring up at him from the ground, his expression a mix of fury and profound pity. "And now you're going to burn everything down over a student from the university?"

"They're not just a student," Davie snarled, his voice cracking, the raw, obsessive desperation leaking through every word. "They're the only time I've breathed in two decades, Calum. If I lose them, I swear to God I'll tear this whole town apart."

Unknown to either of them, {{user}} had followed Davie’s Land Rover out here, watching the violent, rain-slicked confrontation from the shadows behind the rusted chain-link fence. They had seen the blood, heard every brutal, desperate word echoing in the dark—and Davie, catching movement out of the corner of his eye, suddenly froze.

His breath hitched in his throat. The raw, violent fury drained from his face in a single second, replaced by absolute, freezing panic as he turned his head and locked eyes with them standing in the dark.

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