Work Text:
we are so romantic
sometimes I think you hate my guts
she is so dramatic
and I’m so in love
Nevermind mood swings and midnight cravings, Keng thinks he might be in heaven.
Now, Ping would surely swat him with a pillow for saying that, and send him off for the weirdest combination of food known to man, but his pregnancy does have its perks.
He’s been working him to the bone these days, but his nurturing instincts are off the charts, and Keng’s living his best life. The further he is into the second trimester, the more Ping fusses over him. It’s adorable.
He’s always being attuned to Keng—his mood, health, level of energy and overall well-being, but now he gets this overwhelming urge to take care of him, in the most devastatingly sweet way possible. And not just sweet.
Keng knows he shouldn’t be greedy for sex; obviously he wants Ping all the time, but he’s sworn to himself that he would never pressure him, not with what his body is going through.
It’s been a tricky process.
At first he went overboard, being extra careful and it almost ended in a huge clusterfuck, because Namping decided Keng didn’t want him anymore. As if that could ever happen. Needless to say, that day he slept on the couch, reflecting upon the balance he had to strike between caring for his pregnant mate and showing him just how much he still desires him carnally.
If one day I tell you I don’t want you, call an exorcist, he said. That would mean I’m possessed. By some tasteless spirit, if it can’t recognize your dazzling beauty.
All in all, he grovelled. Ping huffed and puffed and rolled his eyes, looking at him with that exasperated fondness that Keng not-so-secretly adored.
And now—further into the pregnancy, he wants more. To be closer–a lot closer. Not only to be pleasured by him but to pleasure Keng in return. He’s been… very accommodating in this regard. Doing more than Keng would dare to ask for. With his mouth—
Keng squeezes his eyes shut, glancing surreptitiously down at his pants.
He has to chase those thoughts away for the time being. He actually has a day packed full of schedules, and having a boner would make it harder–no pun intended–to make through it unscathed.
He absolutely can’t get into a media scandal—it would make Ping worry.
And oh god, good luck persuading him that he got like that thinking about Ping’s own talented mouth, not some “pretty little omega” he’d be accused of falling for. That would be tougher than any crisis management. He shudders at the mere thought of it. Jealous, really jealous Namping is a storm very few can weather.
Just then, when he’s about to get five-minute warning for the start of his shoot, his phone dings in his pocket.
Oh damn.
He’s got a bad feeling about this.
Miss you, says the message from Namping.
Short and lethal, with a picture attached.
He looks sinful.
Flushed cheeks, puffy mouth, his collarbone on display. And his chest. His swollen, tender nipples begging for teeth, begging for Keng to put his mouth there—
“Fuck,” he groans into the empty room, hands behind his head as he tips it back.
"Five minutes, nong." The staff calls out from behind the door, right on cue.
Okay, Harit.
Get your act together.
Imagine the non-sexiest things. Off-putting. Like… ghosts. Noodles. Someone flirting with Namping. Namping and his soft, delicate face, the rosy glow on his cheeks, the sly curve of his eyes, his full, pouty lips, wet and swollen from being thoroughly kissed, or from sucking his—
Fuck.
Why would Namping send him this?
He wants him so much he’s dizzy with it, arousal simmering under his skin, sending tingles down his spine. And with each furtive glance at this perfect, lewd picture, the probability of tenting pants fiasco is growing exponentially. The only chance he has is locking his screen right now, shoving the phone in his pants (without looking at the lockscreen photo of his beautiful, gorgeous, walking temptation of a mate) and focus on his work. Practice restraint, channel his inner shaman. Easier said than done. In his painstaking efforts to get it together, he completely forgets to fire back a reply.
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🦆་༘࿐
When he gets home, dead-tired and in desperate need of recharge, Ping is burrowed in his–their nest. He doesn’t come out to greet him, and it’s at this moment Keng realizes, he fucked up.
“Baby?” He calls out hopefully, voice small and subdued.
Silence.
Keng draws in a long breath, holds and exhales. No freaking out.
He feels like there’s not a single dominant cell in his body right now.
“Pung?” He tries again, the take-out bag in his hand suddenly seeming too small of an offering for whatever it is he’s done wrong this time. Frankly, he’s got a hunch.
“Don’t call me that,” a sharp, cranky voice finally comes muffled from inside the nest. “You’re such a jerk, Harit. You didn’t even react to my message!”
Yeah, he was right. No amount of grilled beef will save him now.
“I’m so sorry, Pung,” he croons, assuming his best remorseful tone. “My Pung. I won’t do it again. Can I come in?”
“No,” Ping announces sulkily, then his head pokes outside, probably in dire need of giving Keng a proper dressing down.
He stares him up and down briskly, gaze focusing on Keng’s lips for a second too long—the corner of Keng’s mouth twitches as he fights to suppress a smile—then Ping apparently decides that an evil eye and a scolding won’t be enough, and climbs out.
He’s wearing Keng’s sweatshirt, and nothing else, which makes Keng’s heart swell and his dick throb, and makes clearing the air part so much harder.
‘I’m not your trophy wife, Harit,” He pads closer, all soft and cuddly but blazing with wrath. Keng can’t tear his eyes off his soft, pale, endless legs. “Don’t think you can just knock me up, then go around ignoring my texts. What happened to putting me first? Pung this and Pung that. Now I’m not even worth a heart emoji?” He pokes him in the chest, voice rising in pitch, his cheeks flushed and breathing uneven, and Keng should really focus on his redemption arc but his omega is so blindingly beautiful it’s distracting.
Deep breaths.
Now, when Namping goes overboard, he resorts to a simple but effective tactic, namely an eye for an eye. He’d sulk right back at him and usually his antics amused his partner so much that his heart would thaw. It’s fun, it works and most importantly, today he has a valid reason to be affronted.
“Don’t you think it was a little cruel?” He asks softly, catching Ping by the waist. He’s so hopeless, even in the middle of an argument he can’t bring himself to be stern. “Sending me this picture while I’m working.”
Ping squirms, trying to pull himself free from his arms. Not particularly hard. More of a token effort, Keng would say.
He lets out a small unimpressed huff.
“Is it so hard to give me a little attention?”
Keng sighs, squeezing him tighter. Ping seems to accept his fate, but he doesn’t hug him back, his hands hanging limply at his sides.
“Oh Pung. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. I should have replied, but I was literally losing my mind over there. My schedule was packed, and here I was, thinking about your mouth. Only your mouth.”
Ping giggles, covering said mouth with his hand. He’s much happier now that his alpha admitted just how much his teasing affected him.
“Oh? You want to fuck my mouth?”
“So crude,” Keng chides, voice low and husky. “We don’t have to, little one. I know it’s uncomfortable-”
Ping huffs, waving him off.
“Oh, stop with the martyrdom. Do you want it or not?”
“But—”
“Last chance, Harit,” Ping cuts him off sternly.
“Yeah,” Keng breathes, shutting his conscience off. “Yeah, I want it.”
Ping nods, satisfied; his lips part slightly as he scans Keng’s hungry expression, then curl into a smug little smile.
“Okay then. I’m pregnant, not made of glass. We’ll figure it out. I can lie on my side again. But let’s get you into the shower first.”
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐
“Do you deserve my mouth after this silent treatment I got?” Ping inquires as he slowly unbuttons his shirt. His tone is light, teasing. He’s tending to Keng with easy confidence, sure movements–undressing him, slipping off his rings, unclasping his necklace. His belt buckle clangs loudly in the quiet of the room as Ping undoes it, his fingers deftly dancing over his clothes, brushing his bare skin. A shiver runs down his spine when Ping sinks to his knees in front of him, tugging his pants down. He rubs his face against Keng’s crotch, inhaling and for a few frenzied seconds Keng just stares at him wide-eyed, completely forgetting that he’s not supposed to do that.
Seeing the alarm in his eyes, Ping smirks and rises–surprisingly graceful for a pregnant omega–and says, “Settle down, alpha. I don’t break that easily.”
Again, the supreme gender narrative seems like a joke to him when Keng obediently exhales and then trails after Ping to the bathroom.
He feels like an overeager puppy, wagging his tail and rolling over at the crook of Ping’s finger.
Ping quickly slips out of his own clothes, fiddling with the faucets to get the temperature right, and they both step in.
The first thing Ping does when he’s satisfied with the water is pull Keng into his arms.
"Are you tired na?” He murmurs softly, hands rubbing soothing circles over Keng’s back. “You’re working too much.”
Keng puts his arms around Namping gently, careful of his growing belly.
“Sorry for neglecting you,” he mumbles back, unsure how hurt Ping actually is by his lack of response. “I didn’t mean to. I swear Pung.”
“It’s okay. Tell me more about being all hot and bothered at work.”
Keng shakes him head, smiling indulgently.
“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” He wonders, no actual bite in his voice.
“I just wanted to cheer you up,” Ping shrugs, his faux innocence not particularly convincing but very endearing. And arousing.
Oh, he’s seriously so hungry for Ping all the time.
“Who even taught you to pose like that?” He rasps, pressing a kiss into his neck. Ping shivers, too sensitive from Keng’s lips grazing his scent gland.
“Like what?” He looks at Keng from under his lashes, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. Keng smiles and arches a brow, leaning to nip at his gland. He glances up at him to respond, mouthing just one word:
“Dirty.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ping says, reaching for Keng’s shampoo. “You’ve got a dirty mind, phi.”
“Do I?”
Namping hums, carding his fingers through the strands gently as he lathers his hair.
Keng closes his eyes and sighs, the subtle, neutral smell of his shampoo mixing up with the sweet, heady scent of his omega. Arousal stirs in his gut at Namping being so close, he just can’t help it.
This time showering together is slow and languid, a stark contrast to countless moments like this when they were on borrowed time, both fervent and hungry, rushing through it as they touched each other under the streams.
He’s getting hard just thinking about it—the way he’d push Namping against the wall, pin his wrists and trail kisses down his spine.
How he’d kneel behind him, careless of the hard, cold tiles digging into his skin, lost in the taste, the smell, the feel of him as he licked eagerly into Namping.
The gentle, massaging movements of Ping’s fingers are familiar and comforting, but the flashbacks to their earlier heated times are devastating.
Keng can do without rough sex for a little while—he can control himself. They are usually gentle with each other, it’s just—they tend to get a little carried away, which is only natural when you’re obsessed with your partner. But now they have to be extra careful.
Did you forget how that turned out? His mind supplies unhelpfully.
“You’re thinking too much,” Ping observes keenly, pouring a small portion of hair conditioner on his palm.
“Relax, Keng. I’m fine. The baby is fine. They already started kicking me. This child is gonna be annoying just like you.”
Keng’s heart swells with affection for the baby and for Ping, pretending to be grumpy like that, annoyed with Keng while he’s taking care of him, reassuring him, tracking his mood.
“I feel bad, Pung.” He confesses. “I should be the one spoiling you, not vice versa.”
Ping sighs softly.
“I can smell it. Your distress. Let it go, Keng. Let me help you relax.” He slowly traces his hand down his sternum. “Can I help make you happy, my Jeng?” He teases, throwing Khem’s famous line at him. Keng feels hot in the face–the tips of his ears surely are red.
He groans softly when Ping curls a hand around him—the glide is smooth and silky with the aid of waterproof lube. Keng still prefers his mate’s slick, but for now this will do.
Ha surges forward, thumb tracing the curve of Ping’s mouth before he licks into it. He bites down on his lip, too hard, tasting the sharp, metallic tang of blood.
“Fuck. I’m sorry,” he panics, pulling back, but Namping just drags him back in, mouth parting on a moan.
“Don’t be,” he pants out. “I like it. Show me how you own me, alpha.”
“Ping!” He groans, uselessly because his cock twitches violently in Ping’s hand, the primal part of him preening at the words.
He loves me possessive.
He presses their mouths together again, his hands roaming Ping’s body.
He is soft and supple and Keng is so greedy.
Here goes the fluffy shower.
Ping keeps stroking him as they kiss, sighing and whimpering into his mouth.
The kiss drags out, slow and filthy. Deep. Ping keeps his touch light, with no intention of making him come.
“Finger me,” he breathes into his mouth, and Keng’s brain malfunctions.
“Or put it in already,” he urges, oblivious to Keng’s internal crisis. “I’m still loose from this morning.”
The pathetic whine Keng lets out is not befitting an alpha at all.
“We can’t here,” He croaks, a choked gasp spilling out of his mouth at Ping’s touch, his hips moving instinctively to thrust into the tight clench of his hand. “It’s not safe. For the baby.”
“Okay then.”
Just like that, his hand is gone. Keng blinks rapidly, trying to get his bearings. Ping watches him lean his head against the wall, breathing heavily.
He’d look entirely unbothered if not for his swollen lips and the blush painting his cheeks.
Again, who is in control here?
“Fuck, Ping…”
“You swear too much, por kru,” Namping scolds him teasingly.
“And you’ve got a filthy mouth,” Keng reiterates, letting out a shaky exhale. “Where did my good boy go?”
Namping shivers, his eyes fluttering shut as his composure slips.
Keng can’t help being smug about this small victory.
I know how to rile you up too. See, I’m not the only pathetic one here.
But Namping quickly gathers himself, not bothering to reply.
Instead he gives him a coy smile, hand trailing up to pat Keng shoulder.
“Wash me now."
Keng just blinks at him, still reeling from the onslaught of sensations abruptly cut short.
Ping snorts softly.
“You deserve it!” He laughs again at Keng’s expression—which may or may not be an outrageous pout—and takes pity on him.
“You were right. I got carried away. Wash me and let’s get out of here so I can make you come.”
Keng slowly nods, ignoring the ache between his legs at the steady supply of filth from Ping’s mouth.
“Okay. Just—give a minute.”
Washing. Yes. He can do that.
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🦆་༘࿐
Newsflash: he absolutely couldn’t do that.
In fact he almost groans in relief when it’s over. He can handle lessons in acting, singing, dancing and whatnot, but the most difficult trial so far is touching his wet, hot, naked omega none-sexually, minutes after he begged to be filled. This is one hell or an exercise in self-restraint.
Ping trails his every movement with hooded eyes as Keng towels him off. Despite his earlier teasing, he’s no less wound up. Keng can smell it on him—stronger than any lotions and haircare products. He can’t resist him and Ping knows that.
He smiles and takes Keng’s hand, intertwining their fingers as he tugs him toward the bedroom.
Keng pushes him down on the bed—gently—and climbs on top. He can’t help it, this strong, visceral need to be closer to him. He remembers to brace himself on his hands so as not to press on him too hard, miraculously because when Ping looks up at him with those wide, gleaming eyes, it’s so much harder to think straight.
He brushes his thumb across Ping’s lips, slowly, reverently; a habit he can’t let go of.
The omega’s tongue darts out to lick at his thumb, his expression sly.
“Put it in, Keng,” he breathes, a hot whisper against Keng’s mouth, egging him on.
Keng gives in and obeys, watching hypnotized as those plush lips wrap around his finger and start sucking.
A spark of arousal shoots through his body at the sight, pooling low in his stomach, in his aching cock.
“Don’t tease me like that, Pung,” he grunts out.
“You like it,” Namping mouths back at him with his mouth full and a knowing expression in his eyes.
“I do,” he admits, his eyes taking in every inch of Ping’s bare body. He feels ravenous. He wants to bury himself in between those thighs and never come out.
Ping gasps at him, playfully scandalized and he realizes he might have said it out loud.
Before his mate can come up with a smart remark, Keng leans back off him, his free hand slipping between Ping’s legs, fingers pressing against his rim. Two at once. They do slide in so easily.
“You really are still loose,” he murmurs as he spreads him open, dirty talk guised as an off-hand remark. Fuck. He’s been waiting to do it all day. Be inside him.
Ping sighs around his thumb, mouth going slack as Keng plays with him.
Keng slides his thumb out, the wet pop going straight to his groin.
“That thing in your pants is not for the faint of heart,” Ping immediately grumbles, but Keng is not deterred.
“You take that thing really well, little one.” He smirks slowly as Ping goes vice-tight around his fingers.
“And look at you,” he can’t resist teasing. “Mouthy as soon as your mouth is free.”
“Fuck you,” Ping bites out, without any real heat behind it. “And don’t tell me… ‘I’m about to’ or I swear to everything that’s holy—”
A moan drowns out the rest of his indignation when Keng’s fingers brush against his prostate.
Keng zeroes in on that spot, dragging his wet thumb across his mate’s nipple as he ducks down to blow on it.
Namping whimpers, his whole body going taut with it when the sensations hit.
His chest is so sensitive now. When Keng pinches ever so slightly, his back arches off the bed.
“Ahh— Stop, don’t! Don’t–” He pleads, and Keng—ever so accommodating—switches to another.
“Nnngh… Too much, Harit…” He protests, but he uses the grip on Keng’s hair to push his head closer.
Keng palms and squeezes his full breast, the flesh giving in deliciously under his hand.
“Will you let me come on your tits? Na?” Namping gives him a disbelieving look, even as he clenches around him again.
“I’ve made a monster,” he laments, whimpering as Keng’s mouth latches again on his nipple.
Taking his sweet time, Keng starts a trail of kisses down his mate’s chest, sliding down with intent but before he can go any further, Ping pulls him back by the hair.
“Turn around,” he orders when Keng looks up at him with confused, hazy eyes.
“If you want to get your head between my legs, I get to be between yours.” He states firmly in a cute, breathless voice. Negotiator. As if Keng would ever object to that.
He longs for a taste, but he also spent the whole day daydreaming about that mouth. So he doesn’t mind at all if Ping wants to use it on him.
He turns, facing the foot of the bed, and rolls on his side, wrapping his hand around Ping’s hip and pressing his face into his groin. No, he’s definitely in heaven.
“Wait!”
Ping scoots closer, mirroring his pose and resting his head on Keng’s inner thigh.
Keng melts, a surge of adoration washing over him at the intimacy of the gesture. He nips and sucks at Namping’s thigh, trying to somehow contain the feeling. He can taste his slick there. He’s leaking so much already, and Keng loses himself in the taste of him, so it comes unexpected when Ping’s tongue flicks against his slit.
He pulls back to look, and the sight undoes him. Ping always looks obscene like that, with that angelic face of his while his lips trace the head of Keng’s cock.
Ping smirks when he catches him staring, obviously enjoying his reaction.
“Just making good on my promise,” He purrs before he takes the head in his mouth.
Keng groans, slumping against his thigh. He feels it when Namping takes him deeper, slowly sliding back and forth. The tight heat of his mouth so maddening that for a moment there he forgets to give back, just whining softly through his teeth when Namping does that little trick with his tongue, rubbing against the sensitive part of the head.
“Is it good?”He murmurs when he pulls back. “Just like you imagined?”
“You’re so good at this, baby,” he rasps out, voice wrecked.
“Why does it sound like an accusation?”
He licks him up slowly, from root to tip.
Keng just watches helplessly, staring right into his eyes as a guttural, choked little sound rips out of him.
“It’s a compliment.” He squeezes out.
“I’ve already taken your reactions as a compliment.” Ping licks him again, pressing wet, sloppy kisses on the tip. “And don’t lie. I know how possessive you are—never wondered where my mouth has been?”
“Fuck, Namping—do you want me to act like a jerk and ask?”
“Listen up carefully, Harit: I only do this for you.”
He swallows him down, and Keng moans brokenly; he doesn’t know what ruins him more, the sensation or the words that feel like a greatest gift bestowed on him by a benevolent deity.
Being with Namping makes him feel like a domesticated wild beast, once untethered but now butting his head against his hand, begging for attention. To be petted and fed.
So he goes back to his feast, burying his head between Ping’s thighs.
His smell is intoxicating. His mouth is a wet, soft, sucking pressure around him that’s divine and distracting; but going down on Ping is second nature by now, he can do it by instinct. Messy and artless, but eager, with his mouth all over the place, fucking into him with the tip of his tongue.
He feels his own pleasure building, stoked up by the sound of Ping’s muffled moans around his cock.
He should warn him he’s close.
Let him decide what he wants.
Ping eases off but doesn’t pull back, stroking him with his hand as he rubs Keng’s cock against the roof of his mouth, touching the places Keng’s tongue usually swipes over.
Keng almost comes from the visual, torn between sneaking glances and licking him properly.
“I’m close,” Keng forces out.
“I can keep this up until you come,” Ping murmurs to him when he pulls off. “Or I can sit on it.”
Fuck. What is even coming out of his mouth now? His sweet Pung—
“If you keep talking like this,” Keng drawls, there’ll be no need to ‘sit on it’ anymore.”
Ping smiles at him cheekily.
“So easy. What is it gonna be, hmm?”
He knows Namping is wet and open, from copious amounts of his own slick and Keng’s spit, fingers, tongue… he’d sink right in, slot himself deep inside him. And Ping on top… with his chest in Keng’s face. The offer is to tempting.
Keng gives his hole one last sloppy kiss and climbs up the bed, lying on his back.
“Go ahead,” he rasps, but Ping needs no further incentive, slinging his leg over Keng’s lap to straddle him. He takes Keng’s cock in hand, guiding it inside him.
They both moan shakily when he sinks down to the hilt, reaching in unison to press their mouths together, sharing each other’s taste.
It feels so good. Pity that Keng wouldn’t last.
With both of them teetering on the edge, Keng resolves to take the most out of it, reaching over to pinch Ping’s red, swollen nipple as the little one starts rolling his hips. He usually loves to savor it, drinking up the sight as Namping rides him, but not tonight; he’s too desperate. They can’t even kiss anymore, just licking artlessly at each other’s tongues as Namping rocks his hips in a messy rhythm.
Keng’s braces his hands on his hips, nails biting into the flesh as he thrusts up inside him. The pace is erratic, feverish, the both of them chasing their highs.
“You can,” Namping blurts breathlessly.
Keng blinks up at him in a daze.
“What?”
He glances sideways, looking more flushed even though it seemed impossible at this point.
“You know… on my chest.”
Oh. He’s too shy to say that, of all things. To put it exactly how Keng has put it before. But now is not the time to tease him, not if Keng wants to get what he asked for, so he lights up instead.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you so much.”
Ping scoffs, which morphs into a gasp when Keng angles his hips just right. It takes only a handful of thrusts before Ping goes tight around him, and he barely manages to pull out, watching his mate’s stretched hole flutter helplessly around nothing. He strokes himself once, twice before he comes all over it, and all over his tits.
“That was mean,” Ping pants out, still trembling from the force of his orgasm. Still putting up a front, even though he so obviously likes it.
Keng reaches out as if mesmerized, sticking his fingers into the mess on Ping’s chest and rubs it into his raw, aching nipples.
“Keng!”
“You’re mine,” he growls, the overwhelming, primal feeling of possessiveness taking over him suddenly, the basest alpha instincts finally making themselves known.
Namping gulps, the fight in him waning as he takes him in.
Keng feels content, but—feral.
“Say it.”
He swipes his thumb through the warm, thick ropes of come coating his mate’s skin, and brings it to his mouth.
“I’m yours.” Ping says, sure and steady, looking straight into Keng’s eyes. He parts his lips and sticks his tongue out, licking his thumb clean. “And you’re mine, alpha.”
Keng lets out a happy little rumble, one that absolutely does not resemble purring, and starts licking the mess off Namping’s chest.
The possessiveness is still thrumming in his veins, and he feels like words are inadequate; the mating mark, pregnancy, all of it is just not enough to sate the beast inside of him. He needs to claim him. Hoard him. Own him.
Ping must feel it in his heavy gaze, in the way his gentle licks are giving way to nips and bites.
In public, he would have scolded him. Now, he says, “Don’t look at me like that. You might give me another baby.”
Keng knows what he is.
The rawness of his alpha’s obsession—it makes his breath hitch. His eyes glisten. Keng shoots him a grin, a feral one, and he draws in a ragged breath.
“What’s worse, I might let you.”