Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who’s got permanent damage in his right ear from years of explosions, gunfire, and close-quarters chaos—no one on base really comments on it anymore, but he’s used to tilting his head slightly when someone talks, or barking a gruff “Wot?” when the words blur together.
Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who meets you and immediately notices how you don’t dial it down. You talk and talk—rambling about your day, laughing loud enough that it echoes off the walls, filling every quiet corner of his flat like you were made to chase away the silence he’s lived in for years. Past partners always told you to lower your voice, said you were “too much,” but Simon just watches you with those dark eyes and lets you keep going.
Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who starts positioning himself on your left side without thinking, the good ear turned toward you so he doesn’t miss a single word. He never asks you to speak up or repeat yourself; instead he leans in closer, mask tugged down just enough that you can see the faint scar along his jaw, and mutters, “Keep talkin’, love. Like hearin’ you.”
Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who finds your volume oddly comforting after missions. The flat used to feel like a tomb—too still, too quiet. Now it’s full of your voice: you singing off-key in the kitchen, yelling excitedly at the telly, chattering while you cook. He catches fragments sometimes, but the tone? The energy? That comes through crystal clear, and it settles something restless in his chest.
Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who gets a little smug when you forget and raise your voice even more around him. You’ll be mid-rant about some coworker and suddenly boom a laugh, and he’ll just smirk under the mask, pulling you into his lap with one big hand on your hip. “Didn’t catch all that,” he rumbles, “but I liked the last bit. Say it again.”
Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who never once makes you feel like your loudness is a flaw. If anything, he guards it. When Soap or Gaz tease you lightly about being the “loud one” in the relationship, Simon shuts it down with a flat stare and a low, “She talks how she talks. Fuck off.” You’re his noise. His life. The one sound he never wants muffled.
Hard of hearing!Simon Riley whose favorite thing is when you’re in bed and that volume of yours really comes out. He loves the way you can’t stay quiet—whining his name, gasping loud when he drags his cock slow and deep, moaning without shame as he pins your wrists above your head and fucks you harder just to hear you get even louder.
Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who growls against your throat, “Louder, sweetheart. Want the whole fuckin’ block to know who’s makin’ you sound like that.” He angles his hips just right, thick length stretching you open, and when you cry out—sharp, unrestrained, voice cracking on a broken “Simon, fuck, right there”—he swears it hits him harder than any explosion ever did.
Hard of hearing!Simon Riley who buries his face in your neck as you come undone, your loud, messy moans vibrating against his skin while he spills inside you with a deep, guttural groan of his own. Afterward he stays buried deep, breathing you in, one calloused thumb brushing your cheek as he murmurs, “Never get tired of hearin’ you lose it for me. Loud as you want, love. Always.”
He pulls you close, your chest still heaving, voice hoarse from how freely you let go, and for once the world feels perfectly loud in all the right ways.
Summary: The university is too far away from your house, so your parents decided to rent a boarding house. You're about to meet König, your big soldier roommate.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, AGE-GAP, AU, HEAVY SMUT, suggestive tone, explicit content, mature language, sexual innuendo, erotic, possessive, obsession, jealousy, stealing panties, mention of jerking off, cum eating, mutual pining, erotic, heavy tension, ownership, lots of teasing, manhandling, petname, dirty talk, degradation, oral activities, unprotected, PiV, squirting, spanking, fingering, blowjob, overstimulation, breeding, markings, rough sex, older man x younger woman
The place is small like two narrow beds pushed against opposite walls, a shared desk cluttered with textbooks and protein shakes, and a single window overlooking the campus quad.
You drag the last suitcase over the threshold of the dormitory room, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes your stomach twist.
Your parents’ warnings echo in your head: Lock the door. Text us when you’re settled. Be careful. Always, always be careful.
You’re an only child. They’ve spent twenty-three years treating you like glass. When the landlord mentioned the only available room came with a roommate, they’d balked.
But the second he added, “He’s one of the task force boys. Big Austrian fellow and keeps to himself,” their tune changed instantly.
A soldier. Disciplined. Safe.
They’d practically shoved the deposit at him, convinced no man in uniform would ever lay a finger on their precious daughter.
You drop your bags with a thud and roll your shoulders, scanning the space. One side is bare which is yours, apparently.
The other is military-neat: bed made with hospital corners, boots lined up like soldiers on parade.
No sign of life.
You were hoping he’d be here so you could get the awkward introduction over with instead of accidentally terrifying him later when he came home to a stranger.
A door on the far side of the room, his bedroom and you guess then creaks open.
You freeze.
He has to duck to clear the frame. Six-foot-something, maybe more, built like someone carved him out of granite and then added extra for fun.
Broad shoulders stretch a black compression shirt until the seams look personally offended. Tactical pants, heavy boots. And a mask that a faded sniper hood that covers everything but his eyes.
Those eyes are pale blue, sharp as winter glass, and they rake over you from head to toe in one slow, assessing sweep. Not leering. Just…cataloguing. Like he’s deciding if you’re a threat or furniture.
You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how small the room feels. “ Hi. I’m, uh…the new roommate.”
His head tilts. When he speaks, the voice that comes out is low enough to vibrate in your ribs. Deep, clipped, unmistakably German-accented.
“ Glad to meet you.”
You offer a tentative smile. “ Same. I’m guessing you’re König?"
He nods once. “ Ja. Been alone for a few months. My last roommate moved out.”
A pause.
“ Said I frightened him.”
You arch a brow, folding your arms. “ Depends how creepy you plan to be, I guess.”
The corner of his eye crinkles like he’s smiling under the mask. “ Not creepy at all. As long as you don’t piss me off.”
The dry delivery catches you off guard. You snort before you can stop yourself. “ Noted. I’ll try to keep my pissing-off levels to a minimum.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh. Then he lifts one massive arm and points with a gloved finger toward the empty side of the room.
“ That’s yours. Bathroom’s through there.”
He nods toward a connecting door. “ Kitchenette down the hall. Quiet hours after twenty-two hundred if I’m on early shift.”
You drag your suitcase toward the empty bed. “ I’m usually buried in textbooks until midnight anyway. Med school doesn’t sleep.”
“ Med school.” He repeats, like he’s filing it away.
“ Good. You’ll be busy. I like quiet.”
You unzip the bag and start unpacking, hyper-aware of him still standing there, watching. Not in a creepy way the more like he’s waiting to see which way you’ll jump.
You pull out a stack of anatomy flashcards and set them on the desk. He shifts his weight, arms crossing over that ridiculous chest.
“ I keep things clean.” He says eventually.
“ Expect the same.”
“ Yes, sir.” You mutter under your breath, sarcastic.
His eyes narrow. “ Sir works.”
Heat flashes up your neck. You busy yourself arranging your laptop, refusing to look at him. The silence stretches, thick enough to chew. You can feel him still watching, and it’s doing annoying things to your pulse.
You risk a glance. He hasn’t moved. “ Something else?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “ Just deciding if you’ll last longer than the last one.”
“ I’m not scared of you.” You say, maybe too quickly.
One brow lifts above the mask. “ You should be a little scared. Healthy respect.”
You roll your eyes. “ I’ve dissected cadavers. You’re tall, not dead.”
That gets you another soft huff, definitely amusement this time. “ We’ll see.”
He turns to go back into his room, pausing at the door. “ If you need anything…quiet, space, someone to reach the top shelf just ask.”
The door closes softly behind him.
You exhale, only then realizing you’d been holding your breath. Your heart is beating too fast for no good reason.
He’s intimidating, sure.
Abrasive in that blunt, foreign way. But there’s something under it is the dry humor, maybe even consideration. And those eyes…
You shake your head. Focus. You’re here for school, not to develop a stupid crush on your giant masked roommate who could probably bench-press you without breaking a sweat.
Still, when you lie in bed that night staring at the ceiling, you hear him moving around in his room in quiet, deliberate footsteps, the occasional low mutter in German.
The wall between you feels paper-thin. You pull the blanket higher. This year is going to be interesting.
And long.
Very, very long.
…
You finally click the last drawer shut and survey your side of the room with exhausted satisfaction. Everything’s in its place. Textbooks stacked by size, notes color-coded, laptop charger coiled like a sleeping snake.
Your phone screen lights up: 00:47. Shit. No wonder your stomach is staging a full rebellion. You haven’t eaten since that sad airport sandwich at lunch.
The common area is dark and silent when you tiptoe out. Most of the task force guys are probably already rack-out, dreaming of push-ups and gunfire.
You’re halfway to the fridge when a low, rumbling voice slices through the quiet.
“ Still awake, Maus?"
You yelp and spin around, clutching your chest. König is sprawled across the couch like a panther on a branch that’s far too small for him.
One long leg draped over the armrest, the other planted on the floor. He’s reading a comic book that looks comically tiny in his huge hands, the pages almost delicate between gloved fingers.
The only light comes from a small lamp behind him, throwing his masked face into shadow and making those pale eyes glow.
“ Dammit, warn a girl.” You hiss, trying to slow your racing heart.
He tilts his head, amused. “ Didn’t want to interrupt your…midnight raiding.”
You narrow your eyes and march to the fridge, yanking it open. Leftover containers, protein shakes, something labeled in German that you’re not brave enough to touch.
Your stomach growls again and loud enough to echo.
From the couch comes a soft, deep chuckle that does unfair things to your spine.
“ I left food on the table.” He says.
“ Knew you’d be hungry. Students always forget to eat.”
You glance over. There’s a foil-wrapped bundle with a sticky note: For the new one.
Your cheeks heat. “ You didn’t have to—”
“ Eat.” He orders mildly, turning a page.
You shuffle to the table and unwrap it. A burger is thick, juicy-looking with sesame bun. Smells incredible. You take a cautious bite.
König’s watching now, the comic forgotten in his lap. He’s still sitting, but even seated he’s enormous. The couch groans every time he shifts.
“ It’s plant-based.” He says before you can ask.
You pause mid-chew. “ I’m not vegetarian.”
“ Part of my diet.” He shrugs. Those massive shoulders roll like tectonic plates.
“ The taste is the same. Better, even. Try it before you complain.”
You roll your eyes but take another bite. And…damn it. He’s right. It’s rich, smoky, and perfectly seasoned. You can’t tell the difference. You make an involuntary little hum of approval and nod.
He gives a satisfied nod. “ Good. You’ll get addicted.”
“ Don’t get cocky.” You mutter around a mouthful.
He stands.
The room seems to shrink. He unfolds himself slowly, first the legs, then the torso until he’s towering again.
You’re eye-level with his stomach, the black fabric of his shirt stretched tight over abs you’re trying very hard not to notice. He steps forward, and you instinctively back up until your hips hit the counter.
“ Thirsty.” He says simply, voice low.
“ I need water.”
You’re blocking the sink. You scramble sideways, muttering, “ Sorry, sorry—”
He brushes past you, barely. His arm grazes yours, solid and warm even through fabric. You catch a faint scent of clean soap and something sharper, like gun oil. He fills a glass, drinks half in one go, throat working under the edge of the mask.
You focus very hard on your burger.
Sauce dribbles onto your chin. You reach for a napkin, too late.
A big thumb swipes across your lower lip, slow and deliberate, wiping the smear away.
Your breath stops.
“ You eat like a child.” He murmurs, voice rougher than before.
His thumb lingers half a second longer than necessary before he pulls away, sucking the sauce off casually like it’s nothing.
Your face is on fire. Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage. You can’t even form words just a strangled squeak.
“ I…uh…early lecture tomorrow…gotta—” You gesture vaguely toward your room, burger clutched like a shield.
He watches you, eyes crinkling at the corners. “ Gute Nacht, messy eater.”
You bolt.
The door to your room slams harder than intended. You lean against it, panting, burger still in hand, sauce probably smeared somewhere else now.
Your lip tingles where he touched it. You press your fingers there like you can trap the feeling.
Less than twenty-four hours.
You’ve been here less than a full day, and your scary-hot giant roommate has already fed you, laughed at you, and wiped your mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You slide down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, and the burger is forgotten.
This slow torture is going to kill you. And the worst part? Some traitorous part of you is already looking forward to tomorrow’s breakfast.
…
You sit in the lecture hall trying to look like a functioning human being, pen poised over your notebook, nodding along as the professor drones about cranial nerves.
Your friends flank you, whispering snide remarks about how Dr. Kessler gave a 62 to the kid who literally wrote the textbook’s twin.
You laugh in all the right places, toss in a sarcastic “He probably grades on font choice,” and hope it sounds normal.
But your brain is a traitor.
Every time you blink, you see that massive thumb brushing sauce off your lip. Feel the faint pressure, the warmth. Hear that low, amused “You eat like a child.”
You’ve tried everything: reciting the brachial plexus, counting ceiling tiles, mentally conjugating Latin roots.
Nothing works.
Those stupid piercing blue eyes keep sliding into frame like an uninvited guest star.
“ Hey, you okay?” Maya nudges you.
“ You zoned out hard.”
You force a smile. “ Totally fine. Just remembered that the histology paper’s due Friday.”
They buy it, thank God, and launch back into roasting professors. You nod mechanically, pretending to listen while your pulse does an annoying little flutter at the memory of König’s chuckle.
By the time class ends, you’re exhausted from the mental gymnastics. You shove your earbuds in, crank your playlist, something loud and distracting and join the river of students pouring down the main sidewalk toward the dorms.
The late-afternoon sun is low, campus buzzing with the usual post-class chaos.
Then you spot the patrol.
Black SUVs, uniformed officers, a loose perimeter of soldiers in full kit. Rifles slung, vests bulky, moving with practiced efficiency.
A bright orange poster on a lamppost reads SURPRISE SECURITY INSPECTION in bold letters. Students slow to gawk while their phones come out.
You slow too, craning your neck as you walk, trying to figure out what’s happening.
It’s rare to see this kind of presence on campus.
You don’t see the obstacle until you slam into it.
Your face meets something solid and unyielding. Not a wall, walls don’t radiate heat or smell faintly of pine soap and gun oil.
You stumble back, earbuds tugging, and look up…way up.
König.
In full tactical gear, helmet tucked under one arm, mask in place, he looms like a damn eclipse. The uniform makes him look even bigger, if that’s possible, plates and pouches adding bulk to an already ridiculous frame.
Those pale eyes pin you in place.
“ Watch the road, not my colleagues.” He says, voice low but firm.
“ You put yourself in danger.”
You blink, music still blasting in one ear. “ What?”
He sighs and reaches down. Gloved fingers gently pluck both earbuds free. The sudden quiet is jarring. You hear your own heartbeat instead.
His face is closer now, head ducked to bring him level with you. You can see faint stubble shadowing the edge of the mask, the way his lashes catch the light. Dangerously close.
“ I said…” He repeats, slower.
“ Stop staring at distractions. Be attentive on the road.”
Heat floods your cheeks. “ I—I was just curious. It’s not every day the campus looks like a war zone.”
His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the perimeter. You follow it and notice several soldiers watching, smirking, whispering to each other.
One makes an exaggerated heart shape with his hands. Another elbows his buddy, grinning.
König groans, a deep, suffering sound. “ Idioten.”
He turns back to you, expression unreadable behind the mask but eyes softer. “ Surprise inspection. Report came in…possibly the suspect with explosives on campus.”
A cold shiver races down your spine. “ Seriously?”
“ Ja.” His voice drops even lower.
“ Do not spread it. No panic.”
You nod quickly, throat tight.
His massive hand settles on your shoulder in careful, but the weight of it still makes you feel tiny. Warmth seeps through your jacket.
“ Go back to the dorm. Rest. I’ll follow when the shift ends.”
The touch lingers a second longer than strictly necessary before he lifts it away. You swallow hard.
“ Okay.” You manage.
“ Be careful.”
One corner of his eye crinkles, almost a smile. “ Always am.”
You turn to go, shoving your earbuds in your pocket this time.
Every step feels hyper-aware.
You can feel his stare on your back like a physical thing, intense and unwavering. You don’t dare look behind you, but you know he’s still watching until you round the corner.
By the time you reach the dorm, your heart is racing again for entirely different reasons than fear of bombs.
You flop face-first onto your bed and groan into the pillow.
This man is going to be the death of you. And the slowest, most infuriatingly delicious death it’s ever been.
…
You’ve been here six weeks now, and somehow you’ve survived living with a human mountain who wears a mask to bed and could probably deadlift the entire dorm building.
Six weeks of slow, maddening adjustment.
You and König have settled into a rhythm that feels almost…domestic. He grunts a greeting when he gets back from whatever classified hell his task force drags him through.
You tease him about leaving his giant boots in the walkway like landmines. He deadpans back that if you trip then he’ll catch you then watches with thinly veiled amusement as you turn red and mutter something about not needing rescuing.
He feeds you. Constantly.
Every few days there’s a foil-wrapped parcel on the table with a sticky note in sharp block letters: Eat. You skipped lunch again.
Sometimes it’s grilled chicken and vegetables portioned like he’s prepping for deployment.
Sometimes it’s those ridiculous plant-based burgers you’re secretly addicted to now.
Once it was a whole box of those fancy chocolate truffles you mentioned liking in passing.
You still don’t know how he remembered.
Your parents call every Sunday like clockwork.
“ Is everything okay, sweetheart? Is your roommate treating you well?”
You roll your eyes and assure them, again, that König isn’t some creep. He’s quiet, tidy, terrifying to everyone else but oddly respectful to you.
They sound relieved every time, as if the word “soldier” is a magical shield against all bad things.
If only they knew how often you lie awake wondering why your stomach flips whenever he brushes past you in the narrow kitchenette.
The tension is unbearable and delicious. You’re twenty-three. He’s…older. Noticeably. You try not to think about the exact math, because it feels forbidden in a way that makes your skin too tight.
He’s your roommate. Your friend, maybe. Nothing more.
Except for that one evening last week.
You’re sprawled on the couch in oversized sweats, picking at the takeout Thai he brought home “because women always want to eat.”
His words. Delivered with that dry, accented certainty that makes you want to both laugh and climb him like a tree.
“ Thanks for dinner again.” You say, mouth full of pad thai.
“ Seriously, I’m gonna start thinking I’m your girlfriend or something with all this spoiling.”
The words tumble out before your brain catches up.
You freeze.
He freezes in mid-reach for his water bottle and his massive frame suddenly statue-still. Even behind the mask you can feel the shift in the air, thick and electric.
Silence stretches like a rubber band pulled too tight.
Your laugh comes out high and panicked. “ Kidding! Obviously. I mean, you’d have to actually take me on a date first, old man. Buy me flowers or whatever ancient ritual you Austrians do.”
His eyes narrow, but the crinkle at the corners gives him away. “ Old man?”
“ Yeah. You probably listened to vinyl records in your crib.”
He huffs in half laugh, half warning. “ Careful, Maus. Keep teasing and I will stop bringing food.”
“ You wouldn’t dare.”
He leans forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping dangerously low. “ Try me.”
You swallow hard, heat pooling low in your belly. The moment hangs, heavy and sweet, until you both look away at the exact same second like cowards.
There are other moments you pretend don’t happen.
Like the nights you jolt awake to low, ragged sounds from his room. The panting and muffled groans that make your imagination run filthy laps.
You press a pillow over your head and curse him for not using headphones, whatever porn he’s watching. You refuse to acknowledge the ache between your thighs or the way you have to change your own sheets the next morning.
Worse: your favorite black lace panties have vanished.
Then the red ones. You’ve torn apart your laundry basket twice. You’re convinced they’ve fallen behind the dryer or something equally mortifying.
The idea that König might have found them or seen them, touched them makes you want to die on the spot. You’ve rehearsed asking him a dozen times “Hey, random question, have you seen any…women’s underwear lying around?” and every version ends with you spontaneously combusting.
So you say nothing. You buy new ones and pray.
Tonight you’re at the kitchen counter, stress-eating cereal straight from the box because exams are trying to murder you.
The door clicks open at 23:40, later than usual. König ducks inside, gear bag slung over one shoulder, moving quiet despite his size.
He pauses when he sees you. “ Still up?”
“ The brain won’t shut off.” You mumble around a mouthful of frosted flakes.
He drops the bag, pulls two protein bars from his pocket, and slides one across the counter to you without a word. You stare at it, then at him.
“ I’m already eating cereal at midnight. This is not a protein emergency.”
“ Eat anyway.” He says.
“ You’re cranky when you’re hungry.”
“ I am not cranky.”
He arches a brow.
You tear open the bar and take an aggressive bite. “ Happy, dad?”
The eye crinkle again. “ Very.”
He moves to the fridge, back to you, and you allow yourself one quick glance at the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders.
Six weeks in and the tension hasn’t eased, it’s worse. Thicker. Like the air before a storm.
You wonder if he feels it too.
You wonder if he hears you some nights, the same way you hear him.
You wonder how long you can both keep pretending this is just friendly roommate banter.
Because it’s not.
And you’re running out of excuses to ignore it.
…
You’re crammed into your favorite cheap eatery just off campus, the one with the greasy tables and the best bulgogi bowls in a ten-mile radius.
It’s lunch break, and your friends are in full post-quiz autopsy mode, arguing over whether the professor wanted “afferent” or “efferent” for question twelve.
You’re half-listening, half-daydreaming about a nap, chopsticks hovering over your rice.
The sliding door whooshes open.
Conversation dies instantly.
Four pairs of eyes swing to you like you’re the main character in a K-drama.
You feel it before you see him: Brent Kim, club president, 4.0 GPA, literal walking Pinterest board, strolling up to the counter in a cream sweater that probably costs more than your tuition. Dark hair perfectly tousled, and a smile bright enough to power the city grid.
Your mouth drops open. A fly could homestead in there.
“ Close it.” Maya hisses, kicking you under the table.
“Before something nests.”
You snap your jaw shut, but your stare stays glued. Brent orders in a smooth, polite voice and then turns. His gaze sweeps the room, lands on you, and that smile widens.
Oh God.
He walks straight to your table.
Your friends turn into vibrating chihuahuas trying not to squeal. Someone’s foot is rapidly tapping Morse code into your shin: SAY YES TO WHATEVER HE ASKS.
“ Hey…” Brent says, stopping beside your chair. Up close he smells like cedar and winter air.
“ Didn’t expect to see you here.”
You manage a brilliant “Hi” that comes out more like a squeak.
He chuckles in low and warm.
“ Quick question…are you free this Sunday? It’s the club’s founding anniversary. All members are supposed to show, but I figured I’d personally remind my favorite bio major.”
Your brain short-circuits. Favorite?
Your friends are making frantic hand gestures: nodding heads, thumbs up, one of them literally mouthing GO.
You clear your throat. “ I…yeah. I’ll be there.”
“ Perfect.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, embossed card, a thick cream stock with gold lettering.
A ticket.
“ You’ll need this at the door. Security’s tight this year.”
He holds it out. You reach and your fingers brush his.
Electricity shoots straight up your arm, down your spine, pools hot in your stomach. It’s barely a second of contact, but your entire nervous system files a dramatic incident report.
Your friends lose the battle. A chorus of stifled squeaks erupts.
Brent’s smile turns knowing. “ Looking forward to seeing you there.”
He nods to your friends, grabs his takeout from the counter, and leaves while the door sliding shut behind him like the end of a movie scene.
The second he’s gone, chaos.
“ OH MY GOD YOU TOUCHED HIM.”
“ HE SAID FAVORITE.”
“ YOU’RE GOING ON A DATE.”
“ It’s not a date!” You protest, face nuclear.
“ It’s a club thing!”
“ With a personal invitation and actual finger contact.” Maya counters.
“ That’s a date, babe.”
You hide behind your bulgogi, grinning like an idiot despite yourself.
Forty feet away, at a corner booth half-hidden by a fake ficus, four very large men in civilian clothes sit in tense silence.
König’s metal spoon is bent at a forty-five-degree angle in his fist.
Soap is biting his lip so hard to keep from laughing that it’s turning white. Ghost watches the scene like he’s observing wildlife. Price just looks tired.
“ Aw, look at that…” Soap whispers, voice syrupy.
“ Proper college romance. Finger brushin’, blushin’, the works. Makes ye miss uni, doesn’t it?”
Ghost grunts. “ Nobody would’ve dated your weird ass in uni.”
Soap gasps, hand to chest. “ Excuse me, Lt. Spooky is calling me weird? You wear a skull mask to Tesco.”
“ Both of you shut it.” Price mutters, rubbing his temple.
Then, quieter. “ Didn’t think König’s type was…college girl.”
Ghost snorts. “ Don’t know what the fuck he ate to start fancying a student. They’re all headaches and drama.”
Soap leans in, eyes dancing. “ Maybe she makes his soldier stand at ease, if you catch my—”
Ghost kicks him under the table. Soap wheezes.
König’s voice is low, dangerously even. “ I don’t like her. She can flirt with whoever. I don’t give a fuck.”
Soap finally loses it then a choked giggle escapes.
“ Right. That’s why you’ve been nicking her knickers like a bloody magpie. Wanking into them every morning, sniffing them like they’re laced with coke—”
“ Shut. Up.” König’s growl could peel paint.
Soap raises both hands, still grinning. “ Just sayin’. And remember that time you made her a protein shake with your own special—”
Ghost mutters. “ It gave me nightmares for weeks.”
“ Milk mixture for breakfast?” Soap finishes cheerfully.
“ Real romantic, big guy.”
König’s jaw flexes under the mask. The spoon is now a pretzel.
Price sighs heavily. “ Let the man sort his own mess. She’s an adult. He wants to court her properly, fine.”
He fixes König with a hard stare. “ But if you do something stupid like more bodily fluid cuisine…I’ll smash your skull myself.”
Soap leans back, folding his arms. “ My professional advice? Make a move before the pretty boy snatches her. College lads move fast.”
Ghost kicks him again. “ Don’t listen to this idiot. Whatever you do next will already be creepy as fuck after the panty theft and the…milk incident.”
König stares at the bent spoon like it personally betrayed him. His food is untouched.
Across the restaurant, you’re still being grilled by your friends, laughing and blushing and replaying that finger brush in your head on loop.
You have no idea that six weeks of stolen glances, late-night groceries, and carefully portioned meals have built something far more complicated than friendship on the other side of the room.
Or that the man currently mutilating cutlery has memorized the way you blush, the sound of your laugh, the exact shade of every missing pair of underwear now hidden in his locker.
Sunday is four days away, and König’s grip on the ruined spoon finally snaps it clean in half.
…
You float back to the dorm on a cloud of giddy stupidity, the gold-embossed ticket clutched between your fingers like it’s made of glass.
Brent’s cologne still clings faintly to the card in clean, expensive and perfect. You press it to your nose once in the elevator, then feel like an idiot and shove it into your pocket before anyone sees.
The dorm is quiet when you push the door open. No towering shadow, no low Austrian greeting. König must still be on shift.
You kick off your shoes, drop your bag on the couch, and collapse backward with a happy sigh, replaying the finger-brush moment for the hundredth time.
Your gaze lands on the coffee table.
His comic book. The one he’s been nursing for weeks that sits there and spine cracked open like he just set it down.
Curiosity wins. You reach for it.
The cover looks innocent enough: stylized art, bold colors. You flip to the dog-eared page.
Your brain blue-screens.
A woman bent over a desk, skirt flipped up.
A man behind her, a massive, hooded, unmistakably dominant, is thrusting so hard the speech bubbles are just a string of filthy German curses and broken English pleas.
Explicit doesn’t cover it.
You see everything: thick cock stretching her open, her mouth wide in a scream, sweat flying off both of them.
You yelp, hurl the book across the room like it’s radioactive, then frantically cross yourself even though you haven’t been to church since high school.
“ Sorry, sorry, sorry—”
The bedroom door creaks open.
König fills the frame, arms crossed, mask in place, those icy eyes locked on you. He’s in a black t-shirt and tactical pants, sleeves stretched around biceps that look illegally large.
Day off, apparently and he’s barefoot, silent as a ghost.
You swallow. “ When…when did you get back?”
“ Day off.” He says simply, voice gravel-rough.
You stand too fast, nearly tripping. “ Cool, cool. I’m just…gonna head to my room—”
You don’t make it two steps.
“ Enjoy your little lunch date with the college boy?” He asks, tone dripping sarcasm.
You freeze. Turn slowly. “ How did you—”
“ I saw you.” He cuts in, starting toward you with deliberate steps.
“ At the restaurant. You and your giggling friends. Him handing you that pretty ticket like a good little prince.”
You back up instinctively. “ I didn’t see you.”
He chuckles, dark and humorless. “ No. You were too busy blushing at that pathetic boy.”
Your spine hits the sink counter. Trapped. He keeps coming until he’s looming, one hand planting on the cabinet beside your head, caging you in. He has to bend to bring his face close then the heat radiates off him.
“ What’s your problem?” You demand, voice shakier than you want.
“ Why are you insulting Brent?”
König mutters something harsh in German like Scheiße, probably then switches back.
“ Don’t like what I saw. Wanted to walk over, grab him by the neck, throw him across the room.”
His mask brushes your temple as he leans closer. You feel his breath through the fabric, warm and unsteady.
“ I’m jealous.” He growls.
“ I'm possessive. Don’t like sharing what’s mine.”
“ I’m not yours.” You shoot back, but it sounds weak even to you.
He laughs, low and dangerous. “ The moment you walked into this dorm, Maus? You were mine.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut in a hot, coiling need twisting low in your belly. You shove at his chest, but it’s like pushing a brick wall.
He doesn’t budge. Instead he presses forward, pinning you harder against the sink.
You gasp.
Something huge and impossibly hard grinds against your stomach, long, thick and throbbing through his pants.
Your thighs clench involuntarily.
“ I've been trying to control it.” He whispers, voice ragged now.
“ Every night I hear you through the wall. Every time you bend over in those little shorts. Every time you laugh at my notes. I stroke myself raw thinking about you…how tight you’d be, how you’d cry my name while I split you open.”
Your breath hitches. A soft, embarrassing sound escapes your throat.
He hears it. His gloved hand catches your chin, thumb pressing into your lower lip.
“ I want to fuck you so deep you forget that boy’s name exists.” He murmurs against your ear.
“ I want to bend you over this counter right now, shove your panties aside, and bury every inch inside you until you’re dripping down my balls.”
“ I want to feel you clench around me while you beg…louder than you do in your sleep when you touch yourself thinking no one hears.”
You’re soaking through your underwear. Your hips twitch forward without permission, seeking friction against that massive bulge.
“ I want to ruin you for anyone else.” He continues, filthy and relentless.
“ Fill you up again and again until the only thing you remember is how good my cock stretches you. Until you’re addicted to the way I wreck this pretty little pussy.”
His thumb slips into your mouth, just the tip, and you suck on it helplessly while your eyes flutter.
He groans, the sound tortured.
“ Say you’re mine…” He demands, voice cracking with restraint.
“ Say it, and I’ll give you everything you’ve been dreaming about.”
You’re trembling, heart hammering, body on fire. The comic book lies forgotten on the floor, and you’ve never wanted anything more in your life.
…
You stare up into those piercing blue eyes, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. The air between you crackles, thick with everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t there for weeks.
His thumb is still pressed against your lower lip, waiting.
You make the mistake.
A tiny, breathless “Yes” slips out.
The second it leaves your mouth, his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. A low, animal growl rumbles from his chest.
Then you’re airborne.
One massive arm hooks under your thighs, the other across your back, and he hoists you onto his shoulder like you weigh nothing.
You squeak in half protest and half thrill as blood rushes to your head. His stride eats the distance to his bedroom in three steps.
The door bangs open as he tosses you onto the mattress. You bounce once, twice, hair fanning across his dark sheets.
The room smells like him, gun oil, pine soap, and something darker. Your eyes dart around. The tactical gear neatly stacked, protein powder on the dresser, and—
You gasp.
One of your missing black lace panties is draped over the back of his desk chair like a trophy, the crotch darkened with dried stains.
König follows your gaze.
“ I haven’t washed that one.” He says, voice rough with satisfaction.
He plucks the fabric from the chair, holding it up between two thick fingers. The evidence is unmistakable, crusted and almost dry cum streaking the center.
“ It still smells like you. And me.”
“ You…you stole my panties?” Your voice cracks, equal parts horror and filthy arousal.
He chuckles, deep and unapologetic, tossing the ruined lace aside.
“ Not sorry, Maus. I need your scent. It gets hard just walking past the laundry room.”
He crawls onto the bed, a massive frame caging you in. “ Addicted.”
Your brain flashes to the comic book on the living room floor. “ That…that comic—”
“ I needed something to look at while I pictured you.” He admits without shame, lowering himself until his weight pins you deliciously.
“ Better visuals when I fuck my fist thinking of this tight little body.”
Before you can form a reply, his hands fist the front of your uniform blouse. Fabric rips like paper. Buttons ping across the room. Cool air hits your skin and you gasp as your bra is exposed.
“ Scheiße.” He groans, eyes devouring you.
“ Perfect.”
His huge palms cover your breasts completely and your chest looks tiny in his grip. He squeezes, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak hard and aching.
Then his mouth descends. Hot, wet suction on one nipple, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You arch with a sharp moan, fingers tangling in the fabric of his mask.
He switches sides, biting down harder, marking you. By the time he pulls away, both nipples are swollen, shining with his saliva, throbbing in time with your pulse.
He doesn’t stop there.
König moves down your body like a predator, shoving your skirt up to your waist. Your panties are soaked as he rips those too, the sound obscene.
You’re bare to him now, trembling.
He spreads your thighs wide, settling between them like he belongs there. A deep, guttural groan vibrates against your skin as he buries his face against your slick folds.
“ Fuck, you smell better than the panties.” He rasps.
He inhales deeply, nose dragging through your slit. The vibration of his groan shoots straight to your clit. You jerk, hips bucking, but his hands pin you flat.
“ Stay still.” He orders, voice muffled against you.
One thick finger traces your entrance, gathering wetness. You whimper when he pushes inside slowly at first, letting you feel the stretch.
He pulls out, stares at the faint red streak on his finger.
“ Blood?” His tone is reverent, almost awed.
“ You’re a virgin?”
You nod, biting your lip.
A dark, possessive sound tears from his throat. “ Mine. Only mine.”
He thrusts the finger back in but this time hard. No gentleness. His digit is huge, stretching you open with brutal rhythm.
You cry out, back bowing. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles that make stars burst behind your eyes.
“ Taking my finger so well.” He growls.
“ I can’t wait to feel this cunt choke my cock.”
The heat coils tighter, unbearable. “ König…I’m—”
“ Cum.” He commands.
“ Explode on my hand. Show me how you fall apart.”
You do.
The orgasm slams through you, thighs shaking violently as you clench around his finger. He keeps thrusting through it, drawing it out until you’re sobbing his name.
When you finally sag, boneless, he withdraws slowly. His finger glistens with your release and that trace of blood. He brings it to his mask, slipping it underneath.
You hear the wet sound of him sucking it clean, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Then he pulls it out, shiny with his saliva, and presses it to your lips.
“ Suck.”
You obey without thinking, tongue swirling around the thick digit, tasting yourself in tangy, musky, mixed with him. His gaze is molten, fixed on your mouth as you hollow your cheeks and suck obediently.
“ Good girl.” He praises, voice hoarse.
“ Clean every drop.”
You do, until his finger is spotless. He withdraws it with a wet pop, eyes never leaving yours.
“ This is just the start, Maus.” He murmurs, settling his hips between your thighs so you feel exactly how hard he is massive, burning against your sensitive skin.
“ By the time I’m done, you’ll never think of that boy again.”
…
König drops his massive body beside you on the mattress, the frame groaning under his weight. He’s still fully clothed except for the gloves tossed aside, mask in place, chest heaving from the restraint he’s barely holding onto.
Those piercing blue eyes lock onto yours, dark with hunger.
“ Straddle me.” He orders, voice low and rough.
“ Take me out.”
You huff, half-hearted protest bubbling up. “ You’re so bossy—”
His glare sharpens, one brow arching above the mask. The look says try me.
You swallow the rest of your complaint and climb over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. He spreads his thick thighs wider, giving you room, watching like a predator as your trembling fingers fumble with his zipper.
The second you reach inside, your hand closes around heat and steel. You pull him free and nearly whimper.
He’s enormous. It's angry red, veiny, easily ten inches and thicker than your wrist.
Your fingers don’t even meet around the shaft. Pre-cum beads at the slit, slick and glistening.
König groans, hips twitching. “ Lube it, Maus. Use that pretty mouth.”
You stare at the monster in your hand. “ I can’t…it’s too big. I’ll choke.”
He chuckles, dark and filthy. “ Don’t deepthroat, Liebling. Just the tip. Suck like you mean it. Use your hands for the rest.”
You gulp, leaning down. Even the head stretches your lips wide, salty and hot against your tongue. You swirl around the crown, slurping messily, cheeks hollowing. Both hands pump what you can’t fit in which is most of him.
König’s head falls back, throat working on a growl. “ Fuck…genau so. Good girl.”
You lose yourself in the rhythm. The sucking, stroking and spit dripping down his length until huge hands suddenly grip your ass, lifting you like you’re weightless.
You squeak around his cock as he positions you higher, tip nudging insistently at your soaked entrance.
“ W-wait—” You gasp, pulling off with a wet pop.
“ It won’t fit!”
“ It will.” He rasps, holding the base steady.
“ Your greedy little cunt will take every inch. Sink down. Now.”
You bite your lip hard enough to sting, hands braced on his chest. Slowly and agonizingly, you lower yourself.
The stretch burns. Your walls flutter and resist, then yield in tiny increments. You hiss, eyes watering as the broad head breaches you. König curses in German, fingers digging into your hips.
“ Scheiße, so tight…mein Gott.”
He slaps your ass sharply. The sting makes you clench, and another inch slides in. You moan despite the ache.
Deeper and deeper. Until your ass meets his thighs and you’re impossibly full, his cock seated so deep you feel it in your throat.
Both of you moan in raw, broken sounds.
“ Look…” He laughs breathlessly, pressing a palm to your lower belly. A visible bulge distends your skin where he’s buried.
“ Taking me like a perfect little slut. My cock’s rearranging your insides.”
The degradation sends heat spiraling through you. You lift experimentally, whimpering at the drag on how your walls cling to every vein. Then sink again. Pain melts into dizzying pleasure.
Soon you’re riding him in earnest, slow rolls turning to desperate bounces. His hands guide your hips, but he lets you set the pace, eyes glued to where you’re joined.
“ Faster…” He growls.
“ Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how much you need it.”
You do. You are chasing the friction, breasts bouncing, and moans spilling freely. The bulge appears and disappears with every thrust.
Suddenly he surges up, flipping you beneath him in one fluid move. Your legs are hooked over his broad shoulders, folding you nearly in half.
He looms above, massive and overwhelming.
“ Zu klein für mich.” He murmurs, voice thick with awe and possession. (Too small for me)
“ Seht nur, wie ich diese winzige Muschi dehne.” (Just look how I'm stretching this tiny pussy)
He starts moving in deep, punishing strokes that punch the air from your lungs. The bulge drives deeper; you feel him everywhere.
König buries his masked face in your neck, lips brushing your skin as he switches to German, words hot and filthy against your ear.
“ Du gehörst mir…so nass für mich…werde dich füllen bis es überläuft…kleine Schlampe nimmt jeden Zentimeter…” (You belong to me...so wet for me...I'll fill you until it overflows...little slut takes every inch.)
You don’t understand most of it, but the tone, it's possessive, degrading, adoring and pushes you higher. Your nails rake down his back through the shirt.
Another orgasm builds fast and brutal. “ König…please—”
“ Cum.” He snarls.
" Spritz in meinen ganze Schwanz, du verzweifeltes Mädchen!" (Cum all over my cock, you desperate girl)
You shatter.
Pleasure crashes through you in waves. You squirt hard, soaking his hips, the sheets. Your walls milk him relentlessly.
He roars your name muffled behind the mask and slams deep one last time. Heat floods you in thick, endless pulses.
There’s so much it overflows immediately, creamy white leaking around his buried length, dripping down your ass.
He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead he collapses carefully, rolling so you’re tucked against his hard chest, still impaled and full.
His hand strokes your hair, voice softening to a rumble.
“ Gut gemacht, Liebling…so perfect for me…took everything I gave you.”
Only then does he ease out in slow and gentle until both of you moaning at the lewd, wet sound. Cum gushes out after him.
His cock that is still half-hard, shiny with your mixed release rests heavy and twitching against your stomach.
He strokes your hair, blue eyes searching yours.
“ No event on Sunday.” He says quietly.
“ It's useless. You stay here.”
“ But I—”
He cuts you off with a low growl. “ I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk. Until that boy’s name is erased from your pretty head. Then I’ll spend all day making you come again and again. That’s your Sunday.”
You open your mouth to argue, out of habit, mostly but his stare pins you.
Intense. Possessive. Promising.
You swallow. Nod.
A slow, satisfied smile crinkles his eyes.
“ Braves Mädchen.” He presses a masked kiss to your forehead. (Good girl.)
“ I’ll make it memorable. Better than any pathetic invitation.”
You melt against him, sore and spent and secretly thrilled.
Sunday was never going to that club anyway.
…
Everything has flipped upside down in the best, most filthy way possible. Since that first night, the dorm has become a non-stop haze of sex.
You barely make it out the door for class without König pinning you against the wall, fingers or tongue or cock inside you until you’re late and wobbly-kneed.
You try to study at the desk when he crawls under it then spreads your thighs, and eats you out until your notes are smeared with desperate handprints.
He comes back from shift smelling like sweat and gunpowder, and you’re on him before he can drop his gear bag while riding him on the couch, the floor or in the shower wall.
Sunday arrives exactly as he promised: unforgettable.
You wake up naked where clothes are pointless when König is in the same postcode. He’s sprawled beside you, equally bare, that huge scarred body on full display.
The first time you really see all of him in daylight, you nearly drop the orange juice. His body is a map of violence and power while broad chest dusted with dark hair, abs carved deep, a thick happy trail leading straight to that monstrous cock that never seems to go fully soft around you.
Scars crisscross his skin: jagged ones across his ribs, a burn on his shoulder, a long surgical line down his thigh.
He catches you staring and shifts, suddenly awkward for a man who just fucked you senseless.
“ Not pretty.” He mutters, reaching for a shirt.
You stop him, fingers tracing a raised scar on his chest. “ Are you kidding? You look fucking hot. Like a war god or something.”
You press a kiss to one mark, then another. “ Never cover up around me again.”
Breakfast prep starts innocently enough. You’re on the kitchen counter in one of his oversized shirts where the only thing you’re allowed to wear while your legs spread while he stands between them slicing strawberries.
Then two thick fingers slide into your bare pussy without warning.
“ Guten Morgen, Liebling.” He murmurs against your neck, pumping lazily.
“ Already soaked for me.”
You whimper, gripping his shoulders as he works you open, thumb circling your clit until you’re shaking. By the time you come, clutching his wrist, breakfast is forgotten.
He lifts you effortlessly, sets you on his cock, and goes back to chopping vegetables while you ride him slow and greedy. You roll your hips, chasing friction, while he calmly slices bell peppers one-handed.
The sizzle of eggs, bacon, and hotdogs fills the air. When the scent of frying fat hits, you both lose patience then you slam down hard as he thrusts up brutally, and you come together with muffled groans against each other’s skin.
His release painting your insides as the bacon pops in the pan.
The rest of the day is pure debauchery.
Clothes never make a reappearance. You drift around the dorm naked, his cum drying on your thighs, breasts marked with fresh bites.
Every time you pass him. When he's reading reports on the couch or cleaning his gear at the table while his cock is hard and swinging heavy between his legs like a permanent invitation.
You take it often.
You drop to your knees while he’s reviewing mission briefs, deepthroating as much of that monster as you can in which is still only half.
He threads fingers through your hair, abs flexing, voice calm as he turns pages and praises you in German.
“ So ein braves kleines Ding…nimmst meinen Schwanz so tief…” (Such a good little thing...you take my cock so deep...)
Sunday afternoon, your phone rings.
You’re bouncing on his lap again, facing him, his mouth latched to one nipple.
The screen flashes MOM.
You freeze.
König reaches around you, grabs the phone, and holds it out. “ Answer.”
“ Are you insane?” You hiss.
“ They’ll hear—”
He thrusts up hard once, making you gasp. “ You’re too good at ignoring calls. Answer or I stop moving.”
You glare, but your hips are already rolling again.
You swipe accept.
“ Hi, Mom! Dad!”
Your mother’s voice is warm. “ Sweetheart! How’s school? Is everything okay with your roommate?”
You try to sound normal.
König chooses that moment to slam up particularly deep, the fat head of his cock knocking your cervix.
Your voice cracks on a moan. “ Everything’s g-great…oh!”
“ Baby? Are you okay?”
“ Y-yeah!” You squeak, clawing at König’s chest.
“ Just…stubbed my toe!”
König’s eyes glint with evil amusement. He flips you suddenly, pinning you face-down on the couch, one leg hooked over his forearm. He slides back in with one brutal thrust.
You whine involuntarily.
“ What was that?” Dad’s voice sharpens.
“ N-Nothing! Dropped my pen…keep going, Dad. It's the monthly allowance, right?”
Your parents keep talking about grades, allowance and reminders to eat vegetables. König leans over you, chest to your back, and starts a slow, grinding rhythm.
His masked mouth finds your ear.
“ Quiet, Schlampe.” He whispers in German.
“ Don’t want them knowing their precious daughter is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate, hm?”
You bite the cushion to stifle another moan.
Your father launches into a lecture about budgeting your monthly allowance. König speeds up, pounding deeper, the wet slap of skin barely muffled.
He degrades you softly the whole time. König leans down, mouth at your ear, whispering pure filth in German while your parents talk about finances.
“ Du kleine Schlampe…nimmst meinen Schwanz so gut während du mit Daddy redest…so verdorben…” (You little slut...taking my cock so good while you talk to Daddy...so depraved...)
The coil snaps. You come hard, silent except for a choked whimper, walls fluttering around him. König pulls out just in time, hot stripes paint your lower back and ass then shoves back in to finish deep and flooding you again.
His huge hand clamps over your mouth, catching your muffled cry.
“ Braves Mädchen.” He breathes against your neck.
“ So gehorsam.” (So obedient.)
Your father is still mid-sentence about direct deposits when the aftershocks fade.
“ I…I have to go,” you manage, voice shaky.
“ Assignment due—”
“ Of course, honey.” Your mom says.
“ Just remember…stay safe. Keep your distance from that male roommate, okay? You’re too trusting sometimes.”
König outright laughs in a low, wicked rumble against your spine.
You end the call with trembling fingers. He plucks the phone away, tosses it onto the coffee table, and gives a lazy thrust that makes you gasp.
“ They have no idea…” He says, voice low and rough.
“ That their precious girl is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate every day. Stuffed full of my cum while she lies to them.”
You swat his chest weakly. “ You’re evil.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through both of you as he starts a slow, lazy rhythm again.
“ Evil?” He leans down, mask brushing your lips.
“ No, Maus. Just keep what’s mine.”
You roll your eyes, but your legs wrap tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.
Sunday isn’t even over yet, and you wouldn’t trade it for any club invitation in the world.
Just binged all of your Clark fics and I’m obsessed lol. Idk if your write emetophilia but in the uncut oral fics you mentioned the possibility of her throwing up… n I think she shouldddddd🫣 pleaseeeee
explicit 18+ v0miting on dick and getting clark off because of it hhhhh yeah
being a few days since you’d last gone down on him and trained your throat, you’ve been wanting to make more progress to your ultimate goal of taking his dick down to the hilt. clark had been fucking your pussy to sleep every night, not expecting you to be getting your eager mouth back on his uncut dick so soon. not realizing how much you’ve been hoping to please him, swallow him deeper again like last time. scarf more of those impressive yet intimidating inches down so he can pin you down and fuck your throat like how he’s tried (and failed) to.
when you have him right where you want him, horny and leaning back on the couch with nothing on his agenda but to take care of his persistent hard on, you get down on your knees between his legs and fondle him until he’s sighing and twitching. you get him fully naked for your mouth, fist starting off with a tickle of your tongue in the bunched up foreskin of his tip while clark has his own mouth wide open in shock while you gulp him down. ducking your head down and pushing yourself over and over again. slurping his cock down with audible spit getting drizzled all over his chubby cock. it feels almost impossible width and length wise to swallow him down, swiveling your tongue on his tender spots to make his dick so wet and happy he starts precumming sooner than usual. it dribbles down your throat but you spit it back out to mix with your saliva so he’s nice and lubed up to go smoothly down your throat.
you hold eye contact while grabbing his throbbing base to hold on while you steadily try to remind yourself to keep breathing through your nose. deeply inhaling, shakily exhaling. clark hums his signature loud praise for you and has his slutty thighs spreading open wider and wider, nodding his head with a teasing bite down on his lower lip.
‘ohhh, good girl. you’re becoming my little cocksucking pro.’
he grabs your hair with a fist and gently fucks his hips up into your mouth, leaking more salty hot precum that feels like the dirtiest, luckiest reward. you swallow down some because you greedily want it down simmering in your belly. pulling off to lick and nibble the sensitive skin of his balls, making filthy sounds when you dip your head down a little far and already choking.
‘it’s okay, it’s okay baby. you’ve got this. take that dick. suck it down, lemme feel you swallow,’ he growls. you hum around him to vibrate his cock, slobbering little bubbles of spit that only get bigger and messier as you go down a third of the way and gulp in your throat. clark sings more praises while you follow it up with a quick sharp gag, not even phased by the tickle in your throat before you keep going. dragging your tongue to wag it down. taking his dick deep, throat probably bruised by now by the repeated attacks it keeps enduring.
you foolishly think you can endure more when you wrap your lips around, the girth being a mouthful already, steady as you deep throat another inch. and then another.
clark’s stomach tightens as he watches you, wide eyed with stars in his eyes when you nearly make it past the halfway mark. your mouth is heavenly, coming so close to the warmth of your pussy — the drool slipping down your lips and making a slimy little pool in his lap and his pubes. he nods his head to urge you further, to get you to your goalpost of taking his dick down that throat until your nose is buried in sweaty pubes. but but still, you’re nowhere near the finish line. already coughing out a long gag and pull back off to heave in some needed oxygen, not giving up to lose the fight before licking up your mess and jutting your head back down so your entire airway is smooshed by his floppy, gigantic cock once again. you watch him smile with teeth and of course he’s calling you his perfect cocksleeve, his eager little cum drinker.
clark waits until you’re back halfway down and drooling on the veins decorating his cock to grab the back of your head and ever so slightly push as he raises his hips.
your eyes water so quickly that tears have already began blocking your vision. the gagging never seems to stop, not even when you try with all your strength to relax your throat and breathe. you feel your tummy do flips and your throat start to tremble when he slides his dick further down and down until he nudges your uvula on the way. the way it repeatedly hits it leaves you gagging violently and desperately clawing at the v-line of his hips to try somehow non verbally signal to him that you don’t have any room left in your throat from how deep he’s been going. snot crowds your nostrils and your throat jumps again, horrid noises coming from your voice box while he just lies back and destroys you anyway. hips fucking his fat cock up and keeping a gentle grip on the back of your head.
‘you gonna puke on me, angel? huh? is it too big?’
he’s taunting you, teasing you.
‘throat is so small and you’re gagging pretty hard, baby. do you think you can hold it? you about to spit up?’
the fucker is smiling now, mischievously holding your head down and his hips still while you gulp and gag as his thickness crowds your throat and then you feel it, and you have no choice left but to succumb.
your throat trembles as you began retching with his cock still lodged in, the warm liquid flowing out unstoppably around like a wave (or more like a goddamn tsunami) around the girth of his cock. wetting his lap from the sudden splash. his balls, pubes, sweatpants, everything. your eyes cry when another round hits you, gagging as another puddle flows up from your throat and washes over his dick. clark does the unexpected and fucking moans, balls tightening while his dick starts spurting in the midst of your distress. you don’t even register anything, throat too numb and abused to feel the way his dick jumps and dribbles thick flows of cum, emptying his balls while you’d reluctantly emptied your belly.
you didn’t notice how he’d just shot a load of his cum down your throat while it was all happening, too out of it to distinguish any taste, or to see how clark’s deflated and leaned back like the relaxation hit him with a punch. you start to worry if you’ve disgusted him, if you’ve been psychologically banned from ever giving a good blowjob again. infinite insecure thoughts fly around your head while your tongue and your throat still felt a buzz, tired from the stretching and the beating. clark surprises you with the most gentle voice, no shock or movement besides holding onto a cheek, stroking your face.
‘awww. shhh, there there,’ he coos. ‘knew it would happen at some point. you held it in so much longer than I thought. I’m proud of you, angel,’ he makes sure your hair is tucked behind your head balled up in his hands to save any of the grotesque mess to spoil your hair, wiping your tears for you with his thumbs and finally pulling his dick out. ‘you took it so deep, make me feel so good every time you put that mouth on me baby. thank you.’
‘y…you didn’t cum yet, did you?’
clark laughs at you like the question was fucking ridiculous, still petting your head, rubbing your shoulders, never neglecting your poor sore jaw. ‘no baby, I came. I came in your throat. you don’t have to worry about that,’ he assures. ‘started cumming right when you—‘
interjecting him before he could finish, you look down and taste the bitter mix of cock and puke on your tongue while clark grins at you. ‘sorry, m’sorry…. it just went so deep—‘
‘if I didn’t want you puking on my dick I wouldn’t have held your head like that,’ he explains. ‘your gags sound so good, couldn’t resist trying it. and it was everything I wanted,’ clark breathes. wipes your drooling mouth with a thumb and pulls you up to his side, keeping you clear of his soiled lap. that was his mess he wanted to wear, not to dirty you up any more than he already has.
‘and you warned me like such a good girl. I knew what was gonna happen.’ he scatters kisses up and down your jaw, still mumbling in your ear. ‘it made me cum so goddamn hard.’
clark leaves your lips a wet, sloppy kiss with a knowing look and gets up with the mess still blatant all over his dick and fetches himself a washcloth to wet in the sink. after wringing it out he drags it through the mess you left, nonchalant like it didn’t disgust him in the slightest or was out of the ordinary at all. once he’s cleaned up from his own splat of cum and your puke he leans down to you and cups your pussy with a sure palm, kissing you like even if your breath might’ve mortified you he was still so unaffected by it, eager to carry on.
the rubs soothe your clit as he sprawls your thighs out for his pleasure, nodding his head up to his nightstand. ‘drink my water. all of it. help that pretty throat recover a little.’ his head bows down to worship you as his nose nuzzled your pussy lips and dragged over the hood of your clit.
‘I’d choke myself with this pussy if I could,’ he heaves, licking your slit and poking his tongue inside. ‘wanna be at your mercy, same way you were at mine...’ he curls his tongue upwards to cram it in your walls, having your thighs twitch and your tired voice start to squeal. ‘mm, maybe you could wrap these legs around my neck real tight and sit down on my face. fuck my face as hard as I fuck yours,’ he suggests with a suckle on your clitoral hood. the bud gets so swollen the harder that he’s suckling, humming on your pussy like how you hum on his dick. ‘I wanna drink this pussy down good. it’s only fair when you’re always so good to me. after everything I put you through….’
‘I threw up on you,’ you remind him with utter disbelief that he’s acting like you’d just done him the biggest favor.
‘you threw up cause I wanted you to. and you did so good,’ clark breathes. ‘that poor throat is probably exhausted. might need some tea soon. I’ll make some for you, just let me…. let me finish eating first,’ he whispers, mouth diving right back in.
. . . .
what’s crazy is im emetophobic in real life but something about the nasty fantasy of this and how fucking crazy it is im into it idgaf. splendid THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING when I’ve lowkey snuck it in to other fics to see if anybody says something 👀
The royal dining room smelled like braised komodo chicken, warm spices, and impending chaos. That last ingredient was entirely Sokka’s fault.
He had arrived two days ago under the very reasonable pretense of a “diplomatic visit,” which everyone in the palace understood to mean he had eaten all the sea prunes in the South Pole and needed a change of scenery. He had immediately made himself at home in the most aggressively Sokka way possible—reorganizing the palace kitchen’s meat storage, loudly critiquing the royal chefs’ spice choices, and staging what he called a “cultural exchange” that mostly involved teaching three Imperial Guards how to play Pai Sho wrong.
Zuko was handling it with the strained, tight-jawed dignity of a man who genuinely loved his brother-in-arms and also, genuinely, desperately wished he would go home.
You, on the other hand, were having the time of your life.
“The problem,” Sokka announced, gesturing with his chopsticks at nobody in particular, “is that Fire Nation desserts don’t hit right. Too much spice. Not enough—I don’t know—comfort.”
“They’re not supposed to be comfortable,” Zuko said flatly, not looking up from his bowl. “They’re supposed to be refined.”
“Refined.” Sokka repeated it like a curse word. He looked at you across the wide lacquered table. “Y/N, back me up. You’ve eaten in the North. You know what a good dessert tastes like.”
“I’m staying out of this,” you said serenely, pouring yourself a cup of jasmine tea.
“Smart woman.” Zuko reached for his own tea.
“Traitor,” Sokka said to you, but his tone was fond. He jabbed his chopsticks toward the small porcelain dish near the center of the table. It was a delicate Fire Nation layered cake, dark red bean paste between thin sheets of honey sponge, dusted with powdered cinnamon. “I’ll admit, though. That thing looks dangerous. In a good way.”
“It’s yuèbing-style,” you said, leaning forward slightly to inspect it. “Fire Nation adaptation. They bake it with dragon fruit reduction instead of lotus paste.”
Sokka’s eyes lit up with the specific enthusiasm he reserved for food and battle strategy. “Okay. Okay, that sounds incredible, actually—”
“It is,” you confirmed. You picked up a small serving spoon, cut a neat portion, and held it out. Not toward Sokka, but toward the man sitting directly to your left.
Zuko stiffened.
It was a nearly imperceptible thing. A millimeter of tension across his broad shoulders, a slight sharpening of his gaze as it dropped to the spoon now hovering in the space between you. The cake sat there, perfectly portioned, an earnest little offering from his fiancée.
He looked at it. He looked at Sokka, who was watching the exchange with the focused, calculating attention of a man who had once tracked a sea serpent across open water for three days on a bet.
Zuko looked back at the spoon.
“I have my own utensils,” he said.
You blinked. “I know. I’m offering you mine.”
“I can feed myself.”
“Zuko—”
“I’m thirty years old.”
The silence that followed was exquisite. You held his gaze for one long beat. He held it back, expression perfectly composed, jaw set at the precise angle you had privately catalogued as his I am the Fire Lord and I am not flustered, what are you talking about, I am completely fine angle.
You lowered the spoon.
Across the table, Sokka made a sound that wasn’t quite a cough and wasn’t quite a laugh, but existed somewhere in the loaded territory between them. You caught his eye.
Something passed between you. It was wordless, instantaneous, and absolutely damning. It was the specific telepathy that develops between two people who both find the same man endearing in his mortifying stubbornness.
You looked back down at the spoon in your hand. Then, with the serene composure of someone who had absolutely no ulterior motive whatsoever, you turned slightly in your seat and extended the spoon across the table toward Sokka instead.
“Sokka,” you said pleasantly. “Do you want to try it?”
Sokka’s expression went from conspiratorial delight to the studied, innocent blankness of a seasoned chaos agent. He straightened in his seat. He placed a solemn hand over his heart.
“I,” he said gravely, “would be honored.”
He leaned forward. He accepted the spoon. He closed his eyes as he tasted it with the theatrical reverence of a man experiencing a religious event, and then he let out a low, appreciative groan that was at least forty percent louder than necessary.
“Oh,” Sokka breathed. “Oh, that’s—Y/N. Y/N, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“Isn’t it?” you agreed warmly.
“I might have to move into the Fire Nation palace permanently.”
“We have a lovely east wing.”
“Perfect. I’ll take it.”
The temperature in the dining room had been climbing for approximately twelve seconds. You felt it before you looked. It was the specific, simmering heat that radiated off Zuko when his composure was being tested. The barely-leashed inner fire usually only made itself known when he was in the middle of a council session gone wrong, or when his fiancée had just deliberately fed another man dessert right in front of him.
You looked.
Zuko was staring at Sokka with an expression so flat and so incinerating it could have stripped paint from the walls.
Sokka, to his eternal credit, met that stare with the breezy, untroubled grin of a man who had survived a war and therefore had genuinely recalibrated his fear threshold. He set the spoon down on the table between you with a small, precise click.
“I mean,” Sokka said, in the tone of someone making a completely reasonable observation, “you did turn it down.”
You pressed your lips together very hard.
“You specifically said,” you added, with perfect innocence, “that you could feed yourself.”
Zuko turned to look at you. The flat expression had not moved. If anything, it had intensified. His golden eyes tracked from your face to the spoon to Sokka’s deeply satisfied expression and back to your face again, and you watched the precise moment he decided he was not going to dignify this with a response.
He reached across the table. He picked up the spoon. He cut himself a portion of the cake with the silent, deliberate calm of a man who was certainly not bothered. He ate it. He set the spoon down.
“It’s fine,” he said.
“Just fine?” Sokka asked.
“It’s cake, Sokka.”
“Y/N said it was incredible—”
“The conversation,” Zuko said, with a finality that had once ended full council meetings, “is over.”
You and Sokka thought it was funny.
Well. Your little prank is not so funny now.
Because right now, you are in the Fire Lord’s private chambers, stripped bare and face-down across his lap with the heavy silk sheets bunched uselessly beneath your palms, rapidly revising your opinion of the entire spoon incident.
He had been very calm about it. That was the most unnerving part. No raised voice, no dramatic declaration. Just the quiet deliberate efficiency of a man with a point to make and absolutely no intention of rushing. He walked you through the mahogany doors, turned the lock, sat down on the edge of the mattress, and looked at you. That was all it took. One look, and here you were: his large calloused hand resting light and warm at the small of your back, the blistering heat of his thighs radiating straight through your bare skin, the horrible charged anticipation of waiting.
“You thought that was funny,” he said. Not a question. His voice was low, that gravelly unhurried register that did something catastrophic to your better judgment.
“A little,” you admitted, into the sheets.
His hand lifted. It came down with a sharp deliberate crack across the curve of your backside, and the sound that tore out of you was not dignified in any conceivable way.
“Zuko—”
“A little.” He repeated it perfectly even. His palm smoothed immediately over the sting, the scorching heat of his hand pressing into the bloom of warmth he had left behind. Your whole body clenched involuntarily at the contrast, the sharp bite of it dissolving almost instantly into a spreading maddening heat that pooled low and heavy in your core. “We’ll revisit that.”
He did it again. And again. Slow and measured, with that ruthless patience he applied to absolutely everything—council sessions, fire katas, and the systematic dismantling of your composure. Each strike was followed by the same soothing pass of his palm, his thumb tracing the flushed curve of your skin almost tenderly, and the combination of it was genuinely unhinged. Your fingers twisted into the silk. Your hips rolled without your permission. You heard the low dark exhale that came from him in response.
That was the thing about him. Zuko’s jealousy was a quiet, suffocating weight. He operated with the exact same obsessive, single-minded intensity that had once driven him across the globe for three years. Now, all of that relentless focus was trapped inside this room, directed entirely at stripping away your composure until you remembered exactly who claimed you.
You supposed that’s just how Fire Lord Zuko is. The jealous type.
By the time he finally stilled his hand, your skin was flushed a vivid burning pink, radiating its own warmth, every trace of your natural waterbender’s cold chased clean out of you. Your breathing was a wreck. The sheets beneath your palms were damp from the faint frost that had spiked off your overwhelmed skin and melted instantly against the furnace heat of his thighs.
“There,” Zuko murmured, his hand resting warm and still against your lower back. His voice had dropped into something quieter. Not soft exactly, but settled. Certain. “There you are.”
What came after was not gentle, and it was not quick.
He put you on all fours. His hands were sure and unhurried as he arranged you exactly where he wanted you, and the first stroke of his cock splitting you open dragged a completely ruined sound out of your throat that you felt no shame about whatsoever. He was thick and devastating at this angle, every thrust bottoming out so deep you felt it behind your navel, his hips snapping into the still-flushed spanked curve of your ass with a sharp filthy sound that filled the entire chamber. His long dark hair had come loose from its tie and fell around his face as he leaned over you, the ends brushing your spine, and even half-wrecked as you were the sight of him in your peripheral vision made it worse—that sharp jaw locked tight, those golden eyes dark with focus, the broad scarred expanse of his chest sheened faintly with exertion, lean muscle shifting with every drive of his hips.
He fucked you thoroughly. Properly. Deep hard strokes at a pace that left you completely incoherent, your arms trembling, your face pressing into the pillow as your own voice became entirely unrecognizable to you. Tears tracked silently down your cheeks, the bright overwhelmed kind that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the total dissolution of every last piece of your composure. You came with a broken sob muffled into the silk, clenching hard around him, and he followed close after with a low wrecked groan pressed between your shoulder blades, his hands gripping your hips so tight you’d feel it tomorrow.
For a moment, you both just breathed.
Then he drew you up.
He positioned you with those large certain hands, your back against his chest, his legs bracketing yours, the scorching wall of him solid at your spine. You were facing the mirror at the foot of the bed. You understood immediately, completely, why it was where it was.
You looked absolutely catastrophic. Your hair was a total wreck, dark strands plastered to your flushed tear-damp cheeks. Your lips were swollen. Your eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, the look of someone who had been thoroughly taken apart and hadn’t been put back together yet. Your cool skin was flushed with heat and steaming faintly where it pressed against the blistering heat of his chest, the fire-and-ice contrast rendered almost obscene in the amber glow of the hearth.
And then there was Zuko behind you, which was a genuinely unfair thing to have to look at in this particular state. His dark hair was fully loose now, falling in thick dishevelled waves past his jaw and brushing his scarred collarbone. His chest was bare, broad and heavily muscled with the lean hard lines of a man who had trained every day of his life, old battle scars mapping his torso in silver and pale gold. His jaw was tight, a muscle feathering in his scarred cheek. His golden eyes burned steady in the low firelight, fixed entirely on you. He looked like something forged from fire and focused want. You looked like you’d been hit by a wave and hadn’t surfaced yet.
The contrast was genuinely criminal.
His chin hooked over your shoulder. His golden eyes found yours in the glass and held.
“Don’t look away, princess,” he said quietly.
His hand slid down your stomach.
You were already so sensitized that when his fingers found your clit, your whole body jolted on pure reflex. His other arm banded across your ribs immediately, dragging you back flush against him, keeping you exactly and inescapably in place.
“Zuko—” His name fractured in your throat. “I can’t, I’m already—”
“I know,” he said. He didn’t stop.
His fingers worked your clit in tight relentless circles, the direct pressure against something so oversensitized from everything before that every stroke felt like too much and not enough at the same time. His other hand slid up to cup your left breast, squeezing the soft weight of it before his fingers found your nipple and pinched, sharp enough to make you gasp and clench and dig your nails into his forearm hard enough to leave marks.
“Look at the mirror,” he said against your ear.
You looked. You wished briefly that you hadn’t. Your face was a complete disaster, mouth open, eyes wet, cheeks scarlet, expression stripped down to pure sensation with nothing held back at all. The image of you coming apart while he remained so devastatingly composed behind you, his dark eyes tracking your every reaction with that consuming focused attention, was enough to make your thighs shake all over again.
His fingers tightened on your nipple, a rolling pinch that sent a sharp spike straight down to your already screaming clit. Then the hand at your core shifted, two fingers curling inside you while his thumb flicked directly over your swollen bud, and you actually sobbed. Loud and undignified and completely beyond caring.
“Still think it was funny?” he murmured against your ear, low and dark and almost conversational. His fingers never lost their rhythm for a single second.
You opened your mouth. You were going to say a little. You had fully intended to say a little, purely on principle, right up until his thumb pressed down firm and his fingers curled deeper and his other hand delivered one sharp stinging flick directly to your clit. Your entire spine arced off his chest.
What came out instead was his name. Just his name, over and over, increasingly incoherent.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, low and rough against your temple.
The orgasm hit so hard your vision went white at the edges, your whole body shaking, thighs clamping shut around his hand. His arm was the only thing keeping you from sliding completely off the mattress. He worked you through every convulsing shuddering second of it without mercy, fingers pumping steadily through the clench of your walls, thumb drawing slow circles over your hypersensitive clit until the sounds you were making were mostly just breath and the occasional broken fragment of please.
He finally, mercifully, stilled.
The room was very quiet. The hearth crackled. Your chest heaved. His chin was still hooked over your shoulder and in the mirror his expression had shifted into something quieter. Still dark, still certain, but underneath it the faintest trace of the thing he could never quite say out loud in dining rooms and corridors. The thing that only ever came out like this.
A thin curl of steam rose where your sweat-damp skin pressed against the furnace of his chest. The hearth fire guttered once, sympathetically.
He lowered you both down onto the mattress slowly, tucking you against his chest the same way he always did, with that quiet absolute possessiveness, like the decision had been made a long time ago and he had no interest in revisiting it. His hand settled heavy and warm at the curve of your waist. His thumb began its slow idle circle.
You lay there completely and entirely destroyed, listening to his heartbeat gradually decelerate against your cheek. The burn of him had faded from overwhelming to something grounding, a steady bone-deep warmth seeping into places the cold had lived for years.
“For the record,” you said, into the quiet.
“Mm.”
“You could have just eaten the cake.”
A beat. Then, low and dry, his voice rumbling against your cheek. “I’m aware of that.”
“Would have been easier.”
“I said I’m aware, princess.”
You smiled against his skin. “I’m just saying. For future reference. If I offer you a spoon—”
“I’ll take the spoon.”
“Good.”
“Don’t test me again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, partially lying as you pressed a soft kiss to the scar over his eye.
prologue ⧽ read more
this is actually a bonus chapter from the main ‘sublimation’ universe ;)
this drabble is inspired by this gorgeous artwork by @dragondruk
"My love..." Zuko whispered softly, your rouge was covering his skin in patches.
You laughed sweetly, shushing him and pressing another kiss to his jaw, making him shiver. He tried his best to chase your mouth but you weren't giving him the privilege. It seemed that you were going to kiss him everywhere except where he desired it the most.
"Please, my love. Just one." He begged again, his throat exposed as you pulled his head back by his hair, making him whine.
"Not yet." You simply said and placed another kiss on his skin. This time, right on his Adam's apple.
His eyes scrunched close as a warm breath escaped him. He swallowed hard, his hands pawing at your waist.
"For someone so powerful-" You purred, kissing him on his chest, a perfect ring of red lipstain on his left nipple, "You're awfully well-behaved." You applied rouge again then kissed down his abs.
You could feel the muscles flexing against your lips, making you giddy.
"Only- ah- Only for you, my love-" He whined, his fingers tightening and loosening on your hips. Kneading the flesh under the robe you wore. The only piece of cloth that was hiding your body from him. Whereas he sat bare, shivering even in the heat of the bedchambers.
His eyes rolled back and he took a breath to try and steady himself. It didn't do much. He looked at you as if you were the very essence of his being.
"Please-" Zuko begged again, weakly trying for you to lay on him. To give him something. Anything.
You paused for a moment. He looked so beautiful like this. Flushed, covered in your marks, his chest rising and falling quickly.
"You're asking so nicely, My Lord-" You cooed at him.
The title made him laugh breathlessly. "Don't do that. Don't say it like that." He tried to scold you.
"Like what?" You pressed gentle kisses on his thighs.
"Like you're not my wife." He looked at you with hooded eyes.
You climbed up again, kissing the scar on his chest, then the corner of the scar on his face. He melted at that.
"Why am I being tormented tonight? Hm?" He asked sweetly, one hand coming to cup your face. You simply turned and kissed his wrist.
"Maybe because I like you this way." You hummed, kissing up his arm and making him turn over so you could kiss his back. He groaned but obliged.
"You are a cruel cruel woman." He sighed and looked at you over his shoulder. "Come on, my love. Just one."
You laughed and pulled away, shaking your head. "There's never just one with you-"
"I'll behave!" He offered, getting on his knees, ready to pounce you.
"I highly doubt that-" You pause, eyes dancing with mischief. "My Lor-"
The word was barely out of your mouth and he moved quick. A showcase of his prowess. You screamed a laugh as he tackled you, arms wrapping around you so skillfully that by the time you fell into the bed, your robe was undone and open.
You squealed and tried to push him away but it was all for nought.
"Finally-" He chuckled, "My vixen of a wife-" He smiled, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, his knees on either side of your hips, and his other hand, caressing your cheek. "What am I to do with you, hm?"
"I swear I'm innocent." You pouted with a giggle.
"Well- That's for the Fire Lord to decide-" He grinned and dipped his head, finally kissing you after hours of your torture.
18+ cw: smut, dom!quaritch, lotus position, begging, p in v sex, creampie
you bounced up and down on him, legs bent, his chest against yours. you feel your wetness as you grind on him while his hips meet yours. or slam into yours. you cant stop the moans that leave your mouth, quaritch’s cock reaching places you hadn’t yet.
you collapse into his chest and begin kissing his jaw, kissing the sides of his face. his breathing starts to quicken as you get closer to his ear. panting and whining you sucked on his earlobe. in between sucking and kissing you’re moaning like you’re in heat.
“oh…fuck yes, keep at that.” his eyes begin to flutter shut as you pulse around him. “take it, baby.” miles’ voice hoarse as he whispers to you. his pace now unrelentless. in and out, in and out, non-stop, holding your hips still. holding you to his liking.
“oh eywa, please! please let me come!” you didn’t even know if what you was enough to make out to decipher but you didn’t really care. you bite on miles’ blue earlobe as he reaches even deeper and scratch his back and that seals it.
“not eywa, sweet thing. not here” he lets out a guttural moan and and legs himself go. “come on me, make your sweet pussy come on me!” miles orders. you obey with a cry out of his name, and he follows after, filling you to the brim, you swear he’s already leaking out.
“good girl.” kissing your jaw, you shudder, your orgasm still running through you. he holds you as you begin to catch your breath. “fuck, you drive me crazy.”
do not feed or use my shit for ai. pics found on Pinterest
Neteyam always finds a way to fuck you and his dad is tired of it.
WC. 2.6
The training grounds were quiet except for the rhythmic slap of arrows hitting targets and Jake’s low commands.
“Again. Higher draw this time. Focus on the follow through.”
Neteyam had been right beside him a moment ago—tall, steady, bow drawn, also tending to younger kids in training.
Then he wasn’t.
Jake lowered his own bow, ears twitching.
“Neteyam?”
No answer.
He scanned the clearing, the treeline, the narrow paths leading back toward the village.
Nothing.
A faint prickle of unease crawled up his spine.
His eldest didn’t just disappear in the middle of drills.
Not when they were teaching the kids how to properly use a bow.
Not without a word.
Jake handed his bow to one of the younger warriors.
“Finish the set. I’ll be back.”
He moved fast, following the most likely trail—toward the secluded river bend where the foliage grew thick and the sound of water drowned out voices.
It was a place couples sometimes slipped away to.
A place Jake himself had once favored with Neytiri when they were younger.
The closer he got, the more certain he became.
Low moans drifted through the leaves.
Breathless, needy.
Familiar.
Jake’s jaw tightened.
He pushed aside the last curtain of vines and froze.
There, pressed against the smooth trunk of a young pa’liwll tree, was his son—tail lashing, ears pinned back in pleasure, strong hands gripping hips that definitely weren’t his own.
You were arched against him, legs wrapped high around his waist, head thrown back as Neteyam drove into you with slow, deep rolls that made your whole body shudder.
Your nails raked down his back, leaving fresh red lines across blue skin.
His face was buried in your neck, growling soft praises against your throat.
“Fuck—ma’yawntutsyìp… so tight… always so perfect for me…”
Jake’s tail lashed once, hard.
“Neteyam.”
The word cracked like a whip.
Neteyam’s hips stuttered.
His head snapped up, eyes wide with instant mortification.
You gasped, trying to hide your face against his shoulder, but it was far too late.
“Dad—”
Jake’s voice was ice. “Get dressed. Now.”
Neteyam pulls out quick, a wet sound that makes you flush hotter, scrambling for your discarded tevdong.
Neteyam carefully lowered you to your feet, keeping his body between you and his father as you both scrambled to cover yourselves.
His ears were flat against his skull, tail tucked tight.
Shame and guilt rolled off him in waves.
Jake didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. The silence was worse.
“Back to the house,” he said quietly. “ both of you, now, help your mother with chores “
For the next few weeks, Jake watched.
He hadn’t realized how often it happened.
Every time he turned around, Neteyam was touching you—subtle at first: a hand low on your back, fingers brushing your thigh when he thought no one was looking.
Then less subtle.
He’d pull you behind a tree during patrol breaks.
He’d disappear with you for “quick hunts” that lasted far too long.
Once Jake caught him pressing you against the wall of the family kelku when he thought everyone was asleep, your legs hooked over his forearms, both of you trying—and failing—to stay quiet.
Jake wasn’t blind.
He knew you were mated.
He’d approved the bond years ago when you both were just teens.
He just hadn’t realized his son was this… insatiable.
Eventually he’d had enough.
One evening after dinner, when the rest of the family had scattered, Jake caught Neteyam by the arm before he could follow you outside.
“Sit,” Jake said, pointing to the woven mat.
Neteyam obeyed instantly, ears low, eyes fixed on the floor.
Jake sat across from him, elbows on his knees, studying his firstborn like he was a battlefield map.
“You’re distracted,” Jake started. “All the time. You’re missing shots you used to hit blindfolded. You’re late to drills. You’re disappearing mid sentence. And I know why.”
Neteyam’s tail curled around his ankle. He didn’t speak.
Jake exhaled through his nose.
“I get it. You’re young. You’re mated. Bonding is intense. But this—” he gestured vaguely toward the direction you’d gone “—this isn’t healthy. You can’t spend every free second buried between her legs. You’ve got responsibilities. People look to you. You’re supposed to be setting an example.”
Neteyam’s ears flicked.
He swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper.
“It’s… not just me.”
Jake blinked. “What?”
Neteyam risked a glance up, cheeks flushed dark. “She wants it just as much. Sometimes more. I—I try to be careful, but she… she asks. She pulls me away. She says she needs me. And I—” He ducked his head again, mortified. “I can’t say no to her. I don’t want to.”
Jake stared.
For a long moment the only sound was the crackle of the small fire.
Then Jake rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a low, tired laugh that had no humor in it.
“Oh.”
Neteyam peeked up, uncertain.
Jake shook his head slowly. “You’re both as bad as each other.”
“I’m sorry,” Neteyam mumbled. “I’ll… try harder. To focus.”
Jake studied him—really studied him.
The way his shoulders were hunched, the way his tail still hadn’t uncurled from his leg.
He looked like a kid caught stealing fruit, not a grown warrior.
Jake sighed. “Look. I’m not saying you can’t touch your mate. Eywa knows your mother and I weren’t exactly saints when we were your age. But balance, Neteyam. You need balance. If you let this consume you, it’ll eat everything else—your training, your siblings, your place here. And hers too.”
Neteyam nodded quickly. “I understand.”
“Do you?” Jake leaned forward. “Because I’m not asking you to stop. I’m asking you to be smarter about it. Lock the damn door. Pick times when the whole clan isn’t waiting on you. And maybe—maybe—take a breath once in a while and remember there’s more to being mated than how many times you can knot in a day.”
Neteyam’s ears burned. He nodded again, faster this time.
Jake stood, brushing off his thighs. “And next time you disappear mid training? You tell me first. I’m not hunting you down again just to find you balls deep in your mate against a tree.”
Neteyam groaned, covering his face with both hands. “Dad—”
Jake smirked despite himself. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
He walked toward the entrance, pausing just before stepping out.
“One more thing.”
Neteyam looked up, wary.
“Treat her right,” Jake said quietly. “Always. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when you’re exhausted. Even when the clan’s watching. She’s your mate. Not just your release.”
Neteyam’s expression softened instantly. “I know. I swear.”
Jake gave a single nod.
Then he was gone, leaving Neteyam sitting there—still flushed, still guilty, but a little less alone in it.
Outside, you were waiting near the fire, arms crossed, trying not to look as anxious as you felt.
Jake paused beside you.
You glanced up.
He raised a brow. “You two done trying to kill me with heart attacks?”
You bit your lip, cheeks darkening. “Sorry, sir.”
Jake snorted. “Don’t ‘sir’ me… I’m hoping for grandchildren. So it’s dad ”
You ducked your head, smiling despite yourself. “Yes, sir.”
He shook his head and kept walking.
Behind him, Neteyam appeared in the doorway, eyes locked on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
Jake sighed to himself.
Kids.
The days blurred into weeks as Neteyam took his father’s words to heart.
Balance.
He repeated it like a mantra, every time his gaze lingered too long on the curve of your hips, or the way your tail swayed when you walked ahead of him on patrols.
He loved you—Eywa, he loved you more than breath—but he’d let that love turn into a constant hunger, one that drowned out everything else.
No more.
He’d prove to himself, to Jake, to you, that he could be more than just the warrior who couldn’t keep his hands off his mate.
At first, it was small things.
He’d pull away from stolen kisses before they deepened, murmuring excuses about duties or hunts.
You noticed, of course—your ears would flick in confusion, your eyes searching his with a silent question.
But you didn’t push.
Instead, you leaned into the change, and soon the spaces between you filled with something softer, deeper.
Dates became their own kind of ritual.
He’d wake you before dawn, fingers brushing your cheek as he whispered, “Come fly with me.”
You’d ride together on his ikran, the wind whipping through your hair as you soared over the floating mountains, chasing bioluminescent clouds that painted the sky in streaks of purple and blue.
He’d land on hidden ledges, places only the Omatikaya knew, and you’d share meals of fresh hexapede skewers and sweet yovo fruit, talking for hours about nothing and everything—the stars, the old stories from Jake’s Earth, the dreams you both had for the clan’s future.
One afternoon, he led you deep into the Hallelujah Mountains, where the air grew thin and the vines twisted like living ropes around ancient stone spires.
You explored forgotten caves glowing with atokirina’ seeds, their soft light dancing across your skin as you laughed and chased each other through narrow passages.
He showed you a hidden waterfall, its waters crystal clear and warm from underground springs, and you swam together, clothes discarded on the rocks but touches kept innocent—fingers tracing patterns on wet skin, foreheads pressed together in quiet contentment.
Nights were spent under the canopy, weaving new songcords or just lying tangled in each other’s arms, tails entwined, sharing stories until sleep claimed you.
No rushing. No desperate pulls toward release. Just you and him, rediscovering the quiet joy of simply being mates.
But Eywa, it was torture.
Neteyam felt it building like a storm—every brush of your hand, every shared glance, every time your scent wrapped around him in the wind.
His body ached, a constant low hum of need that he pushed down with gritted teeth and focused breaths.
He’d wake hard and wanting, your body curled against his, and force himself to slip away for cold swims in the river.
He was a warrior; he could endure this. For you. For balance.
Until he couldn’t.
It happened on one of those mountain explorations, high up where the air hummed with the distant calls of ikran and the world below looked like a distant dream.
You’d found a secluded alcove, a natural balcony overlooking the vast expanse of Pandora’s wilderness, the sun dipping low and casting everything in golden fire.
You were leaning against a rock, hair tousled from the flight, smiling at him with that look that always made his heart stutter.
He tried to ignore it.
Tried to focus on the view, on the way the light played across the floating islands. But then you stretched, arching your back just so, and something inside him snapped.
“Ma’yawntu,” he breathed, voice rough, stepping closer. His tail lashed behind him, ears pinned flat. “I… I can’t. Not anymore.”
You tilted your head, confusion flickering in your eyes. “Can’t what?”
He dropped to his knees before you, hands trembling as they gripped your thighs. His golden eyes locked onto yours, pleading, desperate. “Please. I need you. I’ve tried—Eywa knows I’ve tried to hold back, to be better, but I’m dying without you. Let me taste you. Let me have you. Please.”
Your breath hitched, cheeks flushing as understanding dawned.
You’d felt the absence too, the way his restraint had left you aching in quiet moments, but you’d respected his choice.
Now, seeing him like this—Neteyam, proud and strong, on his knees begging—stirred something fierce in you.
You nodded, fingers threading into his braids. “Yes, please.”
He didn’t hesitate.
Neteyam kneels slow in front of you, hands gliding up your legs—palms rough from bows and hunts, but he keeps the pressure light. Thumbs drag along your inner thighs, back and forth, till your skin prickles. You shift your weight, tail flicking nervous. He glances up, checking. "This okay?" You nod, fingers flexing at your sides. "Yeah. Missed your hands."
He tugs at your tewng ties next, fingers working one knot loose, then fumbling the second—curses quiet in Na'vi. You reach down to help, brushing his knuckles. He huffs a small laugh. "Got it now." Fabric slips free, pooling at your ankles. Cool air hits your bare skin; you suck in a breath, thighs pressing together on instinct. His hands part them gentle, holding steady till you relax.
Eyes stay on yours, gold and focused like he's reading every twitch. Leans closer, nose brushing your folds soft at first—no rush.
His tongue darts out, tip tracing your outer lips light, tasting slick.
You whimper low, hips jerking forward a bit. "Steady," he murmurs against you, voice muffled, one hand splaying flat on your thigh to anchor.
Licks again, flatter this time, dragging up slow to your clit.
Circles it lazy with the tip—soft flicks that make your knees dip. You grab his braid, tugging accidental-hard; he groans into you, vibration buzzing straight through. "Sorry—feels..." He pulls back an inch, lips shiny.
"Good? Tell me if too much." You shake your head fast. "More. Please." Tongue presses firmer now, alternating slow laps with quick flutters over your clit, building that ache steady.
Thumbs spread you open wider; he dips inside shallow, tongue curling once before sucking your clit gentle between his lips.
Your tits shake with each pant, nipples tightening in the breeze.
His fingers slide up—one presses at your entrance, waiting.
You rock into it; he pushes in slow, knuckle by knuckle, curling to rub your spot inside he knows a little too well. Adds a second, thrusting lazy while his mouth keeps rhythm on your clit.
"Neteyam—fuck," you gasp, head tipping back against the rock. Thighs quake around his shoulders. He hums approval, free hand kneading your ass cheek soft.
Pumping fingers speed up just a touch; your walls clench tight, pulsing as orgasm hits—sharp waves that make your hips buck uneven. He works you through it, licks turning soft till you're slumped, pulling his hand free with a wet slide.
Rises awkward, knees popping from the stone—he winces, mutters "I’m gettin old " under breath.
You laugh breathy, yanking at his tewng. "Your turn." Ties stick wet from earlier rain; you both tug till it drops, his cock bobbing heavy, tip leaking.
You wrap your hand around him loose—stroking base to head, thumb over the slit. He hisses, grabbing your wrist light. "Easy. Wanna last."
Lifts you next, arms hooking under your thighs—presses your back to the wall gentle, legs around his waist.
His cock nudges your entrance, sliding through slick a few times. "Ready?" You nod, kissing his jaw sloppy.
"Slow," you murmur against his lips, legs tightening around his waist.
Neteyam nods quick, eyes locked on yours—gold steady, checking like always.
He pushes in inch by inch, thick head stretching your entrance wide. Walls grip him tight, fluttering at the fullness. You both groan low, breaths mixing hot. He bottoms out, holding still—forehead pressed to yours, noses bumping clumsy.
Lets you adjust first, hips twitching once involuntary.
Your ass settles firmer against him, tits brushing his chest with each shared pant.
"Big," you whisper, half-laugh.
He huffs soft, hand stroking your thigh.
He rocks shallow after—pulls out halfway, sinks back deliberate and smooth.
Your ass shakes light against the wall each time; your tits bounce into him, nipples dragging his skin.
His thumb finds one peak absent, rolling it slow while he angles his hips deeper—cock nudges that spot inside.
"Love this," he says low, voice cracking on "this."
He picks up pace controlled, thrusts snapping firmer—cock dragging your walls long, balls tapping your ass wet.
Fingers slip down to your clit, rubbing tight circles that make your thighs quake.
Head lolls back against his palm; mouth falls open on a silent moan, tits jiggling heavier with the force.
"Neteyam—fuck, right there." Cuts off your whine with a kiss, tongue sliding messy—pulls back gasping. "Shhh, dad will be mad if he hears"
Tension winds tight in your gut; you dig nails deeper into his shoulders.
Your pussy pulses around his cock, slick dripping down your thighs.
He grinds extra deep once, rhythm hitching when his tail tangles behind him.
Orgasms shatter you both—thighs clamping his waist tight, pussy fluttering wild, squeezing his cock in waves.
Tits heave with each spasm; ass grinds back desperate.
He follows seconds later, cock swelling thick—spills hot ropes inside with a choked grunt against your neck, thrusts jerking uneven till he's pumping empty.
He stays buried deep a long time, kissing your collarbone soft, breaths ragged syncing up.
He lowers you wobbly to the moss—knees buckle a bit; he catches your elbow steady.
Pulls out slow, wet slide; his cum drips thick down your inner thigh.
Grabs his tewng scrap nearby, wipes you gentle—awkward fumble when it sticks to his fingers first.
"Messy," he mutters, chuckling low.
I had a dream about Neteyam so I’m back in my avatar phase!🤭
Summary: When you can't calm Bucky down with love and care, you let him take his anger out fucking you stupid
TW: smut, porn without plot, rough sex, established relationship, spit kink, size kink, squirting, free use kink if you squint, slapping, slight pain kink
Word count: 1.5k
Authors note: just a short smut because I couldn't get the idea out of my horny brain so I wrote this on my phone
Bucky had a hard life. Perhaps the understatement of the year in your opinion. Between traumas of the past that haunted him nightly with visions of the winter solider plaguing his mind to the every day stress of putting himself in harms way to defend the Earth- he had a damn hard life. His one saving grace in the constant turmoil is you. You knew exactly how to calm him down, take away pieces of stress with each tender kiss you'd pepper his face with or melt the pain away under your light touches in all the right places. And when you couldn't calm his stress, you let him express it on you. Allowing him to take what he needed until the only thing that could cross his mind was your name.
Tonight was one of those nights he had no time for talk, all thoughts of sweet love were out the window. Tonight all he needed was to violently pound you into the mattress watching his huge cock split you open until he couldn't even grasp the memory of today.
He stormed into your bedroom, face stone and breath rugged. His lustful eyes once a bright blue now completely dark like blackened clouds before a storm. The door slamming behind him as he prowled over to the bed shot your gaze up from your phone interrupting the mindless hours of scrolling. When you see he's came home your face lights up "Hey baby!" you beam smiling up at him. Your smile falters quickly when your gaze meets his. You've seen this look worn on his face many times, he doesn't want to talk. He just needs you.
He clenches his jaw, the muscle twitching slightly as he speaks through gritted teeth "clothes. off. now" he demands, beginning to rip his own shirt from over his head. His defined chest glistening with a thin layer of sweat built up from his no doubt exhausting day, the warm glow from the bedside table lamp illuminating his body in all the right ways, orange rays catching each bulging muscle. You do as he instructs, starting to pull the oversized t-shirt over your head when you're caught off guard by a firm grip to your ankles, ripping your body closer to the edge of the bed where he stood.
"Too slow" he mumbled, digging his thick digits into the waistband of your panties and ripping them from your skin. The tearing sound echoing off the walls accompanied by the loud gasp leaving your lungs. "You're gonna shut the fuck up and take it all tonight" he grunted, staring you down with intensity, the look in his eyes telling you everything you need to know without him having to vocalise just how he wants you tonight.
His eyes linger over your naked body flat on your back with your legs around his waist, nipples perked up from the chill in the air. Between your legs there's already a glisten to your pussy, you've been wet from the second you saw the lustful expression on his face. Eyes glossed over with goosebumps visible all over your soft skin, shivering in anticipation for what's about to come.
This pulls a dark, sinister smirk across his lips. Thumb dragging roughly across your clit before lowering his head to spit on your needy hole. "Fuckkkkk" he moans watching the thin line of saliva drip down your cunt before ramming two thick fingers into you making you squeal out. "B-BUC-KY" you scream out only to be met with a harsh slap to your pussy with his metal hand, the cold hard contact sending a wave of pain and pleasure washing over your whole body. "Who said you could fuckin' speak, huh?" he growled withdrawing his fingers from you, you almost whine at the sudden emptiness but you know better than to make another noise without permission.
"Get that fuckin' ass up" he barked, manhandling you roughly onto all fours, gripping the strands of hair from your scalp in a large handful and tugging backwards forcing you to arch your back just the way he wanted. You felt him position himself behind you, expecting the usual slow stretching you're accustomed to. On a usual night, Bucky would spend hours preparing you to take his sheer size. He's long and thick, veins bulging from base to flushed red tip. Its always slightly painful to be stretched out by such a fat, throbbing cock but he always prepared you. Would always work you open nice and slow. But not tonight.
He slammed his whole length into you, a scream ripping from your lungs as he snapped his hips against you. You could hear him chuckle darkly from behind you when your body jolted forward instinctively trying to escape the aggressive pounding to your sensitive pussy, your walls struggling with the sudden stretch around him. He just gripped your hips firmly, pulling you back with a harsh tug driving himself even deeper than before. Your hand clasped against your mouth, a weak attempt to stifle your guttural moans. "I said. fucking. take it."
Tears begin rolling down your cheek as he started as he meant to continue, hard, deep and fast. He took his big palm to your face pushing it roughly against the pillow and watching the wet patch from from the waterfall of tears dripping from your eyes down your cheeks. "that hurt baby?" he cooed mockingly delivering a particularly harsh thrust that bullied up against your cervix. "y-yYES!" you yelped out a high pitch scream "h-hur-t-s Bu-ck-y". He chuckles darkly again, his pace not easing up in the slightest, his hand pushing your face to the pillow stroking his thumb lovingly across your cheek. "hurts yeah? I don't care. Fucking take it" he grunts low and sinister "bite down and tell the fuckin' pillow how much it hurts" he hissed.
You take the white cotton in between your teeth, biting down to stifle your screams but they're still punched from your lungs. Every thrust knocking another yelp from your spent body as Bucky just grips you, sliding you on his cock over and over again at a punishing pace. Using your pussy to release all his pent up rage, grunting animalistic and dripping sweat all over your back. Ignoring all your cries and screams into the pillow- in fact if anything they turned him on more.
"Such a good little fuck doll for me aren't you baby?" you can't even answer, your eyes rolling back into your skull and high pitched moans rolling off your tongue. "so fuckin' pretty when I've fucked you stupid, you know that?" His fingers find your clit rubbing harshly the sensitive nerve feeling you clench instantly at the sensation. "You gonna cum baby?" he spat as he rubbed "don't even care if you do just gonna use this tight fuckin' hole to get myself off, fill you up real fuckin' nice" You yelped out again, your stomach growing that familiar feeling of closeness, but somehow more intense than ever before.
"B-Buc-k I-I'm" a rough slap to your ass shuts you up "-fu-fuck I know baby" he stutters, his pace getting even harsher as he chased his own high. The fast drag of his pulsating cock in your pussy and his rough fingers tormenting your sensitive clit caused a sensation so intense to well up inside you, like a rubber band being stretched as far as it could possibly go. And then it snapped.
A quick gush of liquid raining out of your abused hole soaking the sheets below, every nerve in your body overstimulated and buzzing. Bucky stills for a moment, admiring the mess you've just created- a mess he'd never seen you make before. Then he flipped you over, hovering above you and squishing your cheeks in his big hand as his lips engulfed yours. "You just fuckin' squirted baby, you know how fuckin' hot that is, huh?" he grinned in between sloppy kisses "fuckkkk". He wasted no time sliding back into you, groaning out at how wet you were now, coating his cock in your squirt.
His pace was just as brutal as before but growing less precise as he grew close. Gripping your cheeks again he commanded "open", smirking as you looked back up at him with dazed eyes and a waiting mouth. He harshly spat down your throat, demanding you swallow and landing a stinging slap to the side of your face, hard enough you were sure you'd have a red handprint across your cheek in the aftermath. You feel like a ragdoll, completely fucked out as he snapped into you over and over again until you felt his fat cock pulsate, spilling hot cum deep into you dragging your final moan from your lips.
He rolls off you, sweating and gasping for breath. "Fuck baby, thank you I really needed that" he whispered, his tone a direct contrast to the punishing growl from his mouth less than a moment ago. "you okay baby?" he asked, kissing your forehead and pulling you into his strong arms. "More than okay" you smiled back at him, wrapping your arms around him and kissing him softly.
Regardless of the aftermath of bruises, a swollen, sore pussy and flashbacks to how it happened every time you sit down for the next three days- you will always take everything he gives you. And you wouldn't have it any other way.
