Now imagine sand tiger shark!reader who's always been afraid to smile around people, right?
Multiple rows of sharp, pointy teeth fill your mouth. The kind that has people grimacing and taking a step back. Usually you wear a mask in public, no one really questions it, but now you're with the 141 and they insist on group meals.
You try to keep to yourself, head ducked down and taking tiny bites of steak to avoid anyone noticing.
"Fuckin' hell, look at that–" only for ghost to grab your face across the table and tilt it up. Face completely expressionless while he shoves a thumb under your lips to expose your teeth "freaky shit, innit. Garrick, look–"
"Woah. Man." Kyle leans over ghosts shoulder and makes no move to save you from the humiliation. "That's fucking hot."
What.
You've never heard your teeth of all things described in any way as attractive.
"Mh, sharp, too." Ghost adds, other hand coming up to pry your mouth open fully. He tilts your head this way and that, manhandling. "Bet it feels damn good on skin."
Gaz snorts, reaches forward over ghost to prod at your teeth too "yeah, maybe to you, freak. Bet you'd love a blowie from that."
"You'd pay to see it." Ghost shoots back. You have no idea if that's a good or bad thing. Ghost looks you in the eye for a moment "think you could handle tha' without taking my dick off?"
Mostly it's impossible to think about anything besides your burning face and the fingers still in your mouth. Fuck, you've always enjoyed some manhandling, but the whole talking over you is really doing it. You can't help but imagine yourself between them, doing exactly what they want, maybe even biting if ghost asks—
"Bloody hell, can you two be normal for once? Leave the kid alone." Price grunts from down the table.
Oh shit. Yeah. Public space, middle of lunch.
Kyle sits back in his own chair with a grumble, and ghost takes his hand out of your mouth only to lick the gathered saliva off—
"Simon. I mean it."
"Sir." Ghost nods, smug as hell. He returns to his meal and leaves your face flushed down to your chest.
Seems like he's decided what he wants for dinner tonight.
Visiting your friend, sleeping on her couch and feeling a series of touches that drive you insane. Fingers trailing up your legs, kisses to your skin that are only explainable by the fact you must have fallen asleep. So why not enjoy it?
The touch gains confidence; a push of your thighs spreads your legs and you feel the unmistakable pressure of a cock rub against your clit. You softly moan through a disbelieving laugh—even if it was a dream, it was hard to think your brain had come up with this scenario.
It’s only when your imagination pushes further, stretching you more than you anticipated and a louder moan escapes you. You find yourself hoping your sleeping figure, in the lounge directly outside your friend’s bedroom, doesn’t imitate the sound and alert her to the story unfolding in your slumber.
It’s almost too much. Almost. Your legs are locked around a torso you can’t see; you can feel every inch of the dick forcing itself deeper into your cunt. Gripping at the blanket you’d been offered and throwing your head back, you bite your lip until you draw blood trying to keep the sounds somewhat at bay as your ghostly imagination finally reaches as far as he can.
You’ve never felt so full.
Each drag of his cock sends shivers throughout your body; you’re rocked back and forth as the slow, careful thrusting turns into a forceful, frantic fucking that leaves you unable to hold back. The noises fall from you mindlessly, you reach for whatever is doing this to you but you feel nothing. Whatever is touching you, squeezing at the skin of your thighs as it manhandles you until one leg is thrown over the backrest of the seat and the other is pushed close to your chest until the tip of its cock hits impossibly deeper in your cunt, cannot be touched back.
Tears brim in your eyes. It’s painful, it’s intoxicating, it’s peeling every desperate shout from your mouth as you allow yourself a few moments to fall into your delirium, an ache in your abdomen inching closer and closer to a release your body tensed, trembled and twitched under the pressure of the best fuck of your life—that would never be delivered if not for your dreamland.
You cum with one last cry, louder than you’d anticipated, almost definitely leaking through your sleeping self. Clenching around this invisible dick, gushing around it in a way you’ve never done before. Left almost brainless and moldable, he doesn’t stop.
Of course the impossibility of it all had you believing this was all a dream but, unbeknownst to you, you’re relentless ravishing had not only been real but gained the attention of the very friend you were worried about disturbing.
Thinking you were silent outside of mind, you had woken her just in time for her to open her bedroom door to see the way your body jolted with every rough thrust of her lover’s hips; the curl of your toes that hung limply over the back of the couch while her beloved ghost fucked every spot inside of you that she knew had you seeing stars. She listened to every choked beg, every pleading gasp, the string of desperate little ah ah ahs that she was more than familiar with.
Maybe she should be jealous. Maybe she should find some sort of anger after her visitor chose you over her—who had dressed in her best lingerie in hopes he’d rip it from her body. But, instead, she simply hopes he’ll make his way to her after and thank her for the fresh body he could ravage.
And, the next morning, when she smiles softly at you and asks how your night was, she hopes to see that dazed look in your eyes as you sigh and breath out a ‘it was unbelievable’ she hopes you’ll come back for more. She hopes she’ll get to join in next time; she’ll see your cunt take her ghost’s cock as he takes you more feverishly than the night before. You’ve taken him once, you’ll be ready.
And so what if the fear of a real ghost changes how you react? That’s what she wants to see.
—summary: The summer heat has you slipping between sleep and reality. Something not-so corporeal helps you cool off.
—warnings: ghost x human, monsterfucking, piv sex, mirror sex (technically), creampie, dubcon/somnophilia.
—word count: 1,3k
—a/n: no thoughts just horny. also on AO3
The best thing about living alone, you’ve come to realize, is the privacy. You’re free to do whatever: take your time in the bathroom in the morning or whenever you want, spend an eternity soaking in the claw-footed tub this house came with, walk around your home in the skimpiest clothing imaginable (not only does it help to beat the summer heat, it also (technically) leaves you less laundry to do), splay out on your king-sized bed in a starfish position, limbs akimbo, drag the full-length mirror in your bedroom in front of your bed and stare at the way any dildos you own get swallowed up by your greedy cunt.
No point in wondering why the last owner was in such a rush to get rid of it; so much so that he accepted well below market price for a freshly renovated, fully-furnished house with a moderate backyard in a relatively safe neighborhood.
The longer this heatwave lasts, the skimpier your clothes get. There’s barely any fabric to cling to your constantly sweat-slick skin by this point, just a tiny skirt hiked so far up your bare skin touches the wooden chairs when you sit and a shirt that’s more spaghetti straps than torso. The huge, double-door fridge is a reprieve, cool air billowing out and caressing your heated skin. It almost feels like a genuine caress, like someone’s cool hands sliding down your body.
Seriously, you need to get out of the house and meet people instead of fantasizing about the cool touch of your fridge. But the outside is infinitely hotter than the inside.
You kick the bedsheet away from your body, grumbling at the lingering day heat. You’d stripped the sheet from the duvet the moment spring chill had plunged into summer heat and stuffed the latter into the closet until fall. Even then, you tend to wake up without the sheet in the morning, finding it crumbled on the floor. Yesterday was another sweltering day. It has left the air stuffy and the fans only push the warm, stale heat around without providing any relief. You unplug them in a fit of frustration and cringe at the feeling of moisture when you lay against your pillow again.
Sleep doesn’t completely evade you but you’re not fully asleep, either. You think so, at least. There are moments of brief blackouts, where you open your eyes and turn to look at the time only to find not even an hour has passed. Your eyelids feel heavy.
Then, there are the hands on your body. Caressing, petting, groping. They’ve been there for some time now, just touching, feeling. They’re not cold, just cool enough to feel pleasant against your heated skin and inject some relief into your sluggish thoughts of sun and heat. A sigh escapes your lips at the sensation. Fingertips trance the expanse of your skin, draw constellations between your moles and freckles. The other hand moves to rest on your breast. It kneads the soft flesh, gently pinches your nipple between its fingers, runs a thumb over it.
You inhale sharply, heart thrumming in your chest, pressing your thighs together. It does little to quell the desire for friction, or touch. The hand tracing its fingertips down your body reaches your hip, then skirts across your flesh to rest on the inside of your thigh. You blink languidly; the heat is stifling, your head feels thick.
Cool fingers dip between your legs, press against your clit like — like they’re what? Testing the waters. You stifle the half-baked moan in the back of your throat.
The hands leave you all at once and you croak out a sound that doesn’t even sound like you, desperate and needy. They’re back not even a moment later, though, heavy on your hips as if they’re trying to guide you. You reach for a pillow and prop it under yourself. It’s a nice dream, you don’t need it to end because it forces you into an uncomfortable position that drives home the realization that it’s a dream. Because then you’ll wake up, alone again.
Something thick and heavy rests on your pelvis. Maybe this makes you a bad sex partner in this brief dream but you don’t want to reach out and touch it, guide it. If it’s your dream, your partner should know the where and how. The cool hands planted firmly on your hips pull you forward just slightly and the weight from your pelvis disappears. It rests against your entrance, but doesn’t push forward just yet. One hand leaves you and the tip of its cock drags through your slick folds, bumps against your clit.
“Please,” you croak, staring at the ceiling. Your throat is dry.
The stranger’s cock angles itself against your entrance and pushes in carefully. You take a slow, deep breath in, try to relax around the pleasant intrusion. The hands — under your knees now, guiding your legs apart. A body presses against your thighs. Whoever it is, stops, pauses for a moment. You clench around the cock buried in your cunt. A cold, shuddering breath hits you. Goosebumps rise on your skin. The hands push your knees further apart until there’s an ache in your muscles, and then they depart, one finding a spot on your waist, the other your breast.
It moves, then. The cock nestled deep within you sharply pulls back and thrusts in again. You scramble for anchor, to grab onto something but all you come up with is sheet that tugs loose. Their pace is dizzying, thighs slapping against yours, cock plunging into your wet cunt. The sound is so wet and lewd and goddamned loud in the still silence of your home. You go to stifle the half-moan half-groan in your throat but— wait, it’s your house, your dream, who gives a fuck about the neighbors? The cock in your cunt pulls nearly all the way out and thrusts in again and hits that spot, so good, dragging against your slick walls and you swear you feel every groove and dip, every goddamn vein. Your moan slips out involuntarily, and whoever it is here with you, seems invigorated.
The hand on your breast leaves, a forearm rests around your thigh, pulling it up and — fuck, their cock drives in so incredibly deep you nearly choke on your own spit. You scramble upwards, resting your weight on your elbows to look at your partner —
There’s no one there. Your bedroom is empty. But there’s a hand on your torso, cool fingers digging into your flesh and a forearm supporting your thigh and the shape of someone’s shoulder against your Achilles’ tendon. There’s a cock plunging into your cunt and you hear someone’s labored breathing.
The full-length mirror skids across the laminated floor and stops in front of your bed. Something invisible is thrusting into your pussy, gaping back at you in the reflection. Your face burns — your whole body burns. You can’t look away from the debauchery staring back at you. Whoever — whatever — it is, thrusts harshly, cold hands pulling you against their body. Your thighs are wet and sticky, slamming against theirs, your hole gaping back at you, being abused by something you can’t see. It sends you hurtling over the edge.
You come around the phantom cock with something reminiscent of a shriek and a moan and terror and pleasure all combined. Your cunt clenches around the thing your muscles sore and sweat beading on your skin. The cock plunges into you again and again and again and you blink back the tears and the fear and the overwhelming pleasure. The fingers on your body dig into your flesh and the cock nestled in you buries deep, thighs pressing against your own, and spills. It’s so warm, so pleasant. The mirror skids closer, right until it touches the edge of the bed.
Your cunt is forced wide open. Stuffed. The pearlescent cum coats your walls, oozes out from inside you, dribbles onto your bedsheets. The cock in you stays there but the body moves.
A small fogged patch, like warm breath, appears on the mirror, and then, letters.
you don’t know why you thought simon would be a cocky fuck.
maybe it was how cool and collected he always was. that hot, quiet confidence.
if only you knew when you’d finally got him into bed. ready for him to be rough, to be a little mean, not that you’d mind.
in reality, he was whining into your neck as he pumped into you at a primal speed. whispering and mumbling half words into your throat as he groped you anywhere he could. his eyes were rolled and he was drooling on your collarbone.
“o-oh.. oh, fuck- nghhhuhh… yyeah?.. awww… my baby.. gonna fill y-you… mhm…”
sweet little brain-numb nothings falling of the tongue of the smartest, coldest man you know.
and you could’ve cum just from the sight when he lifted his head and started actually panting and pathetically stuttering his hips against yours like a mutt.
summary: this man has a breeding kink , ur always preggo and others notice
tags: 18+ , MDNI , breeding kink , pregnancy
a/n: LAWD THAT PIC OF HIM HAS ME GOING INSANE . i swear i typed this with 2 hands
theme: all mine .
The marui was quiet except for the sound of waves outside and your soft gasps.
Tonowari had you on your back, legs hooked over his forearms, hips already flush against yours. He didn’t rush tonight. He never did when he wanted to feel every thick inch sink in slow.
"Another one," he murmured low against your throat, voice rough. "I want to see you round again. Swollen with my child."
You moaned, fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders. "I'm barely done raising the last one…"
"Good." He rolled his hips deeper, deliberate, letting his cock drag along every sensitive ridge inside you. "Means your body knows how to take me. Knows how to grow them."
He liked saying it out loud. Liked the way your slick walls fluttered and squeezed every time he talked about filling you up. His breeding talk always made you drip, always made you clench so hard he had to bite back a groan.
He pulled back just enough to watch his thick length slide out, shiny with your wetness, veins standing out, then pushed back in to the hilt. Slow. Heavy. Making sure you felt the fat head nudge your cervix, the stretch burning sweet.
"You're still so tight," he growled. "Even after all these babies. Still gripping me like you’re starving for my seed."
Your head tipped back. "Tonowari-"
“What is it?” He cooed, slowing his pace just to tease you. "You don’t want another one?" His shallow short thrusts turned into slow deep ones, grinding the base against your clit each time. He liked seeing you squirm for your release.
You whined, hips trying to chase him, but he held you pinned with that easy strength.
"I asked you a question," he said, lips brushing your ear. "Do you not want it? Or you want me to breed you full again?"
Your nails scraped down his back. "Yes-Eywa, yes. Please."
Tonowari groaned low in his chest and finally gave you what you both needed. His hips snapped forward, burying every thick inch to the root over and over. The wet, obscene slap of skin on skin echoed louder than ever, your slick coating his balls with every thrust.
He hooked your legs higher, spreading you wide so he could grind right against that swollen spot that made your toes curl and your eyes roll.
"Look at you," he rasped, eyes locked on where your pussy stretched around his girth, lips puffy and glistening. "So perfect. Made for this. Made to carry my seed."
You were trembling already, so close from the slow build-up. Every brutal thrust punched the air out of your lungs.
"Gonna-gonna come," you gasped.
"Not yet." His hand slid between you, thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing firm, relentless circles. "Come when I fill you. When you feel me spill deep."
His command made you fall over the edge.
You shattered around him with a broken cry, walls spasming hard, milking his cock in tight, greedy pulses. Tonowari cursed under his breath, thrusts turning erratic and sloppy. He pressed his palm flat over your belly again, like he could already feel the life he was about to force inside.
"Take it," he growled. "All of it."
He came with a rough shudder, hips locked tight against yours as his cock throbbed and pulsed, flooding you with thick, hot spurts. You felt every heavy rope coat your walls, felt the warmth spread deep. He kept grinding in slow, filthy circles, working his cum even deeper, making sure nothing escaped.
He didn't pull out for a long minute. Just stayed buried to the hilt, breathing hard against your neck, one hand still cradling the flat plane of your stomach.
"Stay still," he murmured. "Let it take."
You laughed weakly. "You say that every time."
"And it works every time." He kissed the corner of your mouth, smug. "Doesn't it?"
Sure enough, after a few long months, your stomach has shown a plump swell. Proof of his work done good.
You walked slower to the water now, hand resting low on the round swell that pushed against your top. No hiding it anymore. The curve was clear, proud.
The aunties smiled soft when you passed. One reached out, brushed gentle fingers over the bump like it was sacred. "Another strong one,” she whispered. "Does he not keep his hand off you?"
A blush crept up your neck, and you wanted the sand to swallow you. "Ah-well you know!" You said too fast, clearly flustered.
Whispers spread like ripples. Another baby. Again. The Olo'eyktan's mate, always carrying. Tsireya giggled at the remarks. Aonung looked like he wanted to hurl.
"He keeps you full," an elder said to you, voice quiet but warm. "The clan is blessed."
You ducked your head, smiling shyly. "As am I."
"Good." She touched your arm. "A chief needs heirs. And you… you wear it well."
That night Tonowari found you in the marui, moonlight spilling through the weave.
He knelt behind you without a word. Big hands slid under your top, palms spreading wide over the swell. He pressed his lips to the back of your neck.
"Look at you," he murmured, thumbs tracing slow circles. "Carrying my child again. So beautiful."
You leaned into him, breath catching when his fingers dipped lower, teasing.
"Still sensitive?" he asked, voice low.
"Always," you whispered.
He chuckled, dark and pleased, and turned you carefully onto the mats.
He settled between your thighs, careful now, mindful of the bump. But his eyes burned the same.
"Gonna keep you like this forever," he said, sliding in slow, deep. "Round. Full of me."
You gasped, hands finding his shoulders.
He moved gentle this time. Long, rolling thrusts.
"Mine," he breathed against your skin, kissing the stretch marks like promises. "All mine."
Omg your Mattsun work just killed me 😫😫 your writing is amazing!!! I need a part 2 to see what will happen next? Does he actually like usss??
you're too sweet for mattsun p.2
thank you!!!!! this part two is a pretty wild idea i had, but i feel like it works. lmk what yall think :,) or if im just insane?
warnings. nsfw themes, explicit profession, minors DNI
details. fem!reader / angsty, sexy feel / college!au / jealous!mattsun / revenge trope / dancer!reader / complicated feelings / grinding / PDA / flirting / heavy petting / tohru oikawa is a hopeless bottom and hajime iwa is an overthinking virgin / 2.8k words / part one here. next part here.
links. my masterlist. my ao3. more haikyuu. shorter imagines
You were grateful that you didn't have Matsukawa's number.
He couldn't call, or text, to ask where you were for the next week of classes.
When you considered it for longer than a second, you figured that he wouldn't have done it anyway, but the delusion of forced space helped to make you feel less exploited.
He had no way of knowing that he was keeping you up and at that early class. You couldn't brave the walk by yourself. Knowing things would be different, you opted to take your free absences without hesitation.
"First call for booth 6. Sugar! They're yours," Your supervisor called from the entrance of the dressing room.
On the bright side, not attending your morning class gave you more time to rest for your part-time job.
You were typically stacked in the earlier hours of the night, so your call fit right in with the last of your mascara. College-aged guys, your smaller, cheaper demographic, weren't out as late as the regulars. The other girls were still lounging before they had to commit to getting done-up.
"Dunno how you do it, Sug'," Star chuckled at your little stumble as you fixed a heel strap, "You're always good to go at first-call."
She looked you over, nonjudgmental, but strict. She was the one to train you a few months ago and now she had taken the role of a mentor.
School didn't pay for itself.
This was the nicest gig around-- the older girls let you know that little fact right away; how lucky you were, how good you had it. You weren't a transfer, like many of them. Just a newbie with a short contract.
You grinned at the praise, eyes shining at her approval as she walked back to the couches.
The night hadn't kicked off yet, so you gave a quick check to the security cameras before you stepped onto the floor. It was a good, safe habit you had picked up.
Booth 6 had five customers. The one in the center was a very familiar face.
"Oh my gosh--," Your breath left you and did not return, "Ohhh- nonono, no..."
Work was a different world. Your world. He was not allowed to be here. He was allowed to be on campus - that's it.
"What is it?" Somebody called from the lounge.
"I- I know that guy," You called back, your worry now sounding ridiculous in your own ears when you said it out loud.
"Uh-ohhh! Ha-haaha--,"
"So what? I know half the guys that come in here."
Star came back, the only one who cared, but even as you pointed his face out to her, you knew there was no getting out of this. None of the other girls worked for undergraduate-level cash.
"Ex-boyfriend? What's the big deal?" She tilted her head at you.
"I know it sounds dumb," You winced, "But I had? Have? A huge crush on that dude, and he-- well..."
The dressing room was suspiciously quiet. Many ears were open, mouths were closed.
"He basically laughed at me and said I was 'too nice.'"
From the couch, shouts and screams ensued:
"What?!" Shared by many.
And, "He laughed at you?" Was the chief reason for concern.
Your quiet words had sparked a complete outrage, surprising you, because you weren't close with many other dancers besides the sparse few. It seemed rejection was a great rallier.
Another blunt warning from the door, "Ladies! We need a girl at booth 6 right now."
"Shut the fuck up, they can wait ONE minute."
"We're workin' on it- send a bottle girl, dumbass!"
Second-calls usually didn't spur a strong response, but this was an occasion.
Once again, you had to point out Matsukawa on the screen, and listen to a flurry of insults and mean-spirited jokes about him. Some were funny, but none of them made you feel good.
Star stood next to you, less impressed by your situation, patient and unfazed by the collective energy. But she saw how you still didn't feel supported. There was less anger on you than what would've been satisfying.
"He goes to school with you?" She asked, under the voices. The other girls were tearing into his outfit, pointing at him on the screen.
"He's in my history class."
There was a feint softening in her hard features, "When did this happen?"
You sighed, realizing you had wasted an entire week in your feelings, "Monday."
"And you haven't seen him since, right?"
You squinted at her tone, how it sounded crafty and light, and nodded.
"Here," She placed a hand on the back of your shoulders, "Come with me."
At first, you were scared she'd waltz you right out there and do something rash, but she stopped short at the door. It was to get away from the chatter. You could hear the music and feel the bass in your heels from the main floor.
You liked your job, as secretive as you were about it. It was fun, better than working fast food, or retail. Kept you feeling confident and active.
"If you let that boy intimidate you, in your element, when you're on that stage-- that makes you a joke. You might as well be working for the circus."
She stared forward, but you watched her, captivated.
"You like to dance, yeah?"
You nodded, enthusiastic, but still a little worried, "Y-eah."
"You still like him?"
A missed beat. You looked at the ground, then forward, then decided, "Yeah, I do."
"Then what's so scary about it?" She shrugged, "It's already different. He's here for a show. Go give'm one."
Star didn't linger to hear you out, to let you think on it, or argue. She just opened the door for you and trusted you could take something out the pep talk.
The lights were blinding, but only for a moment. Only for as long as it took to catch your breath, get yourself hyped, and into your work mindset.
Your song was on, and while you didn't necessarily believe it was fate, it was a little something extra to be profoundly grateful for.
You were grinning, and this time, it didn't fade as you rounded the back of the booth to say hello.
"Ooooohhhh my- god, wowwww..."
A pretty brunette sat at the corner, first to see you, quick to make you feel welcome.
"Hi there," You giggled at the way he sat forward for you.
The rest of them were an impressive pull of good-looking guys. Athletes, for sure. And tall, even sitting down. Matsukawa blended in so well that you were shocked you hadn't entertained the idea that he might have been on a team. He never talked about it, at least.
They had all been rowdy before you came around. Now, they were collectively slack-jawed, expectant but clearly new here, and getting their gluttonous fill of your tiny outfit.
You ran your hand through his extra-soft looking hair and didn't come up disappointed.
"What's your name?" You smiled down at him, picking his chin up from hip-level.
"Tohru," He breathed- a hitch on his exhale when you let him go with a light shove.
You held your hand out for the next one, "And you are?"
He had darker, spikier hair, close on the sides. He didn't meet your eyes, not once, and he practically whispered when he found his wits enough to take your hand, "Yutaro."
Poor little Yutaro stared at his palm after you let go, moving past Matsukawa entirely, to the fourth of their gang.
They all roared with laughter at your disinterest in their middleman. It gave you the feeling that none of them knew-- which was so much better than the alternative you'd replayed in your head. Maybe you weren't the only person Matsukawa didn't tell things to.
"Hajime," The strongest, most reliable looking one greeted you- too careful to look at only your face.
And, finally, Takahiro.
"I thought we weren't supposed to touch you?" He asked, an innocent enough tone through his words.
You flicked your wrist back before he could shake it, leaving him shocked and despondent, and turned on your heel to sit on your private stage.
"You're sooo right about that," You winked, a fake pout on your face as you lifted your legs up to turn around, rest your head on the panelling to watch him upside-down, "That was your only chance."
Generally, you didn't do much but flirt and laze around before you had an idea of what they were here for, how much they would pay you, what they liked the best. You enjoyed this position, heels kicking in the air, hands roaming the robust, cut-out straps on your body.
They all sat forward on their elbows -except for Matsukawa-, and though they were not right-side up, the view was immaculate.
"What are we supposed to call you?" Oikawa, the furthest away, sat on the edge of his seat.
You raised your brow, "Ohh, the bottle girl didn't tell you?"
Usually, that was part of their job to introduce you- but it must've gotten mixed up, or she caught wind of a potential switch.
Some very dumb, hesitant head shakes gave you a good laugh as you sat up smooth, rolling intentionally slow onto your tummy. You rested your chin on your knuckles.
It played out so well that you found yourself plumb in front of Matsukawa.
"Sugar -- because I'm so sweet."
The rest of his group loved it, repeating you, whistling-- he looked down at you, unimpressed, with an vague expression. You must have missed the initial and satisfying shock by entertaining the other company first.
Matsukawa bit the inside of his cheek, nostrils flared, eyes heavy-lidded as he leaned gradually forward like the rest of his friends.
His eyes were busy, but motionless, and dead-on yours. It could have been the turmoil of frustration. It could have been a heavy hurt. Maybe even a struggle of lust somewhere, or could he have missed you?
"Y'hear that, Iwa? Sugar," Tohru took a swig of his drink, then reached for his pocket.
He presented you with a generous few wads of cash.
It was a great way to break your concentration-- your eyes shined, flipping through the bills, listening attentively to his tipsy spiel.
"--Anyway, it's Iwa's birthday," He pointed to Hajime, "And we want him to have fun-- what will that get us?"
Fun. Birthday. You had danced plenty of times for occasions like that, for far less.
It was so much easier than you had built it up to be, upon first glance at the situation. You loved watching Matsukawa watch you. He didn't whistle, didn't say anything -even as his friends got drunker and bolder-, but he never looked away.
There was a long time that you expected him to get up and walk out the door because of how deep and still his frown was, practically carved onto his face. It never happened.
You were quick to learn that he was affectionately referred to as Mattsun.
"Can you do the splits?" Yutaro shook off the sting of a shot, wincing up at you.
You accepted a $50 and slid right into one. You had to laugh at how easy they were to impress.
"You think I would've gotten this job if I couldn't?" You joked, soaking in their playful cheers, the smell of fresh bills, the heavy aura you felt three feet away.
It was getting hard to look past him.
Sure, he had been picked on in the back for his 'unoriginal' style, but the other dancers were a tough crowd.
His dark shirt fit him well. He had on a nice leather jacket earlier for the rain, but it had been at his side for a while. His pants were a thick, expensive material, and not dissimilar to the ones he liked to wear around campus.
Despite his seemingly intentional stoicism, he was accepting any and all drinks that came his way. It was how his buddies were trying to 'cheer him up.'
So, you swung your legs back to the side, stood, and finally decided to get personal.
You straddled Matsukawa.
"Did you miss me?" You purred.
His jaw got tighter, his brow set in a struggle, nearly pained. He sat up straight and tall to meet you. He didn't touch, but he took his time looking at you up close, absorbed and broody.
"Is that a joke?" He admired you in an obvious, staggeringly pensive way. Like he could handle you.
You felt yourself blushing, despite dancing on him.
He didn't waste a second, but never rushed to speak, and didn't stutter, as you held his arms behind his head, "I'm not the one who's been ditching class."
Maybe you should have thought longer for a better opener.
You put a tiny bit of your weight on his lap as you moved.
It was a bratty, petty maneuver, because you couldn't argue with him. Not with the heat of his body so close to yours, not with his friends watching and hollering, not with how drunk you were on his calculated taste of attention.
And there it was, what you really wanted; his soft flinch.
One that brought his eyes down, interrupted his breathing, spurred the twitch of those strong arms under your too-loose grasp.
His head rolled in a somber, self-aware manner, thick neck flexing with a throaty and closed-mouthed groan.
"That's what I thought," You tried to spit it out like acid, but it sounded kinder with your uncontrollable giggle breaking in halfway through.
When you let his arms go, he kept them behind his head.
From here, you pulled that gold chain out from under his tight collar and fixed it, gentle, with a sigh.
You stared at the glimmer. He stared at how the lights danced so well off of your pretty face. He missed seeing the sun on you.
"Gold isn't your color," You muttered and slid off of him.
They made the session fly by, and you were feeling pretty energized by the time the club was in full occupancy.
Tohru motioned for you to come closer. The volume of the place had grown too much to try and yell from the side of the booth. You slid off of the stage and onto the main floor to hear him out.
His breath was sharp and spicy, like he had been sucking on Listerine strips between strong shots.
"How'much for a private dance?"
You rolled your eyes and snorted. Nobody had requested that with you, before. Again, most of your customers could barely afford entry.
Once again, your hand found its way back into his super-soft locks, this time craning his head so you could whisper without the chance of him trying to kiss you:
"You can't afford it."
Tohru's warm face lingered at the down when you let go. He was pliable and a little sweaty-- a dangerously good look on him.
He groaned and slumped back against the booth, "It's not for meee!"
You smiled at him, intrigued, and once again sat on your stage as he ruffled through his pockets and adjusted himself.
"This couldn't get'a birthday dance?"
He must've had at least the rest of your tuition in his hands. What the fuck was this guy's job? Was he not a student? He was the only one paying in hundreds.
You laughed, astounded, and unable to mask the shock of seeing so much money in person.
"Yeah! Iwa!!"
"Let's gooo!!"
The only person to look less excited than Iwa was Matsukawa. Everybody else made up for their lack of enthusiasm. Though, with the birthday boy, you could sense it was more uncertainty, if anything. With your messy acquaintance, it was always going to be more complicated.
You held Iwa very lightly by the hand, leading him to the private rooms, where it was a little quieter, a bit dimmer.
He eased when you whispered in his ear to reassure him that nothing explicit was going to happen.
Of course, you wanted to throw one last look to Matsukawa, but it would've been too obvious.
Matsukawa, on the other hand, didn't much care about the perception of his emotions- nor had he, for most of the night. He was profoundly taken with you and wasn't trying to hide it. It was only convenient now that he had a difficult demeanor to dissect.
The two of you walked out of sight, bringing him to stand and crane his neck around, chest swelled with hurt and worry.
But he took one look at the guards in the back, cursed, and planted himself down onto his seat with his face in his hands.
:( truuust i wish i could write easier with my schedule now :((( this one is heavily inspired by hozier's 'too sweet". also for my pookie bear meg who inspired me to write for mattsun
warnings. none, sfw
info. fem!reader / fluffy-angsty / college au / unrequited?feelings / crushing on mattsun / stoic!mattsun / soft!mattsun / friendly, or flirting? / tasteful hand thirst / 1.7k words / part two here.
links. my masterlist. my ao3. more haikyuu. shorter imagines
"How'd'you sleep so damn well?"
Matsukawa's gruff greeting brought a lightning-fast smile to your face.
At this point, you didn't bother stifling how much you liked him. You were comfortable living with your crush, being contact-acquaintances for as long as you got to sit next to him, being friendly because it felt good, living off of his quiet questions.
You were quick to take the step back, hand clasped to hide your excited shiver, to lean onto his desk.
A sigh was your qualifier, more than ready to speak to him, "How do you mean?"
The way he lifted his head to meet your eyes told you enough about how much sleep he had gotten, last night. His eyes narrowed at the morning light, streaming in from the window behind you.
His deprived brain chugged hard to formulate a response, but he never looked away from your face to collect his thoughts. You leaned a little forward, smile just barely not a grin, as you enjoyed being under his subtle and steady stare.
Matsukawa was at least partial to you. It was in the slow, comfortable lean against you if you had to sit next to another at assemblies. His relaxed, slow gaze during lectures-- the kind that didn't let up even when you acknowledged him. It was hard to tell what was platonic, and what was the chance of returned feelings.
Either way, you were certain you liked him more than he liked you.
"Y'always come in- I dunno- soooo," He sucked in a sleepy breath through his teeth, shaking his head, "Peppy."
'Peppy' sounded a lot like 'pretty,' and you had a six second break to get your heartrate back under control when he finally looked away, to take a long sip of his hot, black coffee.
Three silver rings on his right hand. None on his left. Thumb, ring, and index fingers.
He had those strong, wide fingers that made you wonder if those were standard sizes. Silver was his color.
"Mm-," He set his cup down, "D'you chug a couple of energy drinks before you come in here, or what?"
Your smile popped right into a grin, then a shy laugh at him- you couldn't quite find your voice, or your words, so you shook your head. You loved when he asked about you, but could never quite find your courage to keep a conversation rolling.
"No?" He smiled at you. Something in his face- something about him made you think that he knew.
Your grin wouldn't go away. Again, you shook your head, and he chuckled with you, maybe at how you couldn't reply. It felt like you were bathing in tender affection.
That was, in a way, kind of the answer. Morning person or not, you found it a lot easier to get out of bed for a 9 a.m. history lecture when you knew there was going to be a handsome guy sitting next to you.
The professor came in, you sat down, and began to get your notes out, breathing deep to calm yourself.
He tapped silently on your desk-- your eyes trailed up his chiseled forearm, unable to ignore it, and up to his face.
"Y'still good for the library t'night?"
You nodded to dismiss him. You had to face forward and lean onto your knuckles to cover your sore jaw.
He smirked at you again and took his hand back, after a moment.
There was plenty you didn't know about Matsukawa yet. You were trying to savor him, if that made any sense, by not going to find out too much at once (other than a futile search for an Instagram profile that did not exist).
What you did know was limited to five minutes before class and your study sessions in the evenings, after you ran into one another both looking for a study room one day.
That was at the beginning of the semester, and now midterms were closing in. It was getting more important to keep your conversations as limited to course material as much as you could, but never had it been so tempting to stray from the usual pattern.
Matsukawa dropped his bag from his shoulder, softly closing the study room door behind him.
The room instantly felt seven times smaller.
"Hey," He nodded to you.
It was about 10 minutes after. He was never prompt, but had never been this late before. You made sure not to let the doubt show.
"Sorry, I got kinda- held up--," He pulled out his chair, quick to take his laptop, books, and notebook out, "There was some sorority booth out on the patio. Charity shit."
His chain, thin and gold, swung out of his lower cut shirt, and you wondered if he knew not to mix metals.
"Anybody cute?"
He snorted at that, shaking his head to dismiss the question.
"What-uh, what chapter are y'workin' on? 'Cause-," He flipped through the index to find the title of a chapter.
"I'd like 10, if I can do that one."
You were thankfully working on 9, but it felt unimportant. You narrowed your eyes at him.
"Really?" You remembered passing them earlier, too; All quite pretty, very friendly. You knew this was pushing your luck, but your curiosity was too strong, "None of them were cute?"
His confusion lightened up as he rolled his eyes at you and dipped to find a pen in his bag. He could not have been less interested in talking about them.
"Mmm, I dunno (Y/n)," He shrugged and pulled out a pen, testing it on the corner of his paper.
A simple, distracted, sigh, "Not exactly... my type."
That made you pause. Your brow raised as you tried to fight your giddy smile down and occupy yourself with Chapter 9.
You said very quietly, "I'm on 9. You can have 10."
Still preoccupied, clicking through the lecture presentations, "Perrrrfect."
Study rooms were nice, especially compared to the rest of the library floor. They were silent. No students walking right by you, no doors opening and closing, you didn't have to worry about setting your stuff down too loud.
Today, it did not help you feel more comfortable.
The question was the only thing you could hear, eating at you like acid- climbing up your body whether you wanted it to come out or not. It was completely his fault for giving you such an easy ask.
Of course, the only thing left to say was:
"So...what is your type?"
Matsukawa even smiled like he knew you'd ask it, too.
That lazy eyebrow raise, a couple clicks, and he started to write on his paper, "Can you give me some ideas?"
Dead silence. You didn't even breathe, praying that this wouldn't be a huge airball.
"Someone like me, I guess?"
Your ankles were crossed tight, shoes firm to the floor, nails that already happened to be touching skin were digging-- but your heart eased, and you felt like you were being lifted, as you watched his face lighten up.
He chuckled.
It was a rare sight, a rare sound, "Oh-h- sorry, you're way too sweet for me."
Then the pang, sharp as a church bell, struck you through the chest.
His words were worse than a plain rejection; it was a denial of your depth, your flaws, like he only understood your existence from a pedestal.
Too sweet? Wasn't it common to be nice to others? What did he want-- for you to treat him like dirt? Was all of that attention, the fondness and conversations, not considered flirting? It made you feel silly and unimportant for caring so much, if it was such a ridiculous idea to entertain for him.
The way he looked over at you, in the quiet of your nonresponse, felt like pity. The same mellow, attentive, warm look like always but now-- it brought you confusion, instead of pleasure and comfort.
"Hey," He tried, his handsome grin fading a quickly as it had come. He tilted his head to take more of you in, but came up short.
You deflated. Heavy but somehow emptier, unsure of where to look, how to hold yourself, where to even put your hands. You didn't realize until this point that you were working under the assumption that he had feelings for you, too.
"Hey?" He asked, again, painfully crackly, like the sound of a slow pick-up truck riding along wet gravel.
Your brow twitched. You couldn't act like you didn't hear him.
Matsukawa rarely faced you because there was hardly a reason for it. So, when he shifted to your side and pulled on your chair to sit in front of you head-on, you had to swallow the lump in your throat and bring yourself to at least meet his chin.
"I didn't mean to be hurtful," He lingered on every word carefully, and deliberated on the next phrase for many moments, "I was trying to be honest."
He knew that old proverb, 'You never know what you've got 'till it's gone,' to be quite true in many instances. Yet, he'd never experienced it personified before.
There was no smile on your jaw, nor your eyes, and it made you look vastly different. It made him feel a touch of panic, so he searched harder, trying to climb out of the hole he dug himself into.
Your tongue was pushing on the back of your teeth, lips pursed, straining to find a reason to linger. You could study in your dorm room.
"We're just so different, y'know," He was nudging at how you'd spoken about that before, "That doesn't mean I don't- like you."
His thumb was feather light, brushed barely against your forearm on the table.
You sucked in a breath and shifted away to gather your things. His pseudo-confession fell on deaf ears. It was the kind of sure motion that one couldn't stop. He could only watch and feel colder as a chill ran down from his shoulders, when he realized it was an intentional move to get away from him.
"I- think- umm," Speaking was difficult, so you kept it painfully short on your way out of the study room, "Yeah, I think you're r-ight."
Did he just kill the sun?
It sure felt like an apocalypse-level catastrophe. He wasn't sure how he was ever going to find the motivation to go to class on Wednesday, now.
Double Penetration w/ Matsukawa Issei and Iwaizumi Hajime
word count 2k
18+ mdni. fem!reader, smut, threesome, oral (f receiving), a dick was licked once, iwaizumi hajime (30) athletic trainer, sex (p in v, p in a), matsukawa’s horse cock, unprotected sex, pet names (baby, doll, love, pretty girl, greedy whore), written in 2nd pov
kinktober 2024 mlist can also read on ao3
You thought Iwaizumi would say no when you shyly admitted that you wanted to have a threesome. He was quite possessive, holding your waist tighter when another man looked at you or making a point of kissing you until you were breathless if someone made the mistake of flirting with you in front of him.
But no, he didn’t glare at you or immediately rejected the idea. He stared at you instead, slightly tilted his head as a smirk appeared on his lips, and responded with a simple okay.
So, that was it, until a couple of weeks later. He invited his friends for drinks, but unfortunately Makki couldn’t make it, so it was just Iwaizumi and Mattsun. You were in the kitchen sipping on wine to give the guys some privacy to talk when your boyfriend called you over. Iwaizumi pulled you down onto his lap as soon as you walked up to the loveseat, arms around you as he pressed his lips to your cheek.
“Remember what you told me a few weeks ago, baby?” He murmured against your skin, his lips moving down to your neck.
You had to think about it for a moment, your words had slipped from your mind since you thought Iwaizumi had agreed just to make you happy. Your eyes darted to the black haired man, who was watching you with half lidded eyes from the couch,
Iwaizumi’s lips moved over your pulse point and pressed a kiss to your skin. He chuckled when he realized your heartbeat was quickening. His hands moved to your thighs, fingers digging into your skin as he gently coaxed your legs open. “You can say no.” He whispered. “Just say the word and I’ll throw him out.”
But you didn't want to say no. Even though you were completely in love with your boyfriend, you weren’t blind, Mattsun had only gotten hotter as the years passed and you all grew older. If the rumors you heard from a friend were true, he had a huge dick. You had to admit that you had been curious about the man ever since. There had to be something seriously wrong with him if he had a third leg, was a pretty decent guy, and was still single.
You met his darkened gaze and his eyebrow raised. He glanced at the man behind you, as if taking your hesitation for rejection, then met your eyes again with his lips pressed into a thin line.
You leaned back against Iwaizumi’s chest and pushed your ass against his growing erection. The movement didn’t go unnoticed by Mattsun, who was now following your boyfriend’s hand as it reached for your cotton shorts.
Iwaizumi paused for a second, then cupped your pussy over the clothing, “Use your words, doll.”
You whined, grabbing his wrist to keep his hand in place. “I want him.”
“Yeah, you do.” He rubbed his fingers up and down, then redirected his touch to your tits as he cupped them over your, actually his, shirt. “Think you’re sly, staring at him when you think neither of us are looking? Is it because you’ve noticed his lingering stares?”
Your breathing had gotten heavier, but your eyes had never left Mattsun’s. He leaned back, raising his hips as he adjusted himself on the couch. The movement had his dick pressing against the front of his sweatpants and your mouth nearly watered at the outline. The asshole had to have done it on purpose, if the small grin on his lips was anything to go by.
“Look at you doing it again.” Iwaizumi tsked near your ear and slipped his hands under your shirt to cup your bare breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers.
Your back arched, pushing your tits against his hands. He grabbed them and squeezed almost painfully, making you moan softly. Your cheeks heated up in embarrassment.
“Such pretty sounds.” Mattsun spoke for the first time and your head fell back against the brunet’s shoulder before he grabbed your chin and forced you to look at his friend again.
“Just wait until you hear your name come from these pretty lips.” He brushed his thumb over your bottom lip. “Gonna let Mattsun eat your pussy, love?”
You nodded immediately, no hesitation in your response. Iwaizumi felt like he should be hurt by your eagerness, but instead he kept pressing his lips to your neck, your shoulders. He pushed your shorts down, you kicked them off once they were around your ankles.
“You got an eager one, Iwa.” He groaned softly as his brown eyes watched Iwaizumi’s fingers rub your clit over your panties. There was already a dark patch of your arousal wetting the fabric.
Your boyfriend shook his head. “Impatient, more like. She just can’t wait to have two cocks inside her.” He grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it up until you sat there with only your panties covering you.
Mattsun had moved onto his knees in front of you, glancing at Iwaizumi for permission even though he had given him the green light when you were in the kitchen. He reached for your panties to push them to the side and he slowly spread your folds, collecting your wetness with his fingertips. “No wonder you’re so smitten. Look at this pretty pussy.”
Iwaizumi reached down and pulled back the hood of your clit. You gasped softly when Mattsun immediately leaned forward to suck the sensitive nub into his mouth. The brunet’s hand on your abdomen kept you pinned in place as his friend flicked your clit with the tip of his tongue before moving down to your entrance.
Your back arched off your boyfriend’s chest as Mattsun’s tongue licked a stripe back up to your clit. Your hand darted to the back of his head and your fingers curled around his hair. He stayed still for a moment as you pushed your hips against his mouth, but then he grabbed your thighs and forced you to stop moving. His tongue slipped into your entrance, his nose nudging against your clit. He moaned against your cunt when your grip on his hair tightened.
You jumped when Iwaizumi’s hands found your tits again, squeezing them and circling the areola, avoiding your nipples. His cock was pressed against your ass, soft grunts leaving him when you moved your hips and unintentionally ground against him.
You could barely form a coherent sentence, the words just poured out of your mouth. “Close, I’m close, wanna– Can I–“ You cut yourself off with a gasp when Iwaizumi grabbed both your wrists in one hand and pinning them to your chest, to keep you from pulling Mattsun closer.
“It’s not me you have to ask for permission, baby.” He gestured to the man kneeling down between your legs, eating you out like it was his last meal.
You whined, growing embarrassed about begging Mattsun, who held onto your thighs tighter and started to lean back. The moment you couldn’t feel his tongue on your pussy anymore, the words started to come out.
“No, wait. Issei, please, can I–“ Your breath hitched when he met your eyes, fingers digging into your skin at the sound of his name. “Please, I wanna come on your tongue, feels so good on my pussy.”
He could’ve exploded in his pants right then and there. He probably would have, if he wasn’t using all his strength to think about the dead corpses he saw daily at the funeral home instead of your half lidded gaze and whiny tone.
He buried his face between your thighs again, this time pushing two fingers inside you, and with a flick of his tongue on your clit you were coming undone, writhing in their arms.
Once your body stopped twitching, Iwaizumi grabbed his wrist and brought his hand up to suck your wetness from his fingers. “We should move this to the bedroom, shouldn’t we?” He stated, more than asked.
You were taken from your boyfriend’s arms, Mattsun picked you up and carried you toward the bedroom. Iwaizumi slapped your ass with a chuckle when you passed by him. He stood up, slowly walking over to the bedroom, where Mattsun was already laying back with you on his lap, his pants and underwear discarded at the end of the bed.
Iwaizumi watched with parted lips as your fingers wrapped around the base of Mattsun’s cock. When you suggested a threesome, he immediately knew who you would agree to allow in your bed that he would feel comfortable sharing you with. He didn’t expect it would be this hot to watch his high school friend with his girlfriend.
Your head fell back when the black haired man grabbed your hips and lowered you, the tip of his cock breaching your entrance. You gasped at the stretch, “Too big.”
“C’mon, pretty girl.” He said as he pushed off the doorway and shoved his own pants down his legs. His shirt followed soon after, then he climbed on the bed behind you. He grabbed your ass, spreading your cheeks to look as Mattsun’s cock disappeared inch by inch in your cunt. “I know you can take it. Don’t you wanna feel us both inside you?” He moved his thumb to your puckered hole. You leaned away instinctively, making another inch slide in. Your head fell forward and your forehead rested against Mattsun’s.
You felt his hands leaving your skin, making you glance over your shoulder with a whine. You caught a glimpse of the bottle of lube he grabbed from the nightstand just as Mattsun’s lips met your neck, kissing and sucking on your skin. His mouth moved to your tits when you tried to sit up and held onto the headboard.
He pushed another inch in and– fuck, just how big he actually was? Iwaizumi poured the cold lube directly onto your ass, then had the audacity to laugh when you flinched with a squeal. He slowly worked his fingers in your ass until you were pushing back against his fingers and Mattsun’s cock was fully inside you.
The brunet coated his cock in lube before he was pushing into you. He grabbed your hair, tugging at the strands as he bottomed out. His cock twitched at the breathy moan that left you. “Look at you, taking us so well.” His grip tightened in your hair.
Mattsun reached up to grab your face, fingers digging into your cheeks. “What a greedy whore. Was Iwa’s cock not enough? Needed two cocks in you to be satisfied?”
He smirked when you clenched around him, then slowly started fucking into you. He let go of your face when Iwaizumi pulled you up by your hair, hands settling on your hips instead as they fucked you. Your boyfriend’s hand moved to your throat to tilt your head so you looked up into his eyes. He tapped your bottom lip twice and you opened your mouth. He spat directly on your tongue and pushed your chin with his thumb to close your mouth again. You obediently swallowed and your tongue lolled out again to show him. Mattsun’s hands tightened on your hips at the display.
You fell back on top of Mattsun when Iwaizumi let go of you. His fingers slid down between your bodies, quickly finding your clit. He groaned as you met his eyes, his name leaving your lips in a whimper as you neared the edge again. The sound went straight to his cock yet again.
“Need to pull out, I’m about to-“
You shook your head immediately. “Want it inside.” You said, holding onto the headboard again as you started fucking yourself on their cocks.
He barely held it together for two more thrusts before he was spilling his cum inside you. Iwaizumi followed right after with a low moan.
Your boyfriend grabbed you and turned you around to lay on Mattsun’s chest, who grabbed your thighs to spread you open. The brunet leaned down to press a kiss to your inner thigh. His tongue darted out to lick from Mattsun’s base to the tip of his cock, then he switched to your pussy, eating you out until you were trembling and moaning his name loudly.
Only when they were lying on the bed at each side of you after cleaning up the mess they left between your thighs did you realize you had been set up.
Makki looks at you like you’ve betrayed him, on his side of the couch with his half-full beer can in hand. “That’s the best part!”
You shrug. “Dunno. Just never been with the right person, I guess.”
“That’s some bullshit. Guys don’t even know how to kiss a girl right? We used to hunt, you know—“
“Makki sucks at it, too,” Issei chimes, leaning against the other end of the couch with his own can half-empty. He nurses it in one hand, lazily plays with a curl in the other. “Can’t say shit.”
“What the fuck? I’m such a good kisser,”
“You—“
“Wait, why do you know how good or bad he is?” you ask, turning towards Issei on your left.
Over your head, he and Makki share a grin.
“Actually? Forget I asked.”
“Don’t be green, friends kiss all the time.”
“Yeah, sure.”
You slide your back down the couch, crossing your arms over your chest as you focus back on the movie playing on the TV. Your cheeks feel hot.
You’re aware of their legs craned out to rest on the coffee table, a set on either side of you. You’re watching them out of your line of view, but when Makki’s head cranes back over the couch to look at the man to your left, you lose track of them.
They’re bickering, you can tell. Issei keeps breathing out little laughs and Makki’s making obscene hand gestures, shaking the cushions when he tries to reach behind you and smack him.
It’s the fifth time the couch jerks that you groan, pushing yourself back upright to break them up.
“Can you not?” you groan. “I’m trying to finish the movie?”
“I’ll stop when he admits I’m not a shit kisser.”
“Too much tongue, babe.”
“I was drunk!”
You swallow. “You’re probably both good kissers, okay? Settle it at that.”
They quiet after that.
The room gets quiet, save for the wind coming through the window and the movie playing still. There’s a steady picking on fraying cushion behind you, no doubt from Makki’s antsy hand.
“You think we’re both good?” Issei prods.
“Sure. Whatever floats your guys’ boats.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“How would I know, Issei?”
The three of you— you’re close enough friends by now that silence is rarely awkward, but you’re not dumb. You know what hole you just dug.
Dig your grave and lie in it, or whatever.
“You wanna find out, then?” he asks, maybe a little quieter if you’re paying close attention.
Makki is hot against your other side, leaning ahead to see the both of you as good as he can. You slink back a little into the sofa— you’re in deep literally and metaphorically.
Issei slips his hand up your leg, watching your lips part the second he sets his eyes on yours. It stays on the backside, coming back up to skip over your ass, resting on your back.
His other hand is hot on the side of your face, tilting your chin up so you’re almost touching him.
“Can I show you something?”
You huff a quick breath, and nod even quicker.
Issei takes you whole, it doesn’t feel like just a kiss. It’s not just lips, even though it starts that way— it’s a graze of his teeth against your jaw before he steals your breath away that makes you slump down the couch, an exchange of power that gives your all to him.
He’s languid and slow, tongue taunting yours and his hand dauntingly large on your side. Makki’s slips beneath his and then under your sweater, nails scratching beneath your navel as they span over your skin.
You forget to breathe. He tastes like espresso and a good time. You lose track of whose hands are which. You don’t know anyone but them. You forget any other lips who have ever tasted yours.
When you reach up into his hair, knotting your knuckles in his curls, Makki takes the back of your neck and pulls you back. You’re looking at Issei, but he doesn’t look mad.
He’s smiling. You blink. You’re looking at Makki, now, and he’s smiling too.
“My turn?” He says it like a question. He might be saying it like he’s begging.
Makki moves so he’s just about on top of you, coming from above when you lean your head back to see him from below. He’s quicker than Issei, hard against your teeth and against your thigh, dizzying in how he pushes and pulls, rutting against you like he’s always wanted this.
Issei tugs your leg over his, smoothing his hand up the inside of it, skipping over where you’re too sheepish to say you want it.
It rests on your stomach, fingertips dipping beneath your waistband as Makki groans so low it vibrates in your throat. They’re playing give and take with you, back and forth like magnets, closing in and giving you space again like a corset.
Issei’s hand cups your chest and Makki’s rests on your throat. You’re being swallowed whole, and all you want them to do is spit you up and do it all over again.
Then, the storm breaks, and when you come to, they’re starry-eyed and staring at you.
“What?” you gasp.
You turn your head back and forth, looking between them like you’re checking your blind spots. You still think somethings gonna come out of nowhere and hit you; bring you back to reality.
“Nothing,” Issei shrugs. But, he leans back. “Do you wanna stay overnight? Save you a drive in the dark.”
They surround you. They encapsulate you differently, like smoke and water. You’re hot and all too aware of the things you’d say yes to.
Makki’s fingers burn against your shoulder, dragging the collar of your top down your collarbone as you nod.
— summary: sent south to be claimed by an alpha woman, omega aerion arrives at storm's end armed with his pride, his rage, and a scent he wears like a dagger. but the stormlands are unyielding, and his new alpha mate isn't playing around.
— pairing: omega!aerion targaryen x alpha!baratheon!reader
— word count: 8.5k
— content: omegaverse dynamics, afab!reader, alpha/omega pairing, arranged marriage/mating, instinct-driven behavior, heat/mating cycles, scenting, biting/marking, heavy power dynamics, blood.
— notes: maneater by nelly furtado started playing as i was finishing proofreading and it just made sense to me LOL,, please enjoy this monstrosity i worked on this whole week,, largest fic of mine to the date so yeah! reblogs and comments are encouraged!
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Storm's End didn't just sound like the sea; it felt like you were standing in the shore itself. Water hit stone in a slow, brutal rhythm, sending tremors straight through the floor of the Great Hall and up through the soles of Aerion's boots.
He stood at the threshold; the oak doors groaned shut behind him, cutting off the howl of the storm outside. The damp stayed. It clung to the air, thick and cold, seeping straight through the velvet of his doublet.
Aerion didn’t shiver; he didn’t allow himself to. He locked his jaw and dragged a thumb over the orange silk at his cuff, letting the friction bite.
They had packed him in a carriage, dragged him down the kingsroad, and shipped him south to be claimed by a woman playing at lordship. He stepped forward. A slash of crimson and spun gold cutting through the rotting grey stone of your ancestral seat. He didn't bother looking at the staring lords. He caught the perimeter guards in his peripheral vision (unwashed men in leather gripping halberds they barely knew how to hold) and wrote them off quickly.
He stalked down the center aisle, chin held high and the royal aura he exuded trailed behind him.
But his heat followed.
The omega scent rolled off his clothes. Sugar and burnt ozone. He had coated himself in expensive perfumed oils before stepping out of the carriage, but the jagged edge of his nature bled through anyway, sharpened by his fury. He wore his designation like an open wound. The knowledge that these stormland brutes could smell it on him made him want to strip the flesh from their bones.
Aerion stopped at the base of the stairs. He planted his boots and did not bow. He dragged his gaze up the stone steps, past the mud tracked across the floor, past the smoking iron braziers.
He finally looked at you.
You remained seated. You took up the full width of the oak chair, arms flat on the carved stags, and didn't move. Didn't shift to acknowledge him. Didn't lean forward to get a better look. You let him stand there in the freezing damp like he was exactly where he belonged.
The composure got under his skin immediately. He'd expected pomp. A desperate, fawning provincial lady hungry for Targaryen blood, or at least the loud aggression of a challenged alpha.
Instead, your scent rolled down the steps toward him in waves.
It hit him like a slap in the face. Dark wood, ozone, and wet earth. It didn't spike with aggression, it just sat there, dense and immovable, filling every corner of the hall. Something in him knew what it meant before he could shut it down. A low, humiliated heat caught at the base of his neck. Old instinct pushed at the back of his skull: lower your chin, bare your throat, acknowledge the alpha on the high seat.
Aerion forced his spine straight. Thick blue veins rose against the pale skin of his hands as he fisted them at his sides. He would burn this keep to its foundation before he submitted to a feral brute. He let his eyes travel the room, a slow, bored circuit. A sharp smile stretched his mouth, though his eyes remained dead and predatory under the heavy ridge of his brow.
"I was informed," Aerion drawled, his voice was a smooth, honeyed purr. He projected it effortlessly over the ambient roar of the sea, ensuring every retainer in the room heard the bored superiority dripping from his words. "that Storm's End held a certain unrefined charm. I see the royal court was being generous." He took one step toward you. "Where do you keep the livestock? Or am I standing in the pen?"
He waited, he wanted the roaring rage, he wanted you to stand up, red-faced, shouting about respect and treason. He needed the ugly, predictable shape of a bruised alpha. He knew exactly how to cut apart a screaming brute; he had spent his entire life baiting larger, stupider opponents into making mistakes.
You did not rise to the bait. You looked at him. Unblinking. Unmoving.
Aerion's jaw tightened. The smile stayed, but the muscles under it pulled hard. His pulse picked up. The total lack of reaction was a wall he couldn't climb. You were watching him the way a master watches a temperamental horse.
"Did they rip your tongue out in the womb, my lady?" He dropped the honorific like a dead rat, disgustingly quick. "Or do the grunts and points of your people simply not translate to the common tongue?"
Behind him, your bannermen shifted. Steel scraped leather. A low murmur moved through the hall; they wanted to drag him to the dungeons. Aerion's eyes ticked to either side. The anticipation uncoiled in his limbs like something living. Let them try.
You lifted one hand. Two fingers raised.
The hall went dead silent. The steel slid back into scabbards.
Aerion’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. The absolute obedience of your men hit his stomach like a stone. You held the power here. You held the walls, the swords, and the rank. He was a prince of the blood, and in this room, he was a package someone had delivered to your door.
You dropped your hand and rested it back on the carved wood.
"You have a loud voice for a man with no swords, Prince Aerion."
Your tone matched the stone beneath you. Cold and Immovable. You didn't raise it, didn't try to match his theatricality. You stated a fact.
Aerion’s eyes narrowed. The heavy brow lowered, hooding his gaze entirely. He stepped up, planting one boot on the first stone step.
Your guards stepped forward, halberds crossing to block his path.
"Let him," you said.
The guards stepped back. The weapons parted.
Aerion took the steps. Two. Three. Long strides, unhurried, his scent arriving before he did, burnt sugar sharpening into something acrid, defensive. He stopped directly in front of your chair and let the height and the breadth of his shoulders do their work.
He leaned down and braced his fists on the armrests of your chair, boxing you in.
He wanted the flinch. He'd been working toward it since the doors opened, the stutter in your breathing, the flicker in your eyes. He used the proximity, the heat bleeding off his skin, the furious tension locked in the cords of his neck.
"I have the blood of the dragon," he purred lowly. The honey went out of his voice and left just the edge. "I don't need swords to burn this wet rock down."
You leaned back. You created an inch of space, giving him absolutely nothing. Your hands remained perfectly relaxed against the wood.
"You are three hundred leagues from the nearest dragon, Aerion." No title. The deference stripped without ceremony.
"You are in my house." You kept your voice flat. "You will eat at my table. You will sleep in the chambers I give you. You will breathe the air I allow you to breathe."
Aerion froze. Icy stillness claimed him. The bored superiority shattered, leaving only pure, unadulterated hatred to flood the vacuum.
My house. My table. The air I allow you to breathe.
The sheer arrogance. The unearned, structural authority. You spoke to him as if he were a hound you had just purchased, a feral thing you intended to break. The insult dragged a hot wire straight up his spine.
He stared at your mouth. He wanted to backhand you. He wanted to shatter your composure into a thousand fucking pieces.
But his body betrayed him. The proximity was a mistake. Clean rain, crushed iron, dark timber. The smell of you hit him all at once, and some wretched, bone-deep part of him wanted to bare his wrists. The urge shot through him so fast his vision blurred.
He bit the inside of his cheek hard. Blood flooded his mouth. The sharp pain grounded him.
He pushed off the armrests, standing straight and regaining his height. He brushed invisible dust off his velvet doublet, wrapping the armor of contempt back around his ribs.
"How remarkably rustic," Aerion drawled. He turned his head slightly. "You sound exactly like a sovereign. It must take endless practice in the mirror."
He looked back down at you, his eyes dead. "I sleep where I choose. I eat when I hunger. If you think the paper my father signed makes me yours, you are stupider than you look." He leaned forward again, just a fraction. "I am not a prize you won. I am a plague they sent to infect you."
He held the stance. He waited. He demanded a reaction. He needed the negotiation of a fight.
You denied him and stood up.
You had the Baratheon build for women; tall and solid. You rose and took up the space, crowding him without touching him.
Aerion's chin jerked up a fraction to hold the eye contact. A tiny, furious concession.
"Maester," you called, eyes still on his.
The old man came quickly from the shadows. "My lady."
"The prince is tired from his journey. He's speaking nonsense." You didn't blink. "Show him to the sea-facing chambers in the eastern tower. The ones with the iron locks."
Aerion’s upper lip twitched with a snarl barely contained. "I require no escort from a man in chains. Nor do I tolerate locks."
"You tolerate what I build," you said.
You stepped around, dismissing him entirely. You turned your back and walked down the steps, never checking to see if he followed.
"Dinner is at sundown," you said over your shoulder. "Dress warmer. Your silks look ridiculous."
You crossed the hall. The guards parted for you. The bannermen bowed their heads. You left the Great Hall, and the doors shut behind you.
Aerion stood on the steps. He listened to the echo of the doors slamming shut. The ambient damp of Storm's End pressed in on him. He was surrounded by your men, breathing your air, choking on the lingering scent of crushed iron and dark wood. He dragged in a breath. The violence coiled in his muscles had nowhere to go.
--
The heavy iron lock on the guest chamber door had been an insult, but a surprisingly rudimentary one.
Aerion sat in the dark for three hours after you left him. He did not sleep. The violent, coiled anticipation from the Great Hall had curdled into a cold, sharp focus that made his joints ache. He listened to the castle settle. Listened to the brutal, relentless assault of the sea against the eastern wall.
Your scent, dark wood, ozone, wet earth, soaked the very mortar of the room. It was everywhere. It clawed at something in him he didn't want clawed at, demanding what he wasn't going to give. His own scent spiked in response, bitter and burnt-sweet, building a dull ache right behind his eyes. Keeping himself contained in the middle of your territory wasn't just difficult. It was exhausting in a way that made him furious all over again.
He dug the sharp, ornate pin from his collar and picked the lock in the absolute darkness of the room. The mechanism yielded with a dull, heavy clank.
Aerion slipped out into the corridor. The damp air of Storm's End immediately bit through his clothes. He had stripped off the heavy velvet doublet, wearing only a thin, loose linen shirt and dark breeches. Spite kept his blood running hot.
He moved through the castle like a shadow. The corridors were poorly lit, salt and old damp in the air. He mapped the blind spots. Counted the guard rotations. The dragging rhythm of their boots told him what he needed to know. Slow. Bored.
He found a narrow spiral stairwell that smelled exclusively of the sea. He took it to the top and stepped out onto the battlements.
The wind off the Narrow Sea was a living thing. It hit him square in the chest and ripped the breath from his lungs. Dead of night. The sky a bruised, starless black just beginning to thin at the edges.
Aerion moved along the perimeter. He leaned against the cold stone and looked down at the drop. Jagged rocks. Churning black water. He wasn't looking to escape, because running was a coward's move, and he was not a coward. He was looking for a crack in the armor. Something he could work.
Then he caught it. Iron and clean rain
You were standing on the western parapet.
Aerion stopped. He tracked you through the dark. You stood near the edge of the wall, looking out over the courtyard. No guards. No bannermen. Just you, alone, leaning against the stone, the fur lining of your dark cloak snapping in the wind.
A slow, terribly sharp smile stretched his mouth.
The fury from the Great Hall dissolved. Something bright and dangerous took its place. He had his opening. Down in the hall, you held the throne and the numbers. Up here, without the audience, things looked different. You were just an alpha standing near a long drop, alone with an omega who hated you.
He rolled his thumb over the cold gold ring on his index finger. Let the rigid hostility drop for something more casual, more dangerous.
He prowled down the walkway. He didn't mask his footsteps. He let the hard heels of his boots click against the stone.
You didn't turn around. You kept your gaze fixed on the lower bailey.
"Checking the perimeter, my lady?" Aerion drawled. He pitched his voice to cut through the howling wind, smooth and endlessly condescending. "Or simply out enjoying this miserable fucking weather?"
He stopped three paces back. Leaned his hip against the inner wall, crossed his arms. Held the portrait of unbothered comfort while the wind sliced through his linen shirt.
You finally turned your head. Your gaze dragged over him, taking in the lack of a coat, the thin fabric plastered against his chest by the gale, the arrogant tilt of his chin.
"The wind is louder than usual tonight," you said plainly, not surprise by his apparition.
The amusement sharpened. Aerion pushed off the wall and stepped closer.
"I assumed you'd have guards posted outside my door. Or chained me to the bedpost." He tilted his head, feigning a sigh. "I'll admit, the lock was a disappointment. I expected more from the famed stags of the stormlands."
"I told the Maester to lock the door to keep the servants from wandering in," you replied. You turned toward him fully. "I assumed you'd let yourself out the moment you got bored."
The retort died on his tongue. Aerion shut his jaw.
You knew. You hadn't locked him in to trap him, you gave him a flimsy boundary just to watch him break it. A test. To see how he moved when the door was left loose.
He forced a cruel, mocking laugh to fill the silence.
"How observant of you." He took another step forward. Close enough now to catch the warmth off your body, close enough that your scent hit his lungs full force. "And what did you expect to happen when I got out? Did you think I would wander the halls looking for the kitchens? Or did you expect me to come find you?"
"I expected you to look for a weakness in the walls," you said. You didn't move back. "Did you find one?"
Aerion held your gaze. His voice dropped. "I'm looking at it."
He waited for the reaction. He wanted something to push against.
You waited him out in silence.
His body, though, was losing its own separate war. The cold and the proximity together were too much, his control fraying at the edges. The burnt ozone of his anger was thinning, the sweeter, heavier scent bleeding through underneath. The urge to step into the warmth of his matched alpha pushed up from somewhere old and stupid in him, made his teeth ache. He forced his arms to stay crossed, fingers digging into his own biceps so you wouldn't see his hands shake.
You watched him. You caught the shift in the air.
You reached up and unclasped the brooch at your shoulder.
Aerion's eyes tracked the movement instantly. "What are you doing?"
You pulled the massive wool and fur cloak from your shoulders. You stepped directly into his space and threw it over him.
He flinched. An entirely involuntary, humiliating reaction. The sheer weight of the cloak settled over his shoulders, dragging him down slightly. It swallowed him in heat. It smelled absolutely, fundamentally of you. Dark wood and iron flooded his lungs; a concentrated dose of alpha that hit his blood like a hammer.
"Get this off me," he snarled. He grabbed the edges of the wool, prepared to rip it away and throw it over the parapet.
Your hands caught his wrists.
You didn't grip him hard enough to bruise, but the hold was absolute. You pinned his hands against his own chest, trapping the cloak around him.
Aerion went still. His breath hitched, a sharp, furious sound. He glared at you, his eyes wide and lethal under the dark ridge of his brow. He could snap your wrists. He could throw you back. He had the reach. The leverage. The sheer violent intent.
You didn't brace for an attack. You simply stood there, holding his wrists against his chest while the wind tore at your own unprotected tunic.
"You are shaking, Aerion," you said.
"I am not," he hissed. The melodic pretense vanished. A raw, venomous snap.
"You are freezing. You are exhausting yourself." Your thumbs moved over the blue veins at his wrists. Barely anything. A small, terrible softness. "You don't need to perform out here. There is no one watching."
That softness was worse than the cold indifference in the Great Hall. It bypassed his armor entirely. He knew how to fight cruelty. He knew how to fight arrogance. He didn't know how to fight an alpha who handed over her own cloak in the freezing dark and spoke to him like he was something worth sheltering.
It humiliated him.
"I don't need your charity," Aerion spit. He dragged his chin up to look down his nose at you, pulling his wrists against your grip to test the hold. "And I don't need your permission to be what I am."
"It isn't charity," you replied. You released his wrists slowly, letting your hands drop. You didn't step back. “I'm telling you to put the cloak on before you catch an ague on your first night in my keep."
Aerion stared at you. The urge to throw the wool back in your face warred violently with the deep, instinctual relief the heat provided. The heavy fur collar brushed against his jaw.
He didn't take it off.
He kept his hands gripped on the edges of the fabric, pulling it a fraction of an inch tighter around his chest. He hated that he did it. He hated the faint, betraying spike of sugar in his scent that came with it.
He smoothed his expression back into the mask of bored superiority. He rolled his eyes, looking away from you toward the dark horizon over the sea.
"Fine," he drawled, his tone dripping with theatrical exhaustion. "If the mighty Alpha of Storm's End insists on freezing to death just to prove a point about hospitality, I suppose I will indulge you."
You studied his profile. The sharp cut of his jaw. The way the heavy cloak swallowed his lean frame, making him look less like a capital predator and more like a man surviving a storm.
You stepped closer. You moved to his right, positioning your body entirely upwind of him. You became a physical barrier, taking the direct, brutal assault of the sea gale against your own back, sheltering him.
The wind cut off abruptly.
Aerion turned his head. He looked at your back, standing between him and the storm.
He opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark. To mock the protective instinct. To tear the gesture apart.
He looked at the tense set of your shoulders, taking the cold for him.
He closed his mouth. He pulled the dark wool tighter around his chest, burying his chin in the fur, and watched the dawn begin to bleed over the violent grey sea.
--
The silver knife separated the roasted fowl without a sound.
Aerion dragged the blade through the meat without letting it scrape the plate. He placed a perfectly square cut into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Ash and salt. The food in the stormlands was as brutal and uninspired as the architecture.
He cut another square. He kept his posture. Spine straight, shoulders back, elbows tucked tight to his ribs.
Three weeks.
Twenty-one days since the High Septon babbled the vows. They had wrapped him in a black-and-gold cloak that reeked of your ancestors and they expected him to kneel in the sept. He hadn't.
You hadn't made him. You simply took the cloak from the septon's trembling hands and draped it over his shoulders yourself, bypassing the submission entirely. The legality was settled. Ink dry. Ravens flown. He was a Baratheon consort in the eyes of the law.
But the bond remained unsealed.
The feasting hall of Storm's End roared. The Baratheon retainers had no concept of indoor volume, drinking, shouting across the long wooden tables, slamming iron tankards against the boards. Aerion sat at the high table, a cut of bold orange silk and crimson velvet in a sea of boiled leather and wool. He turned his stillness into a weapon.
Your gaze tracked his movements, steady and searching, looking for the crack in the quiet compliance he'd adopted over the last three days. He wanted you unsettled. Wondering when the knife would slip from the meat and drive into the back of your hand. He refused to give you the satisfaction of his fury.
But keeping quiet was costing him.
A dull ache pulsed at the base of his spine. The rot was hunting him down. The edge of a cycle pressed at the borders of his blood, making his skin raw against the damp air, the crushing noise of the hall. His scent kept threatening to spike, sugar and burnt ozone tipping toward something sweeter, more desperate, more unmistakable. He strangled it back. Drank iced water. Buried the instinct under aristocratic spite. He refused to cycle in this miserable wet cage.
He refused to give you the reason to claim him.
You sat beside him, drinking dark wine from a goblet. The scent of dark wood and crushed iron drifted over his shoulder. Constant and grounding in a way he hated. You didn't crowd him. You let him have his silent, precise little rebellion at the table. You were soft with him in ways that made no sense; yielding the small territories, letting him choose his chambers, letting him dictate his wardrobe, letting his barbed insults go while the walls of your authority stood absolutely firm.
You hadn't touched him since the sept. Hadn't demanded the bedding.
You were waiting him out.
Lord Wylde broke the perimeter of the high table.
A hulking brute from the Rainwood. He smelled of wet dog, stale ale, and the sour tang of an unbonded alpha. He bypassed the lower tables and planted his boots directly before the dais.
Aerion didn't look up. He cut another square of meat.
"My lady," Wylde bellowed over the din.
You set your goblet down. You didn't invite him to speak, just shifted your attention to the floor below the dais. "Wylde."
"The border patrols report no movement from the Dornish marches," the lord said, wiping grease from his beard with the back of a massive, calloused hand. "The men are restless. They expected a tourney. Or at least a proper celebration to mark the royal union. The stormlands have not seen a feast worthy of a mating in decades."
Aerion's jaw locked. He kept his eyes on his plate. The tension in the hall shifted instantly. Conversations at the nearest tables died. The retainers were listening.
"The union was marked in the sept," you said. Measured, bored, the voice of a lord dealing with a tiresome vassal. "The King received the raven. The men will have extra rations of ale tonight. That is celebration enough."
"Words on paper, my lady." Wylde shifted his weight. His gaze slid to Aerion.
An evaluating look. The kind that stripped the gold chains and the royal silk away and looked at nothing but the omega underneath. The look of a breeder sizing up a difficult mare.
"A marriage is sealed in the bed," Wylde continued, his voice carrying the rough timber of a tavern joke. "The lords wonder why the prince still sits his own separate chambers in the eastern tower. An unbonded omega in the keep sours the hounds, they say. They make the men jumpy. We hear Targaryens run hot, but perhaps this one is broken. Or perhaps you lack the hand to discipline a feral bitch, my lady. Some need the whip before they take the knot."
Aerion froze.
The silver knife stopped moving. The insult was so profound, so utterly staggering in its brazen crudeness, that for a split second he couldn't process it. He was the blood of the dragon. A prince of the realm. This mud-smeared degenerate dared speak of him like livestock. Dared question his utility. Dared suggest the whip.
Aerion's upper lip twitched. The constructed quiet shattered. He inhaled, the burnt ozone of his scent turning sharp and lethal. He had the words lined up behind his teeth. He was going to verbally flay the man, strip his dignity, demand his lands, and force you to take his head on a block.
He opened his mouth but you moved first.
You slammed your open hand flat against the oak table.
The crack sounded like a fractured spine. It echoed off the vaulted ceiling. The entire feasting hall went dead silent in under a second. The musicians stopped playing. The hounds stopped fighting over bones.
Aerion snapped his head toward you.
The perfect, unbothered composure was gone. The mask slipped entirely. Your teeth bared, your jaw locked so hard the muscles jumped violently beneath the skin. The crushing weight of your scent exploded outward, pure, unadulterated iron and furious ozone. It hit like a wave.
Aerion’s breath caught. The omega in him submitted to the sheer, terrifying scale of the pheromones instantly, his pulse hammering a frantic, desperate rhythm against his ribs. The ache at the base of his spine flared into a hot, humiliating spike of need.
"Wylde," you said.
One word, from the bottom of your chest. Not the measured voice of a political ruler. The sound of an alpha defending her den.
The huge lord took a sudden, involuntary step backward. The color drained from his face. The sour tang of his scent turned to ash under your pressure. He understood, very clearly, that he had walked too far.
"You forget yourself," you said. Leaning forward. Invading the space over the table. "You forget whose hall you stand in. And you forget who sits at my right hand."
You didn't look at Aerion. You kept your eyes pinned on the lord, nailing him to the stone floor.
"He is the blood of the dragon. He is my mate." You claimed the title. Threw it like an axe. "You will not look at him. You will not speak of his nature. If you ever disrespect my husband in my presence again, I will tear your tongue out with my bare hands and feed it to the hounds you are so concerned about."
It wasn't political posturing. You meant it. The raw, unhinged sincerity in your voice sent a cold jolt straight down Aerion’s spine.
"Do you understand me?"
"Yes, my lady," Wylde stammered. He was practically vibrating with the instinct to submit and retreat, bowing his head deeply to expose his neck in a desperate show of appeasement. "I misspoke. The ale made me foolish. I beg the prince's pardon. I beg yours."
"Get out of my sight."
Wylde scrambled backward, nearly tripping over a bench in his haste to retreat to the lower doors.
The silence stretched. Nobody moved. Nobody drank. They all waited.
You sat back in your chair, picked up the goblet and took a slow, deliberate drink of the dark wine.
You smoothed the violence back down into a manageable hum. You commanded the room to breathe again just by relaxing your grip on the cup.
Slowly, the murmur of the hall returned. Subdued, careful, but alive.
Aerion sat completely paralyzed.
His hand gripped the silver knife so hard his knuckles went white, the gold rings digging into the wood. The instinct thrashed against his ribs, screaming at him to lean into your space. To press his face into your neck. To give the alpha who had just violently defended his honor whatever she wanted. The approaching cycle made it ten times worse. A hot, humiliating flush crept up the back of his neck and settled on his cheekbones.
He had never been defended.
Managed by his father. Used by the small council. Shipped across the continent as a bargaining chip to secure the stormlands. But no one had ever bared their teeth to protect his pride. No one had ever claimed him as something worth violence.
He hated it.
Hated the way his chest hitched. Hated the wet heat pooling low in his stomach. Hated that you hadn't even looked at him to do it, you simply reacted, driven by something old and uncompromising, and you threw the word mate like it was the only word that mattered.
The quiet angle he'd been running was useless against that. The unconsummated marriage suddenly felt less like a victory and more like a clock.
He turned his head slightly. He looked at the side of your face.
You set the goblet down. You met his gaze. The ghost of the violence still sat in your eyes, but the hard lines of your mouth softened a fraction. A silent check. A silent confirmation that he was safe.
Aerion looked away, then looked back at his plate, he finally picked up his fork back.
He hated that his hands were shaking.
--
Aerion barricaded himself in the eastern tower. He used the heavy iron locks he had mocked upon his arrival, turning the key himself, trapping the monster of his nature inside the stone room. Refusing to leave. Refusing the meals left outside his door. Refusing to be seen.
The strategy of cold, bored compliance fractured the moment you slammed your hand onto the high table. You had bared your teeth, and claimed him in front of the entire stormlands. My mate. The words echoed in the damp confines of his chambers, bouncing off the walls, driving him entirely mad.
The omega in him latched onto the violent defense and dragged him straight toward the edge.
The pre-heat hit him like a physical fever. Not gradually; it crashed through his blood, sudden and suffocating. His skin burned. A deep, grinding ache took root at the base of his spine, radiating down his thighs, making his legs shake every time he paced the floorboards. His scent changed. The sharp, aggressive burnt ozone dissolving into something thick, cloying, and desperately sweet. Rotting sugar and bruised orchids. The scent of an omega begging to be broken.
He choked on it. He dragged the sea-facing window open, let the brutal cold tear through the room, tried to freeze the fever out of his blood. It didn't work.
By the fourth afternoon, the isolation became a cage. Hiding felt like submission. Cowering in a locked room while you sat in the keep below, waiting for him to break, an intolerable humiliation.
He moved.
He forced himself in front of the polished glass mirror. His hands shook as he fastened the velvet doublet. Crimson. Cloth-of-gold. He layered the ostentatious chains over his chest, constructing the armor of his rank. He applied expensive oils to his pulse points; fully aware they couldn't mask the staggering sweetness of his impending cycle. He painted the mask back on. Smoothed the silk and assembled back the arrogant, untouchable prince.
Unlocked the door and stalked down the spiral stairs.
No escort. He ignored the guards stationed in the corridors. They smelled him coming, nostrils flaring, instinctively stepping back, dropping their gazes to the stone flags. The heavy, rotting sweetness of the pre-heat rolled off him in waves. He hated them for noticing. Hated himself for producing it.
Your solar in the western wing. The heavy oak door stood closed with two household guards crossed their halberds as he approached.
Aerion didn't slow his pace and didn't ask for entry. Walked straight at the crossed steel.
"Move," Aerion commanded.
They looked at each other and uncrossed their weapons.
Aerion pushed the door open. Stepped over the threshold and shut it firmly behind him.
The solar was a confined space. Timber beams, walls lined with ledgers, a massive hearth burning a low fire.
And you.
You sat behind a wide desk carved from black oak. Dark wool, plain and functional. Maps and tax reports spread in front of you, a quill in your right hand. You didn't jump when the door shut. Didn't reach for a weapon. You finished the sentence you were writing, set the quill down, and looked up.
Composed first, you had locked the violence of the feasting hall back up entirely, looking at him with the unbothered stillness of a sovereign in her own territory.
Aerion stood by the door. Spine rigidly straight, he tilted his chin at that cruel, familiar angle, presenting the high cheekbones.
"I assumed I was forgotten," Aerion drawled. The honeyed purr was back, smooth and condescending. "Four days in a damp tower, and not a single summons. I was beginning to think you had choked on a mutton bone, my lady."
He waited for you to address the intrusion. Needed you to demand an explanation. Needed the friction of an argument to distract from the agonizing heat pooling in his lower stomach.
You just looked at him.
The solar was small. The oak door trapped the air inside. His scent saturated the room in seconds, crashing against the dark wood and iron of your own presence. You caught the shift immediately. The sweet, rotting desperation bleeding through the velvet and the perfumed oils.
You didn't mock him, didn’t smile triumphantly at his supposed weakness. You simply leaned back in your chair, resting your hands flat against the desk.
"You look unwell, Aerion," you said.
The factual, even tone infuriated him. It stripped the theatricality away and left the feral, undeniable reality naked on the floor between you.
"I am perfectly well," Aerion lied. He pushed off the door. Stalked toward the center of the room, forcing a lazy swagger into his walk even though his knees threatened to buckle at every step. "I am merely bored. The structure of my quarters is offensive, and the sea air is ruining my clothes. I decided to seek out the only other literate person in this miserable keep."
He reached the desk, walked around to the side, invading your space, stopping inches from your chair.
The proximity was a devastating mistake.
Your scent hit him at close range. Dark wood, crushed iron, and the sharp, clean scent of a breaking storm. It wasn't the ambient, lingering scent of the Great Hall. It was concentrated. Alive. It rolled off your skin and punched straight into his lungs.
Aerion's breath hitched, a harsh sound he couldn't stop. His eyes fell half-shut. The ache at the base of his spine flared into something blinding. Some part of him recognized the alpha who had claimed him in front of everyone, and it demanded he close the final inches. Demanded he drop to the floor and beg.
He clamped his jaw shut. Gripped the edge of the desk with his right hand so hard the veins rose against his skin, the gold rings biting into the wood. Anchoring himself to the furniture to keep from falling onto you.
"You came to discuss literature," you said. You didn't move away. You stayed perfectly still, letting him crowd you.
"I came," Aerion managed, his voice dropping, the smooth purr fraying badly, "to remind you that I exist. Since you seem content to let me rot in that tower while you play with your ledgers."
You turned your head, looking up at him. Close enough that he could see the dark, steady weight in your eyes.
"You locked yourself in, Aerion."
"I was securing my perimeter," he snapped. The venom was real but the delivery had nothing behind it. He was panting slightly, short shallow breaths making the cloth-of-gold shift across his chest. "I do not trust your feral retainers. After the display in the hall, I assumed the entire castle was populated by unwashed degenerates."
"I handled the degenerate."
"You made a spectacle." Aerion leaned down. Braced his other hand on the armrest of your chair, trapping you in the same way he had on his first night. But the power was entirely different this time. He wasn't boxing you in to intimidate you. He was boxing you in because he needed to drown in your scent. "You shouted like a common brute. You embarrassed me."
"I protected you."
"I do not need protection." Aerion's voice cracked. The mask tore down the middle. He leaned closer, face inches from yours. The fever radiating off his skin a real, physical heat. "I do not need anything from you."
You looked at his face. The sweat at his temples. The caged, frantic terror behind the dark, predatory eyes. The cycle was hours away, maybe minutes. The thought of losing control completely, that was what was terrifying him.
You raised your hand.
Aerion flinched. A tiny, involuntary jerk backward.
You didn't strike him. You lifted your hand and pressed the back of your knuckles against the side his cheek.
The contact hit him like a lightning strike.
Aerion gasped. His eyes fell shut. The arrogant prince went away all at once. He leaned into the touch with a desperate, humiliating sound, his brow dropping forward until his forehead rested near your temple. The cold, unyielding pride gone entirely under the warmth of your skin. He chased your knuckles as you dragged them slowly down his jawline, his breathing going ragged.
"You are burning," you said quietly.
"Do not touch me," Aerion choked out. He didn't move away. Stayed bent over your chair, his hands gripping the wood like a drowning man holding a spar. He pressed his face harder against your hand. "Do not."
"You walked into my solar." You turned your hand, pressing your palm flat against his jaw. Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. "You came to me."
"I came to…" He lost the sentence. His mind couldn't form the words. The sweetness of his scent flooded the room, out of control now, pleading with the alpha in the dark wool. "I came to tell you... I hate you."
"I know." You kept your voice low. A steady, anchoring rumble in your chest.
"It burns," Aerion whispered. A confession dragged out of him by the cycle, raw and bleeding and hating. "Make it stop."
"I will."
You stood up.
The movement forced Aerion to step back. His legs nearly went out from under him. The sudden absence of your touch sent a shock through him. He stumbled, caught himself on the edge of the desk. He looked at you, eyes wide and dark, pupils blown completely black.
You stepped around the desk. You didn't crowd him with aggression. You just occupied the space, offering the wall of your presence.
"We are not doing this on the floor of a solar," you said.
You reached out and wrapped your hand around his forearm. No permission asked. Your grip closed over the velvet and the silk.
Aerion let out a shuddering breath. Didn't pull away. He stared at your hand on his arm, the scent of dark wood and iron pulling him under the tide. He had spent three weeks running angles, building walls, sharpening knives. Lost the war in four days.
The cycle had him. And you were holding the leash.
"Come with me," you said.
Aerion closed his eyes. The last of his resistance burned away.
--
Aerion couldn't feel his legs.
The stone flags blurred beneath his boots, a smear of grey rushing past. The gold chain across his chest was gone. Torn off somewhere between the solar and the winding stairs in a desperate bid to get the weight off his lungs. A king's ransom abandoned on the floor because the metal had grown too hot against his collarbones.
Your hand locked around his bicep. Unyielding. You pulled him forward, not dragging but dictating the pace; a relentless, driving momentum matching the violent drumming of his pulse.
The fever burned him from the inside out. The pre-heat was gone, collapsed entirely, plunging him straight into the suffocating peak of the cycle. His scent flooded the corridor, thick and desperate. Sugar rotting on the vine. Bruised, bleeding orchids. It soaked into the stone.
Guards turned their faces to the walls. They stepped back into alcoves, averted their eyes, shrinking from the sheer pressure of an alpha claiming her mate in the open corridor. Aerion saw their lowered heads through the haze. He hated them. He hated you. Hated the wet, pathetic sound that tore out of his throat when you briefly loosened your grip to open an oak door.
He stumbled forward, unmoored without the anchor of your hand. Crossed the threshold. The door slammed shut behind him. The iron latch fell into place with a heavy, final clack.
Aerion hit his knees.
His legs simply gave out, he braced his hands on the floor, head hanging between his shoulders, dragging in ragged, shallow breaths.
This was your den.
The scent in here was a physical force. Dark wood, ozone, crushed iron, animal pelts, the sharp bite of the sea. It had none of the stale damp of the rest of Storm's End. It was just you, concentrated and total. It crushed the air from his lungs and replaced it.
He knelt on the floor, shivering violently despite the heat under his skin. The cycle screamed at him to crawl. To drag himself across the rug, find your boots, press his face into the leather.
He locked his elbows and forced his head up.
A wide room, a four-poster bed draped in black furs and gold-threaded wool, a hearth blazing on the far wall, casting harsh, unsteady light over the stone.
You stood by the door, watching him. You didn't rush to pick him up. You let him sit with it, let the room strip the last of his defenses away.
"Get up," you commanded, a low rumble vibrating directly down his spine.
Aerion gritted his teeth. "I cannot."
The first true thing he'd said since arriving in the stormlands. He hated the sound of it. He sounded broken.
You crossed the room. No offered hand. You reached down, gripped the thick velvet of his doublet at the shoulders, and hauled him up.
He collided with your chest. His hands flew up and grabbed the dark wool of your tunic. The heat radiating off you hit his fractured nerves like a drug. He let his head drop against your shoulder, nose finding the crook of your neck, pressing into the concentrated source of iron and ozone.
You walked him backward. His boots dragged over the rug. The edge of the mattress hit the backs of his knees. You pushed. He fell back onto the black furs.
Sprawled across the pelts, his long limbs let go of their coiled tension. He looked up at you from the bed, the dark ridge of his brow failing to conceal the blown-out, pitch-black pupils.
He expected violence. The brutal, transactional claiming of a feudal lord securing a bloodline.
He braced himself for the pain of being broken.
You stood over him. Reached out and caught the edge of his crimson doublet. You didn't rip the fabric, you unlaced the ties with methodical, deliberate precision. The carefulness in your hands terrifying him more than violence ever could.
Stripped the velvet away. Tossed it to the floor. The silk shirt followed, pulled over his head, leaving him bare to the waist. The cool air of the chamber hit his fevered skin, raising goosebumps over his ribs and the scattered moles across his chest. He shivered, chest heaving.
You shed your own dark wool tunic, tossing it aside. Joined him on the furs, crowding his space, settling your weight over his hips.
The contact burned. The heavy, immovable reality of your body pressing him into the mattress short-circuiting his brain. You bracketed his head with your arms, looking down at his face.
Aerion stared up at you. His jaw working, trying to form a weapon, trying to find an insult to hurl into the silence.
"Say it," you said.
He swallowed. The copper taste of his own blood still in his mouth from where he'd bitten his cheek in the solar.
"You are an animal," Aerion choked out. The words had none of their usual venom. A desperate, broken plea.
"You are mine."
You lowered your head. Pressed your mouth against the side of his cheek.
The defense fractured.
It wasn't a brutal taking, it was a searing, settled warmth. The certainty of your claim, not about the Targaryen name or the political treaty, but about the flawed, furious, volatile creature underneath the silk.
His hands released the furs. They flew up, long fingers burying themselves in your hair, pulling you closer. A shuddering breath escaped his lips, a terrifying clarity cut straight through his pride: he wanted this. He wanted the weight; he wanted the iron and the sea. He wanted the alpha who slammed her hand on the table and dared the world to look at him.
His heat spiked, turning feral, his cycle demanded the final thing.
You shifted your weight, pushing his shoulders flat against the mattress. Your nose tracking down his jawline, inhaling the cloying, rotting sweetness of his scent, taking it into your lungs like it already belonged to you. You paused at his jaw and waited.
Aerion's pride fought a final, bloody battle. To bare the throat was to surrender the last thing he had. The admission of defeat, laid out bare on the black furs. He locked the muscles in his neck. Kept his chin tucked, breathing wet and ragged, shaking with the strain of his own resistance.
You didn't force his head back. Didn't use your hands to break him. You pressed an open-mouthed kiss against the pulse at the base of his jaw. Let your teeth scrape lightly over the skin. A promise of the violence to come, wrapped in warmth.
The friction broke him.
Aerion released a fractured, broken sound and he surrendered. He tilted his head back, arching his spine off the furs, exposing the thick cords of his neck. The long, pale expanse of his throat lying completely bare to the dim light of the hearth.
He offered the jugular and you took it. Your teeth sank into the junction where his neck met his shoulder.
The pain was immediate and total. A sharp, blinding white line cutting through the fever haze.
Aerion screamed, the sound muffled against your shoulder as he thrashed. Your jaw locked. Canines driving deep into the scent gland, mixing his blood with your saliva. Flooding him with the raw, undiluted weight of your dominance.
The bond snapped into place.
Iron chains wrapping around his ribs, pulling tight, anchoring him to the stone floor of the keep. The isolation he had carried his whole life shattering into dust. Tethered. Claimed.
The pain triggered a violent, feral recoil deep in his gut. He was an omega, but he was a dragon. The blood demanded reciprocity.
Aerion’s eyes snapped open. Pupils completely blown, black and endless. He dragged you down, hands fisting violently in your hair. Twisted his head, finding the muscle of your shoulder, he opened his mouth and bit down.
He drove his teeth into your skin with everything he had. Tasted salt and copper. Forced his own frantic, territorial claim into your veins. Matching your violence with his.
You groaned, it was low and guttural, vibrating against his chest, but you didn't pull away. You let him bite, let him tear at you. You held him through the storm of the bonding, holding his thrashing until the pain ceased and broke and left only the drug-like weight of what had just happened.
Aerion's jaw went slack, he released your shoulder. He collapsed back against the furs, gasping, chest heaving, his mouth stained with your blood.
The fever finally broke.
--
The grey light of morning crept through the narrow, sea-facing windows.
Aerion opened his eyes.
The storm hadn't broken. The sea still battered the walls of the keep, a distant, rhythmic drumming vibrating through the bedposts.
He lay perfectly still as he registered the heavy, unfamiliar weight draped over his chest. Your arm. The slow, steady rise and fall of your breathing against his side.
He turned his head slightly to look at you.
You were asleep. The hard lines of your face smoothed out, the composure replaced by a deep, exhausted slackness. Your dark hair spilling over the pillows, tangled and coarse. The dark, bruising bite mark he had left on your shoulder, crusted with dried blood.
Aerion touched his own neck, his fingers brushing the swollen, agonizingly tender puncture wounds over his scent gland. The skin hot to the touch.
He lowered his hand.
He waited for the fury. The acid hatred he'd cultivated since the carriage ride from Summerhall. The urge to flee, to burn the room down, to put the arrogant prince back together and aim him like a weapon.
It didn't come.
He went looking for it. He sifted through the familiar grudges, the wounded pride, the endless carefully maintained contempt. He found nothing, it had burned up. In its place was something he had no name for; a quiet so profound and total it frightened him more than the absence of it should have. A weight that tied him directly, bone and blood, to the woman sleeping next to him.
He looked at your face again, the slope of your jaw, the dark lashes against your cheek.
Aerion swallowed, something vast and nameless opened in his chest. Something that bypassed logic and strategy entirely.
I am bonded to a stag, he thought. The realization should have curdled his blood, he should be reaching for a knife, planning his escape.
He didn't move away, he lay in the grey light, listened to the storm, and let the quiet stay.
Bruce’s cock is brutal, he’s not that long, maybe six inches hard in a good day, maybe less, but length never mattered when the girth is obscene. Thick as a wrist, the kind of circumference that makes a fist look small. The shaft itself is a veined, meaty column, thicker than a Red Bull can, the girth flaring widest just below the head so a hand can’t close around it; fingers splay, knuckles whitening, still leaving a gap. Veins bulge like cables under the surface, one dorsal rope as fat as a pencil, two lateral cords twisting down each side, pulsing visibly when blood surges. It feels like an invasion inside you that never lets you forget it’s there. The head forces the entrance open, stretching the rim white hot until it burns, the thickest swell just below the crown locking you open wider than you thought possible, that thick vein grinding against your walls like a thumb pressed hard inside. Every throb is mind-blowing; walls clamped so tight the stretch is constant, a deep, aching fullness that radiates into your hips, lungs and spine. He uses it like a weapon he’s spent decades mastering: short, grinding rolls of his hips that never fully retreat, just enough to let the ridge tug at the entrance before slamming back in. When he stills, buried balls deep, the throb of his cock is a second heartbeat inside you, the stretch a obscene reminder that you’re split open and his.
( + PLUS ) Absolute Bruce’s cock is monstrous, nine and a half inches of raw, veined granite that looks carved from the same dark stone as the rest of him. Girth is thicker than a beer bottle, the kind of circumference that makes a two handed grip look pathetic, fingers splayed wide and still not meeting. He’s trimmed military-short: the black hair at the base buzzed to a coarse velvet shadow, the shaft itself shaved clean so every ridge and vein stands in stark. And well, his cock doesn’t enter; it claims. He knows he’s a lot, so he doesn’t rush the stretch. He works with shallow rocks to open you wider, then a sudden, deep surge that seats him to the root, balls pressed flush. The fullness is total; you feel him in your throat, in your gut, a heavy weight that shifts with every breath he takes. He’d bulge inside you, a visible rising under the skin of your lower belly every time he bottoms out. He moves forward just to watch himself move inside you, the swell rising would make him lose it... the head nudging up toward your navel is the clear representation of how far you’re willing to go, to take... for him. After that you’ll be feeling that man for weeks.
It’s not on purpose, but absolute!bruce fucks you like he’s breeding you.
He’s not, god forbid, not in his Gotham - but his cock is too damn big for it to feel like he’s doing anything anything else. He’s 400lbs, near 6’9, full of double the amount of sperm as any other man you’ve been with, AND his dick’s big as a rail………..even if you can take it, that’s about all you can do.
(You’re lucky he’s so patient, half the time spent with his face between your legs just to open you up enough to get his tip in, the other half just waiting for you to adjust once he finally does. He gets it, he really does.)
But that’s why he’s gotta hoist your hips up into mating press just to get it feeling right — if he’s not in all the way, there’s chafing, or he’s sliding out, or there’s too much of a. Gap between your bodies which neither of you can stand (Bruce especially. He never half-asses anything).
Or why he’s gotta put you in prone from doggy and press your chest into the sheets just to get you to stop shaking. Spends his time massaging your ass cheeks, sinking into you nice and slow and deep until you’re feeling like a shaken can of coke, and can feel literally him every time you inhale. Bruce leaves his mark on your guts from the second he leaves until the following Tuesday. It’s so bad.
(And god forbid you’re ovulating — got your pussy pulsing at just the thought of him. Good lord!)
"it's not gonna fit." he mutters, more to himself than to you. he presses his lips to a thin line, watching your leaking cunt after he made you cum a couple of times with his fingers and tongue. his veiny and huge cock is spring free against his stomach as he watches down at you, biting your lip.
"it kinda has to fit, bruce, it'd be so awkward if it didn't." you tease, pushing jokingly his hip with your feet. "c'mon, babe, i can handle feeling you for a couple of days."
he doesn't say anything, but his eyes darken just enough to make you shiver. he yanks you closer by the knee, pressing a kiss to your inner leg before hooking in under his shoulder for better access.
his free hand strokes his massive length, thick as your wrist, veined and throbbing, easily nine inches of pure intimidation. precum beads at the tip, and he drags it teasingly along your slick folds, coating you, making you whimper.
"careful what you wish for, sweetheart." he notches the blunt head at your entrance, pressing just enough to stretch you wide—fuck, it burns so good already.
you bite your lip harder, thighs quivering as he sinks in an inch, then two, your walls clenching greedily around him. "breathe for me. that's it... good girl."
he rocks his hips slow, splitting you open inch by agonizing inch until you're gasping, nails digging into his biceps. halfway in, and you're already stuffed full, his girth bullying your cervix like he owns it.
"mmh, fits just fine," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, voice wrecked. "you can take the rest, yeah? you said you could."
your cunt gushes obscenely with every deep thrust of simon's hips, both of your arms behind your back with a single large hand of his.
his cock, heavy and pulsing inside of you, thumps against your cervix each time he humps your ass, sloshing around the old loads of his cum that he already dispensed within your pussy.
he has you on your knees, chest against the bed, your nipples stiff and dry from the constant stimulation. its painful, he's had you come several times around him, finding enterainment in the way you so easily can gush around him with a flick of his fingers on your clit.
"shiimon," you slur out, muffled in the sheets damp with your slick and tears and other fluids. simon stops his ruthless pounding on your cunt, opting for a harsh grind balls deep against your cervix, teasing the already battered and bruised tissue.
"tha's tha shit huh, baby?" he says lowly, almost out of breath. "enjoyin' yourself?"
you whine at his teasing, attempting to hide yourself into the ruined pillows before simon is slapping a heavy hand onto the sensitive flesh of your asscheek, already red with his hand print. he can be so mean sometimes.
you're not given a warning before simons laying his entire 250 pound pure hardened muscle of a body onto your much more sensitive and fragile one, screaming helplessly as the last inch of his cock that you always struggle to take slides in forcefully, pressing painfully against your cervix as if he was on a mission to break it and pass through into your womb.
if only.
with his body weight fully on top of you, youre given no choice but to go limp and flat against the mattress, your tummy and breasts digging into the material. simon lets out a throaty moan when your cunt squeezes around him, cock twitching upwards into what feels like must be your guts as you messily cum on his cock, your juices leaking out around him and creating an even bigger mess on his and your thighs.
"thats it girl, good girl," he praises, his hips tight against your ass. he leans down, his chest against your back so he can lay open-mouthed kisses against your earlobe, relishing in the way you shiver and attempt to squirm away from the overwhelming stimulation.
simon begins rocking his hips once more, slowly. feeling your walls open and close with every in and out of his movement. the peace is there for a moment, you're quiet and almost comatose from how good he's fucking you until simon becomes discontempt with your silence and hes angling his hips and pulling out until his tip is hardly inside of you and slamming back inside to the hilt.
its with the new angle that your back is forced to arch, pressure elevated to your lower tummy and as result your bladder.
its then that you begin to really panic. thrashing wildly and sobbing for simon to stop, clawing at his hand that is holding yours.
"s-simon! 'm gunna pee!" you cry, face hot as summer sun from pure embarrassment.
simon only scoffs, smiling lightly at your panicking. but he doesnt move. he instead uses his forearms to hold himself up, using his weight and slamming his hips against your ass with a lewd "plap plap plap".
youre wailing at this point. his ruthless thrusts force your tummy against the mattress, the immense pressure of his tip plunging against your cervix, proves to be too much for you. youve taken everything he's given you, letting him wear you like a fleshlight until youre nearly bursting at the seams, but this is too much.
"simon!" you warn one last time, sobbing and trying to push yourself upwards and away from him. with one final aimed thrust to your cervix, the dam breaks loose, your eyes rolling to the back to your head as you tremble and your muscle contract painfully as you cum once more, except instead the water isnt a small trickle and instead its a long stream of your piss.
simon just moans, long and loud, tipping his head back, continuing his thrusts. he flushes at the lewd sight of you twitching so cutely, pissing yourself from cumming too hard from his efforts.
he bites at his lips, humping weakly against you some more before hes pulling out, wet squelches audible as he pulls his engorged cock from the tight confines of your pussy. if you werent fucked nearly to the last inch of your life, you would feel the mattress dip underneath simons heavy weight as he shuffed towards your face, jerking his cock noisily over your face, his eyes glued to the puffiness of your eyes and cheeks, the wetness from your tears and the clear defeat in your bones, tipping him over the edge and at long last cursing your name as his cock spurts several hot ropes of his potent cum over your adorable face.
t141 are used to simon muttering about his missus. to be honest johnny and kyle thought he was insane, because there is no way in hell lieutenant simon 'ghost' riley has a wife. especially one that he describes to be so soft and sweet.
when they pry and ask about you, he happily tells details, but will never disclose your name or show them a photo. he just has to keep you alllll to himself. naturally kyle and johnny don't believe him.
then simon starts arriving on base with lunches. real good lunches. johnny watches in envy as simon will lift his mask over his mouth and open his little (big) box, juicy steak covered in a real nice sauce.
"y'must be an awful good cook sir" johnny mutters, entranced in the smell of good food.
"told ya my missus makes it for me" simon would grunt. he silently pockets the small notes you would leave him.
i miss u <3
or
im proud of u <3
or
want u to fuck me real good tonight ;)
he would pocket the latter to jerk off to in his office later.
one day simon forgets his lunch. and being the everso caring and worrying wife, you rush down to the base to bring it to him.
when a pretty thing such as yourself arrives on base, the recruits can't keep their eyes off you. especially johnny who approaches awful confident.
"you lost lass?" he can't help his eyes drifting to your pretty tits spilling over your top.
"no" you bat your pretty lashes at him, "my husband left his lunch at home, i thought i could give it to him!"
johnny nearly fell to his knees in agony when you said husband. sighing he said, "aye then, do you know his rank or platoon number?"
you hum trying to recall. "i think task 141, his name is simon riley." you quickly reconfirm, "oh wait everyone here calls him ghost"
johnny stops dead in his tracks.
"you're LT's wife?"
you look up at him with a pretty smile and nod proudly. johnny had to hold back a groan, god you were beautiful.
and you were real.
you follow behind johnny while he leads you to simon and when you reach his office, johnny knocks once.
"come in" is grunted out slightly harshly
any hostility is quickly wiped off simon's face when he sees his pretty little wife standing next to his sergeant.
"hi si! you forgot your lunch" and you almost gallop over to simon in excitement holding out his lunchbox for him.
fuck. when is it johnny's turn :(
"you're excused soap" simon grunts, "although i'll get you to escort her back off base so stick around."
thats how johnny ends up sitting outside simon's office getting having to listen to the clattering of items on simon's desk as well as your sweet moans and whimpers while simon thanks you for making his lunch.
he can't stop staring at you when you stumble out on shaking legs with messed up hair and smudged lipgloss.
he has got to tell kyle that not only are you real, but you're fucking ethereal.
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