Feeling: Ovaries are hungry

That’s how you ended up here—naked on the bed, thighs spread over Price’s lap while Gaz knelt between your legs like he’d been invited to dinner.

Price’s big hands were firm on your waist, keeping you pinned back against his chest. “She’s sensitive.” he muttered, almost clinical, but you could feel how hard he was against your lower back. “On with it, sergeant.”

Gaz’s eyes flicked up to yours, dark and hungry. “You ready for this, love?”

You nodded, already wet and aching just from the sheer thrill of the situation.

Gaz didn’t waste time. Two thick fingers slid through your folds, spreading you open. “First thing—don’t rush. Get her nice and wet.” He rubbed slow circles over your clit until your hips jerked, then pushed two fingers inside, curling just right.

Price watched every movement like it was a briefing.

“There’s a spongy spot here…” Gaz pressed upward deliberately causing your whole body to jolt. “Right there. That’s your target.”

He started pumping—steady, focused strokes that dragged over that spot again and again while his thumb kept pressure on your clit.

Price’s voice was rough in your ear. “Breathe, sweetheart. Let him work.”

Your orgasm built fast—embarrassingly so.

“That’s it..” Gaz praised, voice low. “She’s swelling up. See how she’s pulsing?” He added a third finger and the pressure inside became unbearable. “When she starts trying to close her legs, don’t let her. Keep going.”

Price’s hands moved to your thighs, holding them open. You came with a broken cry, but Gaz didn’t stop. He kept fingering you through it, rough and relentless, and suddenly everything felt tighter, hotter, like something was about to—

“There..” Gaz growled. “Let it go, lovely...”

With a whine, a gush of wetness flooded out around his fingers, soaking the sheets and his wrist. Price made a low, filthy sound behind you as he watched you squirt for the first time in your life.

Gaz eased his fingers out slowly, letting you ride the aftershocks, then lifted his soaked hand to show Price. “That’s the spot. Consistent pressure, curved fingers, and you don’t stop when she comes.. you keep going until she gives it to you.”

Price’s breathing was ragged. His cock was nearly throbbing against your back.

Gaz wiped his fingers on your inner thigh, then met Price’s eyes. “Your turn, Captain.”

Price shifted you forward, laying you down properly. He kissed the inside of your knee, voice low with promise.

“Watch close, Sergeant. I’m a fast learner.”

Someday, you think to yourself, carefully feeling your way down the stairs on faith and muscle memory alone, unable to see past your overloaded laundry basket and your swollen belly, I’ll be rich, and then I can live in a flat with an in-unit washer and dryer. And that is the day I will finally be happy.

Laundry has always been your least favorite chore, but ever since you hit the four month mark of your pregnancy and blew up like a balloon, you’ve come to hate it with the fiery, burning passion of one thousand suns. If you never have to do a load of laundry again, it will be too soon.

It doesn’t help that your piece of shite ex up and ran the moment he found out you were pregnant. God forbid a grown man be faced with adult responsibilities instead of sitting on your couch, eating your food, and watching your telly all day, every day. Being single and pregnant was far from easy, but once the initial shock of it was over, you realized that you were glad he was gone. Never again would you tiptoe around your own flat whenever he was drunk, afraid of setting off his hair-trigger temper and taking a backhand to the face for it. Never again would you work three jobs just to support a lazy bum of a boyfriend. Never again would you let a man order you around in your own bloody home.

If you have a son, you’ll teach him to not just respect women, but cherish them. He’ll turn out nothing like his father, you’ll make sure of that.

Lost in thought, you miss the second-to-last step, and as you pitch forward, you see your life flash before your eyes. You drop your basket and wrap your arms around your belly, futilely trying to protect the little life inside you. But just before you hit the ground, two, huge hands appear out of nowhere and grab your hips, pulling you close so you break your fall against a broad, muscular chest instead of the unforgiving concrete floor.

The noise you let out is some amalgamation of a curse, a sob of relief, and a shriek of fear. The noise you get in response sounds like a yelp, a grunt, and a sneeze all at once. It takes several seconds for you to realize it’s just German.

The German hero is still talking, much too fast for your A-Level fluency to understand. As he sets you on your feet, you realize you’re shaking, and you clutch onto his beefy arm and dig your nails in, sure you’ll topple right over if he lets go. He goes still and stops talking, and for a long moment, you just listen to the pounding of blood in your ears as the adrenaline slowly fades from your body.

“God,” you whisper, letting out a deep, shuddering breath. You look up… and up… and up one more time, finally meeting the eyes of your hero. They are big, blue, and watery, framed by thin, sparse brows above, and a black scarf below, pulled up over his mouth and nose. It looks familiar, and you frown. “Did I drop my laundry on you?”

“Ah… nein,” the tall stranger says. Your neck is starting to hurt from how far back you’ve bent it, but you don’t dare brave the stairs again just to get up to his height. He looks down, and gestures at your feet, radiating awkwardness. “It is on the floor.”

You look down as well, and then groan. Your clothes are scattered all over the stairwell’s filthy landing, and you can only imagine how many germs are crawling all over them right now. At least they’re not clean… But you’re still going to have to struggle to get every single item back in the basket, without your stupidly large belly making you faceplant every time you bend over.

“I can help?” the German giant offers, his knees audibly popping as he folds his long legs in half and grabs the basket, holding it out to you. He tilts his head a little to the side in question, eyes skittering away from yours. “Yes?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, accepting the basket and tucking it under your arm. “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks. For this, and— well. Saving me and the little one.”

You caress your baby bump, feeling reassured when you feel a tiny kick. You gaze down at it with a soft smile.

“Mummy’s alright, sweetheart,” you tell your belly in a lilting voice. “The nice stranger caught us. How lucky we are, hmm?”

You look up, still smiling, only to find the man staring at you with wide eyes. You can’t read his expression very well with half his face covered, but he seems almost frightened. You raise a brow, and he ducks his head, quickly gathering several items of clothing and dumping them into the basket without looking at you. You shrug, and dismiss it as some weird German quirk.

A second later, he lets out an odd, choked sound, and you look at him to see him holding one of your nursing bras. Two months out from giving birth, and you’ve already started lactating. Your doctor reassured you that it’s normal, if rare—it just means that your body is ready to provide for your baby. Which would be great, if you didn’t have to manually pump twice a day to avoid sore, swollen breasts, clogged milk ducts, and leaky tits staining your favorite clothes.

On the plus side, you already have a big enough supply of frozen milk to last until your baby is six months old, so you’ll never have to worry about them going hungry. You do miss having space in your freezer for frozen pizzas, though…

The stranger deposits your bra in the basket, the skin just above the scarf a bright red. You press your lips together to keep from chuckling, unable to help but find his embarrassment endearing.

“You sure that’s not mine?” You ask, reaching out to tug on the end of his scarf, teasing him a little more. You don’t get out much nowadays, and it’s been quite awhile since you’ve gotten to engage in a bit of harmless flirting. The stranger shakes his head, quickly adjusting the scarf to make sure it doesn’t fall down.

“Nein, nein,” he says, scanning the ground hurriedly. He lets out a small, relieved noise, plucking a scrap of black fabric off your feet, where it had been hidden from you by your belly. It’s your scarf, identical to his own. He holds it up for you to see, looking nervous, like you’d truly believed he’d stolen from you. “See?”

You can’t contain your laugh this time, giggling as you take the scarf from his hand and drop it in the basket.

“Guess you’re not a thief, then,” you say with a wink. Then, because you’ve always had a bit of a dirty sense of humor, “So none of my knickers are going to mysteriously go missing?”

There’s that same, choked noise again, and even his forehead is starting to turn red now. He’s got a pile of your clothes in his arms, and on top is a pair of lacy knickers that absolutely don’t fit at the moment. You must’ve tossed them into this load by mistake—it’s not like you’ve been able to wear them recently.

“Oh, poor boy,” you coo, and he jolts like he’s been struck by lightning. “I’m being a right bastard, aren’t I? Sorry, I can’t help myself. It’s the pregnancy hormones. They make a woman crazy.”

You’re still joking, but he shakes his head so effusively you can tell that he thinks you’re serious. It makes you laugh again, and you hold out the basket for him to put the rest of your clothes into.

“Thanks again for the help, stranger,” you say sweetly.

“K-König,” he replies, and you blink, tilting your head to the side in question. He clears his throat, reaching up to scratch the back of his head. His hair is buzzed so short it’s hard to tell what color it is, but if you had to guess, you’d say it’s a dark red. It goes nicely with his eyes—he really should grow it out. “My name. It is König.”

“Oh,” you say, before introducing yourself as well. “König, huh? Interesting name.”

From your murky memories of secondary school, you’re pretty sure it’s the German word for “King.” Briefly, you wonder what his mother could have possibly been thinking. You know just how hard choosing a name is, but “King?” Seriously?

“It is, ah, a nickname,” he answers haltingly, ducking his head. Oops. You definitely sounded judgy. Time to do damage control.

“It’s nice!” You say quickly, and honestly, if you didn’t know the literal translation, you would think it was a nice name. “I like how it sounds. And it’s fun to say. König. Kooonig. Pretty.”

It’s your turn to feel embarrassed. You’re rambling and making even more of a fool of yourself than when you smacked into him, face first. But König doesn’t give you a weird look, just ducks his head lower and twists his fingers together, before abruptly reaching out to take the basket from you.

“I will carry for you,” he states. Then, delayed, like he’s more used to giving orders than asking for permission, “Yes?”

A little bemused, you just nod, and then warily start descending the stairs again, one hand gripping the railing for dear life, the other resting on your belly. König follows closely behind you, a giant, nervous shadow. The laundry room is in the basement of your five storey building, and just your luck, the elevator is out of service. By the time you make it down two flights, you’re out of breath, and you lean against the wall to take a break.

“Ugh,” you complain, because complaining makes you feel better, at least emotionally. “God, I hate stairs. Don't you?”

You look up at König, only to find him completely unfazed. Your gaze lingers on his strong, muscular arms, and you remember the firm feeling of his chest under your face.

“Right, of course you’re fine,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “Are you some kind of soldier or something?”

König shifts, eyes darting away from you.

“Ah… ja. A soldier. Or something,” he answers, sounding very suspicious. You decide you’re better off not knowing, and just nod politely.

“Well, I’m not, so we’re going to be stuck here until my lower back stops screaming at me.” You huff a laugh. “Nobody ever tells you about that, you know? Don’t really tell you much of anything about pregnancy. Especially not how hard it is to do alone.”

König’s eyes widen again, finally returning to you. You wince. Oh, great. Now the massive, strange (and strangely nice, you have to admit) man that is possibly a soldier, possibly a criminal knows you live alone, in this building. Brilliant move, truly.

“The father?” he asks while you continue to mentally berate yourself. You hesitate for a second, then shrug.

“Better off without him,” you say after a beat, before forcing a bright smile onto your face and pushing off the wall. “Alright, on we go. I’m not wasting any more effort on these bloody clothes—it’s bad enough I have to pay to wash them. I’m mourning the two quids already.”

When you finally reach the laundry room, you plop down onto the single folding chair just next to the door, taking a deep breath. König stands beside you awkwardly, and you give him a sheepish look.

“Would you mind putting the laundry in the machine for me? Bending over’s quite a challenge nowadays. I’ll get it started properly in a moment. I just need another quick rest.”

He nods, bringing the basket over to the closest available machine. You watch him carefully place your clothes inside, one by one so nothing falls on the floor again. His hands stutter over your nursing bra, just like last time, bringing a wry smile to your face. You honestly doubt that he’s ever had sex. Despite his staggering height and intimidating breadth, he looks quite young—certainly more so than you. Then again, you’ve only seen half his face. Maybe he’s secretly in his fifties.

You snort, thinking of how awkward and shy he is. He acts like he’s barely out of university. Hmm… does that make you a cougar for flirting with him?

You decide you don’t care, leaning back in your seat a bit more and closing your eyes. A moment later, they open right back up when you hear the washer groan as it turns on, your brows furrowing.

“You didn’t ha—” you start, but König is already brushing past you and out the door, long legs eating up the distance so quickly that by the time you manage to get up, he’s already vanished. You frown, casting a glance back at the rumbling machine, before settling back into the uncomfortable folding chair to wait.

***

König slams the door of his flat shut behind him, back pressed firmly against it. He digs around in his pocket as he slides down the wood until he’s sitting on the floor. His cock strains in his trousers, painfully hard. His fingers tighten around a wad of soft fabric, and he tugs it out of his pocket, yanking his scarf down so he can press it against his face and inhale deeply.

“Scheiße,” he curses, fumbling with his fly. Your nursing bra smells delicious, a mix of your sweat and milk. He turns it around, burying his nose in one of the cups, and then sticks his tongue out, licking it. He groans loudly, taking his long, thick cock in hand and beginning to stroke it roughly. “Mama, du schmeckst so gut…”

He begins to suck on the middle of the bra’s cup like it’s your nipple, moving his hand faster. He’s so close already, has been half-hard since the moment you crashed into him, and fully erect since you caressed your swollen belly and spoke to the baby nestled within with such loving tenderness. He’d felt so desperately jealous in that moment, wishing you were his Mama, that you would speak to him like that. Why wasn’t his mother like you? If she had been, he wouldn’t be such a freak, the kind of man who is so pathetic as to steal his pretty neighbor’s undergarments and jerk off with them. Instead, she had flitted in and out of his life whenever the mood struck, leaving him with an aching, gaping hole in his heart that even his Oma and Opa couldn’t heal, though they’d done their best to raise him. The hole had only grown bigger after their deaths, and now, any woman who is even slightly kind to him makes his heart race and his cock harden. But you… you’re glowing with the maternal affection he so craves, and just a few short minutes in your presence was nearly his undoing.

König moans your name as he comes. There’s so much of it—there was always so much of it, “hyperspermia,” his doctor had once told him—that when he’s finally finished, the white, sticky liquid coats his hand, his trousers, his shirt, even the floor. A little bit has managed to get on your bra as well, and he flushes deeply, ashamed of himself. He’s disgusting; nothing but a perverted loser… a woman like you would never want someone like him.

Guiltily, he cleans himself up, mopping the floor before hopping into the shower. He’ll wash your bra tomorrow and leave it in the dryer. When you find it the next time you do your laundry, you’ll just think you had left it there by accident. But tonight… tonight, he’ll hold it close to his face as he sleeps, breathing in your scent. For a little bit, he’ll be able to pretend that someone loves him, enough to let him fall asleep while suckling at their breast, like a mother would.

***

You’re pretty sure König is avoiding you.

You’ve seen him a couple times over the last two weeks, but he mysteriously seems to vanish every time you try to catch up with him. It’s criminal how a guy that big can get around so sneakily—and it’s seriously getting on your nerves.

It seems that luck is on your side today, though, because the old, creaky elevator is up and running again, and when the doors open, there he is. He’s got his own basket of laundry this time, and from the slightly sour smell that greets you as you step inside, it’s long overdue for a wash.

When he spots you, his eyes widen, and he tries to step around you, clearly intent on running again. You turn to the side and use your belly to block his exit, unrepentant despite the panicked expression on his face.

“Finally!” you exclaim, audibly exasperated. You jab his well-sculpted chest with your pointer finger, giving him an accusatory glare. “You, young man, are exceptionally hard to track down.”

Though the scarf covers his throat as well as his mouth and nose, you’re pretty sure König gulps. He ducks his head, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

“Ah, I am sorry, Ma—Ma’am,” he answers, stumbling over his words. You scoff.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you state plainly. “And I know why.”

König’s head whips back up, and his already pale face completely drains of color, his watery, blue eyes terrified. You let him stew in his fear for a few seconds before you continue.

“You don’t want me to pay you back for the load of laundry you did for me,” you finish, rolling your eyes. “I assume it’s some weird, German dick measuring contest thing.” König splutters. You talk right over him. “And you know what? Fine. I won’t be difficult about a few quid. But I’m not some mannerless twat, either. So that means you’re coming to dinner at mine tonight, so I can properly thank you. Understood?”

You’re still poking König’s chest, and you notice that his shirt is rumpled. You huff, smoothing it out and then straightening his collar before looking back up at him, eyes narrowed.

“I said, do you understand?”

König looks about five seconds from passing out, but he nods mutely. You smile, then reach up and pat his covered cheek.

“There’s a lad,” you say. Suddenly, the elevator dings, and you turn around just as the doors open up to the lobby. “18:00, König. Flat 412. Don’t be late.”

***

König is not late. He shows up outside your flat at exactly 17:59, waits one minute, and then knocks as soon as his watch switches to 18:00. From inside, there’s a loud bang, a louder curse, and then hurried footsteps coming his way.

“Give me a sec!” you call through the door, before retreating to clean up whatever mess you made. He wishes you’d let him in so he could help. The confrontation with you earlier today reignited his guilt about pleasuring himself with your underthings, and he’s desperate to soothe it any way he can.

At 18:02, you open the door, a smear of flour on your cheek and a satisfied smile on your face. You’re wearing an apron over your swollen belly, thick oven gloves sticking out of the front pocket. You look utterly domestic, and König’s cock twitches as his heart aches with want.

“Good, you came,” you say, moving aside to usher him in. “Come on, in you go. Don’t want the food to get cold.”

König obeys, letting you shepherd him through the flat to the tiny kitchen, and into a dining chair. He awkwardly folds his body in order to fit, his knees practically up by his chest. You frown at the display, and he ducks his head, feeling insecure. On the battlefield, his size is his greatest weapon, and he’s come to take quite a lot of pride in it, even though it had stopped him from being a sniper like he’d always dreamed of. But in the real world, it’s nothing but a hindrance. He’s a freak—too big, too intimidating, too unusual. He doesn’t fit in chairs or cars or through doorways, and he scares almost every woman he comes across. He’s sure that if he hadn’t saved you at just the right time, you, too, would be afraid of him.

“Chin up, love,” you say, patting his shoulder. He shivers at the contact. You’re so free with your touches, your sweet names, your encouragement… it’s driving him insane. “You’re alright. I’m just sorry I don’t have something more comfortable for you.”

“Nein, this is— this is fine,” he rushes to reassure you, trying not to make even more of a fool of himself. He shifts in his seat, attempting to look a little less like an elephant balancing on a teacup. “It is great. Very comfortable.”

From the look on your face, he can tell his performance isn’t all that convincing. But you don’t press the issue, much to his relief.

“I’ve made lemon chicken with fettuccine alfredo,” you just say, turning around and heading back to the oven. You put your oven gloves on and slowly, carefully bend over to retrieve the food. König’s gaze goes immediately to your bum, but he tears it away when he hears you start grunting as you struggle not to fall. He springs up and out of the chair, rushing over and helping you straighten. His hands linger on your body as you smile up at him, making him feel frozen, like a bug caught in amber.

“Making a habit of coming to my rescue, are you?” you tease, and König blushes, coughing as he reluctantly lets go and takes a step back. You set the glass pan down on the stovetop and start filling plates for the both of you before pausing. “You don’t have any allergies, do you? I can’t believe I didn’t ask! How rude of me.”

“Nein! Nein, I have none,” König stumbles over himself to reassure you. Though he probably would have said the same even if he did, if only it meant he got to eat your cooking. To eat a mother’s homemade meal… his heart squeezes in his chest. “No allergies, Ma—Ma’am.”

“That’s a relief,” you say, picking up the plates and bringing them to the table. You’re waddling a bit because of your belly, and while your back is turned, König reaches down to squeeze the bulge in his trousers, unable to help himself. He quickly lets go and folds himself back into his chair as you do the same. His brows furrow when he notices how much bigger the portion on his plate is than yours, looking at you questioningly.

“What? You’re a growing boy, you need your nutrients,” you say. He bites his chapped bottom lip to hold in a whimper. “Besides, even pregnant I don’t think I could eat as much as you.”

König’s sure that’s true—honestly, even the amount you gave him, generous as it is, is less than what he would usually serve himself. He wouldn’t dare say as much, though, not wanting to seem ungrateful. Because he is grateful, incredibly so. And it makes him feel even worse about his depraved thoughts and actions.

You begin eating, and after a moment of hesitation, König lowers his scarf until it’s tucked below his chin. He tries not to squirm as you blatantly study his face, nervously waiting for your reaction. He’s sure you’ll think he’s ugly—he knows that he is. His eyes are already bad enough, watery and red-rimmed and as oversized as the rest of him. But below the scarf is a long nose with an unattractive bump on the bridge, too-big ears, pudgy cheeks, acne-pitted skin, a shiny, pink burn on his jaw, and thin, chapped lips. A scar cuts through the top one, stopping just below his nostrils. It’s from a childhood surgery to correct a horrid cleft lip. Though he certainly looks better than before, every time he looks in the mirror, he can’t help but remember the ruthless teasing he was subjected to by his classmates before the deformity was fixed.

But instead of laughing at him or wrinkling your nose, you smile, sweet and maternal.

“Well you’re a handsome lad. No wonder you cover up—you’d have to beat the girls off with a stick if you didn’t,” you tease, and he flushes deeply, shoulders hunching as he tries to hide from the compliments. Surely you’re just being kind. Surely you don’t mean it. “And so young… is this your first time living on your own, love?”

Young? He thinks, brows furrowing. He glances up at you from beneath his short, stubby lashes, thinking you’re joking, but you have a look of genuine curiosity on your face. He clears his throat, awkwardly shifting in his seat.

“Ah… nein. I am thirty-nine. Not young,” he replies. Your eyes widen in shock.

“Thirty-nine? But you look like a little boy!” you exclaim, and König’s knuckles turn white as he grips his utensils nearly tight enough to break them. You have no idea what you’re doing to him, how you’re feeding his depraved, desperate mind with all your comments. Oh, the things he would give to be your little boy… You giggle. “Well, your face, at least. It’s so cute, I just want to squish your cheeks!”

König whimpers under his breath, his cock hard and aching in his trousers. He opens his mouth, about to beg you to do just that, but it’s so dry that no sound comes out. Gott sei dank.

You give him an embarrassed look, clearly misinterpreting the reason for his speechlessness.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s the pregnancy hormones. I swear, they’re making me want to mother hen everything. I started baby-talking to my roomba the other day when it got itself stuck under the couch!”

König has officially reached a new low, being jealous of a vacuum.

“It is okay,” he says, lowering his gaze to his plate, unable to look you in the eye. “It is— kind of you to say. I know I am… unpleasant to look at.”

König takes a bite of his food—it’s as delicious as his Oma’s cooking always was, just like he expected—trying to distract himself from the sudden silence. He tenses when he sees you shift out of the corner of his eye, the sound of your chair scraping across the vinyl floors grating against his ears. You stand, rounding the table until you’re right beside him. König holds his breath as he stays perfectly still, not knowing what to expect.

There’s a gentle touch to his cheek, and he flinches, ducking his head so low it nearly touches his chest. But then your fingers slide from his cheek, to his jaw, to his chin, gripping it firmly, but not harshly. He can feel you trying to lift his face, to turn it towards you, and after a moment of hesitation, he allows it. His gaze finally meets your own, and he swallows thickly when he notices your frown.

“You are not ‘unpleasant to look at,’ König,” you say, your tone leaving no room for argument. The pad of your thumb ghosts over his surgery scar, and he whimpers. You quirk a smile at the sound, and he cuts his gaze away, embarrassed. You lightly shake his head, tutting. “Ah ah, don’t look away. Didn’t your mother ever teach you the importance of eye contact?”

König winces, slowly dragging his gaze back to yours. He shakes his head minutely.

“No, Mama,” he whispers, voice cracking from how dry his throat is. He licks his lips to wet them, his tongue accidentally making contact with your thumb. His cock jumps, and he’s pretty sure he goes a little cross-eyed. He hastily corrects himself. “I— I had no mama. I mean.”

“You poor thing,” you croon, letting go of his chin to pull him into a hug. His face is pressed right to your soft breasts, and he groans lowly, unable to stop himself from burrowing into the plushness, just a little bit. He feels something wet against his cheek, and he turns his head a little, lips parted, breathing heavy. His tongue darts out, brushing against the fabric, and he gasps at the sweet taste of your milk, his cock spurting as he comes untouched, soaking the front of his trousers.

You pull away, and he leans forward, chasing your scent, your taste, your warmth. He’s panting, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed. The sweetness of your milk lingers on his tongue, and it takes him several long seconds to realize you’re talking.

“—so sorry! My pump broke last night, and I haven’t been able to find my nursing bra.”

It feels like a bucket of ice has just been poured over his head, dousing the afterglow of his orgasm. His eyes snap from your beautiful breasts to your face—and he goes pale as a ghost at the knowing expression he finds on it.

“I— es war nicht— I did not—” he stammers rapidly, panicked. You raise a single brow at him, and he shuts up. He stares at you fearfully for a long moment, and then slowly reaches into his back pocket—careful not to reveal the mess he’s made in his trousers—and withdraws your nursing bra. He looks down as he holds it out to you, his hands shaking, entire face tomato-red, even his too-big ears.

You hum as you take the offending piece of clothing from him and place it on the table, out of the way.

“You’ve been a bad boy, König,” you say, and he shivers, spent cock twitching, valiantly trying to harden again. “Stealing my underwear… I bet you got yourself off with it, didn’t you?”

König doesn’t answer, hunching over in shame.

“Of course you did… horny little boy. No mother to teach you manners… have you ever even been with a woman?”

He mouths a response, nothing more than a rasp of air. You grab his chin, harder this time, and force him to look at you.

“What did I say about looking at me when I’m talking to you?” you ask sternly. He leans into your touch, feeling small and helpless and so incredibly turned on.

“Sorry Mama,” he breathes, barely feeling conscious. You purse your lips, giving his head a little shake again, clearing it. He gulps when he realizes what he just said, trying to curl in on himself in shame, but you don’t let him.

“I asked you a question,” you say. “And I expect an answer. Have you ever been with a woman?”

He lets out a shaky breath, and his gaze almost darts away before he remembers your scolding. He wets his lips, and then nods.

“A prostitute,” he admits, voice small, embarrassed. “She was much older… the only one not scared of me.”

Your expression softens instead of souring with disgust like he expects, and you relax your grip on his chin, moving to cup his cheek instead.

“Tch… how sad.” König flinches. “You must have been desperate for a woman’s touch.” You swipe your thumb across his browbone, leaning down, your breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. “A mother’s touch…”

“Mama,” he gasps, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your breasts again to hide the way he’s tearing up. You know. You know how disgusting he is, his twisted desires, and you’re using them against him, cruelly playing with him… but he can’t help but beg for more. Anything to keep you touching him, to keep you speaking to him in that soft, condescending tone of voice, the same one his mother would use on the rare occasions she deigned to speak to him during her infrequent visits. The voice that makes him feel two feet tall and his cock weep. “Bitte, Mama, bitte. Es tut mir leid. Es tut mir so leid. Bitte, vergib mir, bitte, liebe mich, liebe mich, bitte!”

You shush him, petting his hair as he cries into your breasts like a scared child, so completely at odds with the bloodthirsty, terrifying soldier most people know him as. He’s ashamed of this part of him, the pathetic little boy so desperate for maternal care that he falls apart at the first glimpse of it. The disgusting pervert that comes untouched just from the barest taste of a mother's milk.

“That’s it, sweet boy,” you say softly once his sobs have faded to sniffles. “That’s it. Let it all out. Mama’s here.”

He shudders, whining softly as his arms tighten around your waist. He quickly loosens them again though, not wanting to hurt you—or your baby. Your belly presses against his chest, big and round, and he envies your unborn child fiercely. He wishes it was him inside you, that he really was your baby, that you really were his Mama.

He wonders if that’s better or worse than being jealous of a vacuum.

When his sobs have faded to quiet hiccups, and his embarrassment has returned tenfold, he forces himself to let you go, wringing his hands together as he avoids your gaze once more. He doesn’t know what to say, sure he’s worn out your patience with all his blubbering. Surely you’re going to kick him out now—perhaps you’ll even report him to your landlord for stealing your underthings…

“Do you feel better, baby?” you ask him, and he flinches, but nods, still not looking at you. You hum, cupping his downturned face for a moment, before you grab his hands and tug. He stands easily, unable to even consider disobeying you, but quickly drops your hands and tries to cover the mess over his groin. You tut, pulling his hands away, pursing your lips when you see the dark stain covering his crotch. He flushes, tears of shame gathering in his eyes again.

“Messy boy,” you say, a gentle reproach. Then, harsher, “Perverted boy… Buying whores, stealing underwear, coming all over yourself from a hug… it’s pathetic.”

The tears fall, and he hunches in on himself, your words as hurtful as they are true.

“It’s not your fault, love,” you continue, voice soft now, reassuring. You take his hands in yours again and squeeze them gently. “You didn't have a Mum to teach you any better. But you do now, don’t you?”

He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening as his head jerks up to stare at you. You smile, amused and fond.

“That’s right. I’m your Mummy now. And that means it's my responsibility to punish you when you do something naughty.”

König’s cock twitches, his expression a mix of desire and apprehension. Your smile turns coy, and you lead him over to your couch, pushing at his chest until he sits down on the overstuffed cushion.

“Get your cock out, sweetheart,” you order, leaving no room for argument. He jolts like he’s been hit by an electric shock, but quickly reaches down with shaking hands to undo his trousers. The button stubbornly refuses to move, and he rips it off in his desperation to obey. You laugh, pretty and just a little bit mean, and he flushes, feeling hot all over, cock straining against his briefs, already half-hard again. He quickly tugs them down, tucking the waistband below his heavy balls, revealing himself to you. He holds his breath as you examine him, hoping you like what you see. He knows his dick is big, just like the rest of him. But he’s afraid it’s too big, also just like the rest of him. The fact that the flushed tip is covered in drying cum certainly doesn’t make it more appealing, he’s sure.

But slowly, a grin spreads across your face, your eyes sparkling. You hum, pleased, and your approval makes him dizzy—but it’s nothing compared to when you reach out and drag the tip of your nail up his length.

Still oversensitive from his orgasm, even the featherlight touch is enough to make his cock jump. He lets out a choked gasp, fighting not to pull you into his lap and rut against your pregnant belly like the filthy, depraved mutt he is.

“So sensitive,” you coo, settling on the couch next to him as you wrap your hand around him fully, now. The tip of your thumb and middle finger just barely touch, and the sight alone is enough to make his head spin. But then you start to stroke him, slow and steady, and he whines, gripping the couch cushions hard enough that he hears stitches popping. “Do you think you can give me another, sweetheart? Show Mummy just how badly you want her?”

He swallows thickly, but nods, determined to do as you say. His eyes fall from your face to your breasts, and he licks his lips at the dark spots he sees staining your shirt. His cock hardens fully, thick and long as it points straight up, ending just past his navel. You laugh, tracing the neckline of your shirt teasingly as you lean in close to whisper in his ear.

“Do you want to see them?” you ask, nipping his earlobe before pulling back. He moans loudly, unsure whether he’s more aroused or embarrassed, and nods enthusiastically. You tsk at him, digging your nails into his cock just hard enough to hurt. He yelps, thrusting up into your hand, the sharp pain making him pant, panic and pleasure swirling low in his belly.

“Use your words, baby,” you say, holding his length too-tightly for another second before letting go entirely, cupping both your breasts. “Tell Mummy what you want.”

“Mama,” he whimpers, tears in his eyes from the pain, or maybe the desperation, he’s not sure. “Mama, please…”

“Proper sentences, love,” you answer, unmoved. “‘Mama, please’ what?”

He lets out a little hiccuping sob, reaching for your breasts—but you smack his massive hand away, and then swat at his hard cock, making him let out a broken moan as precum spills out.

“Bad boy!” you say sharply, and he hunches over in shame, guilt washing away the sticky strands of pleasure stretching through him. “That is not acceptable behavior, young man!”

“Es tut mir lied,” he cries, tears dripping down his round cheeks. Then again, in English. “S-sorry, I am so s-sorry, Mama! I am bad boy! Bad! I do not deserve your milk!”

“No, you don’t,” you agree, and this time when he moans, it’s in despair. “But my pump is still broken, and my breasts are so full it hurts. I can’t wait any longer for relief.”

With that, you climb into his lap, trapping his cock between your protruding belly and his much flatter one. It hurts a little, but that only makes it even better. He can’t help but rut against you once, twice, before he regains control of himself and forces himself to stop, babbling another apology.

“No,” you say, reaching down and gripping the bottom hem of your shirt, before pulling it up and over your head. You’re wearing a lacy bra that’s clearly from before your pregnancy, as it’s much too small for you. Your heavy, veiny breasts are practically spilling out of the cups, and the fabric is sodden with your milk. König is sure he must have died and gone to heaven, somehow. He spares a moment to pity the poor, innocent soul who got mixed up with him and took his spot in Hell, before refocusing on you, just in time to watch you shuck your bra off and reveal your gorgeous, milky tits in all their glory. “Keep doing that. And don’t you dare stop until I give you permission.”

Immediately, he starts rutting against you once more, and though he’s grateful, so grateful you’re even letting him do this—he’s a greedy boy, and he can’t help but wish he was thrusting into you instead. But he knows he doesn’t deserve such a reward, so doesn’t ask, just watches his precome leave shiny streaks against your round belly, awed.

Suddenly, something warm and wet hits his face, and he startles, looking up. One of your nipples is in your mouth, lips wrapped around it as you drink your own milk. The sight makes his balls draw up tightly, another orgasm building. You catch your nipple between your teeth and smile at him before going back to sucking. Something wet hits his face again, and he finally realizes that you’re gently squeezing your other breast with both hands, causing a steady stream of milk to squirt from it… and onto him.

König groans low in his chest, opening his mouth wide and sticking out his tongue to try and catch a single drop. At the same time, his cock pulses, his body locking up as he comes again. It hurts, still too sensitive from the last one, but he remembers your orders and doesn’t stop rutting. Your belly is entirely white by the time he’s done, the added slickness only making everything even more sensitive. The overstimulation makes him whine, tears coming to his eyes, but you show him no mercy. A minute later, his toes curl as a third climax rips out of him. He’s babbling, now, begging for relief, face dripping with your milk, your sweet taste on his tongue, half-hard cock throbbing with pain and pleasure. Still, you don’t let up, and he watches with blurry vision as you let your breast drop from your mouth and let go of the other before wrapping your arms around his neck. You lean in close, crushing his cock between the two of you and making him sob, more cum dribbling out.

“One more,” you whisper, and he sobs harder. You shush him, guiding your breast to his mouth, brushing your nipple against his trembling, cleft lip. “Little baby needs a pacifier… Go on, drink. Mummy’s milk will give you the strength you need to finish, hmm?”

He hiccups and latches on desperately, suckling like his life depends on it as he continues to weakly thrust his hips. He takes great, big, greedy swallows of your milk, and his eagerness has practically half your breast in his mouth. You gently run your fingers over his short hair, but they dig into his scalp a little when the flow of your milk slows down to a trickle before stopping entirely, and he starts lightly chewing on your nipple to try and coax more out.

“Other one,” you order, pushing his head away. He detaches from your nipple with a loud, wet pop, and you immediately smush his face against your other breast. “Be a good boy and come while you drain Mummy’s tits, okay?”

He doesn’t even know what noise he makes, just that it sounds utterly slutty and pathetic. He latches back on and suckles fervently. Maybe he should feel guilty, stealing all your milk from the baby in your belly, but he doesn’t. If he were your baby, he’d never waste a single drop—and your gorgeous tits would never get overfull again. He’d quit his job, leave it all behind, just to nurse from you all day long…

For the first time in his life, König comes a normal amount when he orgasms. His eyes roll back in his head and he reflexively bites down on your nipple none-too-gently. He can’t hear your reaction over the static in his ears, but he can feel you trembling atop him. The small part of him that isn’t completely overwhelmed by painpleasurepainpleasurepainpainpainPLEASURE hopes that it means you’re coming too.

When his senses return to him, the first thing he does is unlock his jaw. Your nipple falls out of his mouth, and he cringes when he sees the deep bite marks ringing your areola. He’s about to apologize when you cut him off with a bruising kiss. He submits easily, letting you take what you want, your tongue licking into his mouth and your teeth digging into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste of it makes his head spin.

“You can stop,” you breathe, nose still brushing his. His hips stutter, making him realize he’s still rutting pathetically against your belly. Slowly, he manages to get them to stop, gasping with every shallow thrust. His cock is screaming in delicious agony and his head falls against your chest as he cries, muffling his wails against your soft breasts.

“Oh, sweet boy,” you coo, holding him close and rubbing his back. “Sweet, sweet boy. You did so well for Mummy, baby. I’m so proud of you.”

He cries louder, arms wrapping tightly around your waist. He’s a mess, you pulled him apart so easily and he has no idea how he’ll ever be put back together. It’s terrifying, the power you have over him, and yet he’s never felt safer than in your embrace.

“Let’s get ourselves cleaned up, yeah?” you say after an indeterminate amount of time has passed, and König’s sobs have faded into sniffles and hiccups. Enough time for the milk and cum drenching the both of you to have dried and grown uncomfortably sticky. He nods, but whimpers when you go to pull away. You shush him again soothingly. “You can hold my hand while I lead us to the loo, okay? How does that sound?”

He whines softly but lets you move this time, gripping your hand tightly as the two of you get off the couch. He trails after you like a lost puppy as you walk through your small flat, you without a top on, and him with his raw, red cock still out. You giggle when he follows you into the shower stall and you see the results of your punishment, bending slightly to press a soft, lingering kiss to the tip. He gasps, leaning against the wall as his knees threaten to give out, another whine crawling up his throat.

“Mummy’s got to kiss her baby’s boo-boos, doesn’t she?” you say, not even a little apologetic. He thinks he might love you. “Now, is the water too hot for you, darling? Or should I make it warmer?”

“Mama,” he just murmurs, stepping under the spray with you and plastering himself to your body. He rubs his cheek against your wet hair, holding you close and very carefully not squeezing you as tightly as he wants to. You laugh quietly and kiss his chest.

“Yes, sweetheart,” you say, equal parts loving and smug. “Mama’s here.”

You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.

By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.

And things had only been official for a week.

You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.

He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.

Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move

Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.

You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.

“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.

You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.

“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.

Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”

He slid deeper for emphasis.

You didn’t.

You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.

“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.

Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.

This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.

Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.

“Better?” The man’s question was simple.

Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.

You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.

Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.

“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”

“I—I know, I just can’t—”

At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.

You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.

“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”

The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.

“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”

“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”

“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”

But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.

Maybe you’d never found that place after all.

This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.

You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.

Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”

“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.

Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.

With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.

You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.

“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”

Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.

It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.

“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.

“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”

Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.

Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.

He still held onto your other hand tight.

Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.

Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:

“Higher.”

“Higher?”

“Um, to the…to the left.”

Simon tilted his hips left.

Yes.

That was just it. So close.

Almost…

Or, maybe…

“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”

Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.

Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…

“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”

The grin above you stretched even wider.

“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.

“Right there.” You nodded furiously.

A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.

“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.

“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”

Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.

The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.

Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.

You realized as much when he whispered it to you.

“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”

Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.

“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.

“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”

The ones that you’d been with before.

You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.

Simon was back inside you in a blink.

Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.

He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.

Vindicated.

“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”

You nodded in agreement.

You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.

“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”

When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.

And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.

Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.

“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.

His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.

You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”

“Feel good when I hit it?”

“Fucking perfect, Si.”

You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.

“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”

“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”

“Go on then, love.”

And, shortly, you did.

Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.

Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.

It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”

You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.

He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.

König had taken a mostly normal form so as to not scare her on their 12th date. Yes, twelfth. She wanted to see him more than she had fingers. He could barely believe she wanted to see him again. He shifted in place. A new garment, she told him she liked trees so he had gotten the closest to tree green as he could, hung over his face, hiding the part of him that he could never get to look humanoid.

He wore a button up with a wool vest layered over it and a pair of tan cargo pants. He tried to shirk as much of the military uniform as he could, especially when he was around her.

He lifted his hand to knock at her apartment door, the paper around the bouquet of flowers crinkling in his other hand. His breath caught in his throat, nerves raking through him, maybe he should go home, what if she doesn’t even want to see him.

The door opening pauses the spinning of emotions. She was stunning. The outfit she wore fit her so well. His hearts stutter as she meets his eyes.

“Come in,” she says, flashing him that breathtaking smile.

“Thank you,” his voice is quiet and a bit rougher than normal. He swallows, trying to clear his throat without making that noise, worried he may do anything wrong. He steps past her, ducking slightly to enter her small home.

Habitually, he slips his shoes off at the door and takes in her living space.

It is cozy. Pictures of pets mixed in with paintings, some he recognized, some he didn’t. The sofa sat beneath the window, the TV opposite of it.

He turns his attention to her as the door clicks shut.

“I got you these,” he murmurs, handing her the bouquet of flowers before he chickened out.

“They’re beautiful,” she replies, looking up at him with what looked like gratitude in her eyes, maybe even softness.

Was he reading too much into it?

“I’m glad you like them,” he nods in response, following her to the table as she sets them there to retrieve a vase.

He watches her gather one and fill it. Enraptured in the simple intimacy of the act. He wanted to watch her move about her home all the time.

“How’s work?” He asks, wanting to hear her voice again. The sparkle in her eyes as she begins talking drawing him in like a moth to flame.

König sat beside her on her bed. She lay with her head in his lap, his fingers carefully scraping that spot on her neck.

He had long forgotten the movie that she was watching. Instead he watched the rise and fall of her chest, the way her face shifted in response to the scenes. Even the smile that tugged at her lips as her eyes flick to the corner of her eyes meeting his before she rolls over her face against his stomach.

“What-?” His voice quivers as she gently lifts his t-shirt, her tongue skirts along his happy trail, sending warmth straight to his definitely not hidden bulge.

“Scheiße,“ he grunts, his hands sliding from her head and shoulders to grasp at the bedding. “I don’t want to hurt you, Kleine. If we start, I don’t know if I will be able to stop,” his words are jagged, barely restrained as she moves between his thighs sending him a downright sinful look.

“Maybe I want to see what you can do,” she taunts, her hand sliding up his thigh to palm his aching cock through the tented trousers.

“Fuck,” he grunts, rolling his hips into her touch, his eyes drooping as he white knuckles the bedding.

She slides his belt free, the click nearly sending him.

He moves, flipping her onto her back, yanking his belt from its loops, tearing one or two.

Her eyes widen and her lips part as he carefully maneuvers his shirts off while keeping his hood on.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” he mumbles, tugging her bottoms off to reveal her sweet cunt, “to not be a-a what do you mortals call it? A pervert. But fuck,” he groans nipping and kissing her inner thighs to where her sweet scent came from.

He pauses and looks up at her, studying her face.

“If you don’t like something, tell me,” he whispers, almost afraid to break whatever they had, kneading the soft plushness of her thighs.

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes soft as she nods, her fingers entangling in the bedsheets.

That was all he needed, he moves his hood so he can access her cunt. The tentacles that safeguard his mouth separate, to allow him to truly taste her. He drags the length of his tongue up her cunt, leaving her pussy more wet with each pass.

Her taste was intoxicating. Divine in a way nothing else could be. He moans against her not able to get enough, his tentacles acting with minds of their own, using this moment to caress her thighs, press into her, and suckle gently to her skin.

His hips roll into the bed. Dumbly humping the mattress as he laps her slick up hungrily. He pauses as she jolts, a moan tugging from her. In his hazed state, he makes another pass, trying to figure out what made her jerk. He pauses as he finds a small slightly hard pearl, flicking it again.

Her hands shoot to his head, and he groans.

“Like that?” He pants against her between lapping at her sweet cunt.

Her moans and thighs squeezing his head are his only answer.

A whimper slips from him as his cock catches against the bed, rubbing deliciously but not enough.

He grinds desperately, wanting to taste her until she snapped.

Her breathing shuddered and her thighs squeezed his head, her hands holding his head against her cunt, there was no need. The large man had no interest in being anywhere else.

She keened, before jolting her hips, trying to push him away, her clit overstimulated.

“Sorry,” he slurs, crawling up to her. He presses his face into the crook of her neck, trying to ignore the urge to grind against her.

“S’ok,” she mumbles, reaching for his pants.

“I can wait,” he whimpers as she slips his aching cock free. The blunt head was red and leaking, the bump at the base and the fact that he was uncut frightened off other possible partners.

“No,” she answers, her thighs wrapping around his waist, urging him closer.

“Wait-Wait,” he rambles, pawing at her thighs, the desperate urge to plow into her, to stuff her full of him clawing through him.

He moves off the bed, shedding the rest of his clothes, before turning her over onto her stomach, lifting her hips, and standing at the edge of the bed, guiding her closer.

“Easier,” he mumbles, dipping his head so his tentacles could feel her back.They suckled at her flesh, leaving light red rings, as he notched his cock at her entrance.

She rolls her hips back feeding in the tip.

König whimpers against her shoulder, resting his head there as he gasps for air, trying not to slam into her. She flexed around him and the edges of his vision blurred.

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he hisses out as she rolls against him again, sliding him in further.

“You won’t,” she hums, arching just so he glides further in.

“Fu uck,” he sucks in a breath and his hips jolt forward.

She moans in reply, her cunt squeezing around him.

He whimpers an apology, his restraint snapping into a million pieces. His vision blurs as he ruts into her. The control he holds so tightly over the eldritch part of him, slips. Tentacles unfurl from the tattoos along his arms, the base along his back. They curl around her thighs spreading them allowing him better access.

Her cunt flutters around him and he nips at her shoulder. Another one of those pretty moans slipping from her mouth.

Wet slick guides the mass of his cock in and out. Their mixed scent, the suckling of his tentacles, her moans, and the way she gripped him were all he could perceive.

He glides his hand down her torso to her stomach, hissing as he feels himself inside her with every thrust. Her lower abdomen bulged from his size. The coil wrapped and wrapped.

“Gonna-,” his voice falters as he spurts ropes of cum into her. Stars litter his vision as he continues rutting into her. Fucking all of his cum into her sweet cunt.

“So perfect, meine liebling,” he peppers her neck in licks and nips as she collapses into the bed.

He grunts as he slides out with a wet pop. She whimpers, her eyes squeezing closed as he watches cum slide down her thigh.

His cock stirs as he scoops it up and presses it back into her.

He collapses beside her, tugging her into a spooning position and slots his half mast cock back into her.

“Want it to stay,” he mumbles, tiredly.

She hums in approval, rolling into him. His cock hardened and he gripped her hip, stopping her.

“Sleep, Süße,” he nuzzles against her hair. Smelling her through his hood.

König stirred before she did. The sun shines through the window, across her. He was immediately aware that his left arm was asleep and his cock, now solid again, was deep in her cunt.

She sucks in a breath and grinds against him in her sleep.

König holds back a curse, gripping her hip to stop her.

She whines frustrated in her sleep.

“Sorry,” he whispers shakily, moving his hand away. He tries to ignore the way she rocked against him, the way her cunt sucked at him.

He whimpers pathetically, pressing a knuckle between his teeth. A tentacle glides between her thighs, flicking curiously at the bud. She moans, her eyes fluttering open.

“Please,” he shudders out, his free hand white knuckling the bedding.

She nods and slides him further in. Squelch. Cum squirted down his shaft causing him to curse. He slides free and turns her on her back.

She raises her brows.

“Want to see you as you finish,” he grips her thighs and presses back into her.

“Want you to fuck me,” she groans, gliding her hands along his arms to where the tentacles were still sprouted. He hadn’t bothered to put the big ones away.

“Yeah?” He groans as her nails skirt his shoulders. He snaps his hips, grunting as she sinks them into his skin.

Her head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut as he begins to pummel into her. With every thrust, more cum leaks free. Frothing along his shaft. It doesn’t take long for him to snap and fuck more cum into her.

Her body shudders as he slides free and shimmies down her body.

“What-?” Her voice is cut off as he drags his tongue along her pussy. Her body jerks, and his tentacles grip her thighs, lifting them so he can eat her properly.

He groans and presses on her stomach. Cum oozing down her thighs and König whines at her.

She waves a hand, nearly knocking over her bottle. “I am aware. It is rare. And annoying. But necessary.” She shifts closer, thigh pressing against yours. “I have… a confession.”

The room is loud, but her words cut through everything. Your heart stutters.

“Okay,” you say, careful. “I’m listening.”

She stares at you for a long moment, like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. Then she just… says it.

“I am in love with you.”

The words are simple. Direct. No flowery speech, no metaphor. Just Diana, drunk and honest.

You freeze. She doesn’t.

“I have been for… a while,” she continues, frowning like she’s trying to do math. “Months? Years? Time is stupid.” She pokes your arm lightly. “You are kind. And brave. And when you smile, I feel...” She gestures vaguely at her chest. “warm. Here. All the time.”

You’re staring now, mouth slightly open. She notices, tilts her head.

“You are not saying anything.”

You swallow. “Diana, you're—”

She leans in closer, eyes wide and earnest. “I do not say this because of the alcohol. The alcohol is just… making me brave. Stupidly brave.” She pauses. “Like Achilles, but with feelings.”

You laugh, soft and surprised. She smiles radiantly, a little wobbly.

“I want to court you,” she says. “Properly. With… dates. And flowers. And no battles interrupting. Though battles are romantic sometimes.”

You reach out, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Your hand lingers.

“I’d like that,” you say quietly.

Her whole face lights up. “Truly?”

You nod. “Truly.”

“Good,” she whispers. “Because I am very bad at keeping secrets when I am in love.”

You kiss her cheek. She sighs, content, and slumps against your shoulder.

KARA ZOR EL (suggestive)

The apartment is quiet tonight, just the soft hum of the fridge and the distant rumble of Metropolis traffic outside.

You’re sprawled on the couch in one of Kara’s old hoodies (it smells like her, sunlight and vanilla), legs kicked up, scrolling absently on your phone.

Kara’s been out with the League celebrating a win and she texted you an hour ago: on my way home. might be a little tipsy. love youuuu with about twenty heart emojis.

The door opens with a dramatic whoosh, and Kara floats in, hair windswept, cheeks flushed an adorable pink, eyes glassy and sparkling. She’s still in her Supersuit, cape slightly crooked, boots left at the door in a messy pile.

“Baby!” she announces to the room, voice louder than necessary, arms wide like she’s about to hug the entire apartment. “I’m home!”

You laugh, setting your phone aside. “Hey, you. Come here.”

She doesn’t walk, she glides over, wobbling just a little, and flops face-first onto your lap with a happy sigh. Her head lands right between your breasts, cheek squished against the soft fabric of the hoodie. She nuzzles in immediately, arms wrapping around your waist like you’re her personal pillow.

“Mmm,” she mumbles, voice muffled against your chest. “You’re so soft. And you smell like… like home. And cookies. Do we have cookies? No, wait—you’re the cookie.”

You snort, threading your fingers through her hair. “You’re ridiculous when you’re drunk.”

She tilts her head up, chin resting on your sternum, eyes huge and shiny.

“I love you,” she says, simple and earnest, like she’s just discovered gravity. “Like… a lot. A lot lot. Did I tell you that today? I should tell you every day. Every hour. Every minute.”

You smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You did. Multiple times. Via text. Voice memo. And that very loud phone call while you were flying home.”

She giggles and buries her face back in your chest.

“Good. Because it’s true. And also—”

She pulls back again, eyes dropping to your breasts with sudden, intense focus.

“These. These are… amazing.”

She cups them gently through the hoodie, thumbs brushing your nipples like she’s handling something sacred.

“They’re so soft. And perfect. And… they’re mine, right? I can say that? I’m allowed?”

You laugh. “Yeah, you’re allowed.”

She leans in, nuzzling between them like she’s trying to climb inside you.

“I love them. I love how they feel. I love when you let me sleep on them. I love when they’re all… squishy and warm. And when you’re on top and they’re right here.” She presses her face deeper, voice muffled. “I can hear your heartbeat. It’s my favorite sound.”

You stroke her hair, letting her ramble. She’s still drunk, words tumbling out in a sweet stream.

“I think about them all the time,” she confesses, voice dropping to a whisper. “On patrol. During meetings. When I’m trying to be serious. I just… think about burying my face in them and never leaving. Is that weird? It’s probably weird. But I love you. And I love these. And I love you.”

You tilt her chin up, kiss her softly. She melts into it, kissing back slow and sloppy, tasting like cheap beer and happiness. When you pull back, she’s smiling utterly smitten.

“I love you too,” you whisper. “All of you. Even the drunk, boob-obsessed parts.”

She sighs, content, and flops back down, face smushed between your breasts again.

“Good,” she mumbles. “Because I’m never moving.”

You laugh quietly, holding her close as she drifts toward sleep, still mumbling sweet, slurred nonsense against your skin.

KORIAND'R She’s glowing, literally, a soft orange aura around her skin, hair floating like there’s no gravity. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright and glassy, and she’s been glued to your side all night, arm looped through yours, head on your shoulder more often than not.

Now the others have drifted to the dartboard or the bar, and it’s just you two in the booth. She’s halfway through her… seventh? eighth? drink, staring at you like you hung the stars.

“You,” she says suddenly. “You are… so pretty. Like really pretty. Did you know that? I think about it all the time.”

You laugh, soft. “You’re drunk, Kori.”

She waves a hand, nearly knocking over her glass. “Drunk is good! Drunk is honest! And I am very honest right now.”

She leans in, too close, warm breath on your cheek. “I love you.”

The words tumble out like they’ve been waiting forever.

You blink. She doesn’t stop.

“I love you so much it’s stupid. Like dumb stupid. I think about you when I fly. I think about you when I fight. I think about you when I’m supposed to be listening to Dick’s plans and I’m just like… ‘she has such nice hands.’”

She grabs your hand, holds it up like evidence. “See? Nice hands. I want them on me all the time.”

You’re trying not to laugh, but your heart is pounding. “Kori—”

“No, wait, I’m not done!” She’s babbling now, words spilling fast and messy. “I love your laugh. And your eyes. And how you always know when I’m sad even when I smile. And your hair. I want to braid it. And kiss you. And—oh—your boobs. They’re perfect. I dream about them. I want to put my face in them and never leave.”

She demonstrates by dramatically dropping her head to your chest, nuzzling with a happy sigh. “Like this. Perfect.”

You’re flushed, laughing quietly, fingers threading through her hair. “You’re ridiculous.”

She lifts her head, eyes wide and earnest.

“I’m serious! I love you. I want to be your girlfriend. For real. No more ‘just friends who kiss sometimes.’ I want to hold your hand in public and tell everyone you’re mine. And cook for you, badly, probably, but try! And fly you to the moon if you want!”

She pauses, frowning. “Do you want to go to the moon? We could. I’m strong enough.”

You cup her face, thumb brushing her cheek. “Kori. I don't need the moon. I love you too.”

Her whole face lights up, her glow brightens. “Really?!”

“Really.”

She squeals and launches herself at you, wrapping arms and legs around you like a koala.

“I’m never letting go! You’re mine now! Officially! I’m going to kiss you so much!”

You laugh into her hair, holding her tight. She pulls back just enough to kiss you, messy, eager, tasting like tequila and joy. When she finally lets you breathe, she’s smiling so wide it’s blinding.

“Best night ever,” she declares. “Even better than the time I punched a robot in the face.”

You kiss her again. “Yeah. Best night ever.”

(She falls asleep on your shoulder on the cab ride home, drooling in your top, you'll tease her about it tomorrow.

DONNA TROY

The Titans Tower common room is a mess of empty bottles and laughter after a hard-won victory. Most of the team has tapped out, but Donna?

Donna’s drunk.

She’s on the couch beside you, thigh pressed to yours, cheeks flushed a deep rose that makes her look softer than usual. Her dark hair is loose, a little tangled from her head tossing back drinks. Her eyes are glassy, fixed on you with that intense Amazon stare, but it’s wobbly now, frustrated.

She’s been quieter than usual all night, nursing her drinks and stealing glances at you. Now the alcohol has loosened her tongue and her temper. She turns suddenly, nearly sloshing her drink on your lap.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she says, voice sharp but slurred at the edges. “I’m in love with you, and it’s stupid, and I hate it.”

You blink. She keeps going, words tumbling out like she’s been holding them back for months.

“I’ve been in love with you for—forever! And you’re going to say no, I know you are, because why would you want me? I’m just the spare Amazon, the second-string Wonder Girl, and you’re—you’re perfect, and funny, and you make me feel things I don’t even have words for in Greek!”

She’s on her feet now, pacing, hands gesturing wildly.

“I tried to ignore it! I tried to be your friend! But every time you smile at me, or laugh at my dumb stories, or just fucking exist I want to kiss you! And hold you! And tell everyone you’re mine! But you’ll say no, and then it’ll be awkward, and I’ll have to pretend I’m fine when I’m dying inside!”

Her voice cracks on the last word. She stops pacing, stares at you, chest heaving, eyes wet and angry.

“So just say it,” she snaps. “Say no and I'll move on.”

“Donna.”

She flinches like she’s bracing for a hit.

“I love you too.”

She freezes. Her mouth opens. Closes.

“What?”

You smile, reach for her hand. “I love you. Have for a while. I was waiting for you to say something.”

She stares, blinking fast. “What? No—what? You—you love me? Like… love love?”

You nod.

She makes a strangled sound and then she’s on you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, face buried in your neck.

“You absolute idiot,” she mumbles, voice muffled and wobbly. “I was ready to fight a god over this.”

You laugh, hold her close. “No need. You’ve got me.”

She pulls back, eyes shining, and kisses you.

“I’m never drinking again,” she declares. “Or maybe I am. This worked out pretty well.”

You kiss her again. The team pretends not to notice from the corner but they’re all grinning. Donna doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

BARBARA GORDON

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand at 2:17 a.m., the screen lighting up with Barbara’s name. You fumble for it, half-asleep, heart already picking up because Babs never calls this late unless it’s an emergency.

You answer. “Babs? You okay?”

There’s a long pause, then a shaky breath and a voice that’s definitely not sober.

“Heyyy,” she draws out, soft and slurred. “Hi. It’s me. Barbara. Your Barbara. Wait—no, not your Barbara. That’s… that’s the problem.”

You sit up, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Are you drunk?”

A wet little laugh. “I opened the good whiskey. The one Dick got me for my birthday. And then I finished it. Alone. Like a loser.”

You’re already pulling on a hoodie. “Where are you? Your place?”

“Clocktower,” she sniffles. “Couldn’t make it home. Too… spinny.”

You’re out the door in thirty seconds. “Stay put. I’m coming.”

She keeps talking the whole cab ride.

“I didn’t mean to call,” she says at one point, voice thick. “But I was looking at pictures of us. And you were smiling at me in all of them. And I just… I miss you. All the time. Even when you’re right there.”

Your chest aches. You’ve been dancing around this for years—best friends, partners on cases, late-night rooftop talks, the kind of closeness that feels like more but neither of you ever named.

“I miss you too,” you say quietly.

“Nooo,” she drags out, starting to cry. “You don’t get it. I love you. Like love love you. The stupid kind. The kind where I want to hold your hand and kiss you when you’re not looking and wake up next to you and—ugh—why is this so hard?”

You’re at the Clocktower now, racing up the stairs. “Babs, open the door.”

Her hair’s a mess, eyes red and glassy, wearing an oversized GCPD shirt and pajama shorts. She looks small, leaning on the doorframe.

“You came,” she whispers, like she didn’t believe you would.

You step inside, close the door, pull her into your arms. She clings to you, face buried in your neck, crying quietly.

“I’m so in love with you it hurts,” she mumbles against your skin. “And I was scared you’d never—hic—feel the same. And I’m drunk and stupid and—”

You pull back, cup her face. Wipe her tears with your thumbs.

“I love you too.”

She freezes. Blinks. Tears still falling.

“What?”

“I love you,” you say again, clearer. “I was scared too.”

She stares at you, mouth open.

Then she starts crying harder (happy tears this time) and launches herself at you, arms around your neck, legs wrapping around your waist like she’s trying to climb inside you.

“You love me?” she sobs into your shoulder. “Really?”

“Really.”

She taste like whiskey and salt when you kiss her, but you can't stop, it's kind of addictive. You stay with her in bed. She doesn’t let go the whole night.

She wakes up mortified the next morning. You kiss her quiet. She stops being mortified real fast.

DINAH LANCE (suggestive)

The bar is a blur of neon and laughter, the kind of place where vigilantes go to pretend they’re normal for a night. You’re younger, still riding the high of your first big win with the Birds, and Dinah (the Black Canary, your mentor, your crush, your everything) dragged you out to celebrate.

You meant to pace yourself. You really did.

But the shots kept coming, and Dinah’s laugh is like velvet, and her hand on your back when she leans in to talk over the music makes your brain short-circuit. So you drink. A lot.

Now you’re stumbling out into the cool night air, Dinah’s arm around your waist, holding you up like you weigh nothing. Her leather jacket smells like her, smoke and vanilla.

“You’re a mess,” she says, amused, steering you toward her bike. Her voice is low, warm, a little rough from singing earlier.

You giggle, leaning into her heavily. “You’re pretty.”

She snorts. “Oh god, you’re so drunk.”

“Drunk and honest,” you mumble, face pressed to her shoulder.

She gets you onto the bike behind her, makes sure your arms are tight around her waist. The ride to her place is a blur of wind and city lights. You cling to her, cheek against her back, breathing her in.

Inside her apartment, she half-carries you to the couch. You flop down, world spinning. She kneels, pulls your boots off slow.

“You’re gonna hate yourself tomorrow,” she says, but there’s no judgment, just fond exasperation.

You grab her wrist before she can stand. “Stay.”

She pauses, blue eyes soft. “I’m just getting water.”

“No, I don't want water.” You tug harder, pulling her down until she’s sitting beside you. “I want you.”

She sighs, but doesn’t pull away. You shift, clumsy, until you’re curled against her side, head on her chest. She’s warm. Strong. Her heartbeat is steady under your ear.

You’re quiet for a minute, then the words spill out.

“I love you.”

She goes still.

You keep going, voice thick with alcohol and want.

“Not like friend love. Like… love love. Want-to-kiss-you love. Want-you-to-hold-me-down-and—” You hiccup. “make me scream your name love.”

Your hand slides under her shirt, fingers tracing the hard lines of her abs. She catches your wrist, gentle but firm.

“Hey,” she says, voice low. “You’re drunk.”

“I know,” you mumble, nuzzling closer, lips brushing her collarbone. “But it’s true. Always wanted you. You’re so strong and hot and” You press a sloppy kiss to her neck. “I think about you when I touch myself.”

She exhales, shaky. Her hand cups the back of your head, holding you close but not encouraging.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she says, soft but firm. “When you’re sober.”

You whine, cling tighter. “Nooo. Sleep with me. Just cuddling. Please.”

She hesitates. You feel it—the way her thumb strokes your hair, the way her body doesn’t pull away.

“Okay,” she whispers finally. “Just cuddling.”

She helps you to bed, strips you down to your underwear with careful, clinical hands that still make you shiver. She changes into a tank and shorts, slides in behind you.

You curl into her immediately, back to her chest, her arm draped over you. Her hand rests on your stomach, warm and steady.

You’re asleep in minutes, breathing her in. She stays awake longer, fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin, lips brushing your shoulder.

Tomorrow, you’ll talk. Tonight, she holds you like you’re already hers.

You wake up hungover. She’s still there, arm tight around you, smiling when you groan.

“Morning, lightweight.”

You hide your face in her neck. “I don't regret anything I said.”

She kisses your temple. “Good. We’ll talk now.”

TALIA AL GHUL (+18)

The mission debrief was supposed to be quick. Go over the extraction points, confirm no tails, file the report. But Talia had other ideas. She locked the door of the Paris safehouse with a soft click, kicked off her boots, and disappeared into the kitchenette without a word. You heard glass clinking, the creak of an old cabinet, and then she came back holding a dusty green bottle like it was treasure.

“Absinthe,” she said, voice low and amused. “Real stuff. You ever try it?”

You shook your head, already feeling the adrenaline from the op bleeding into something looser. “Thought it makes you hallucinate.”

“It makes you honest,” she corrected, popping the cork.

The scent hit you first—anise, sharp and sweet, dangerous. She poured two generous glasses, the liquid turning milky as she added water from a chipped carafe.

“To clean extractions,” she toasted, clinking her glass against yours.

One glass turned into two. Two turned into three. The room got softer around the edges, the old velvet curtains glowing in the lamplight, the Eiffel Tower a faint sparkle through the rain-streaked window.

You both ended up on the wide bed, shoes long gone, mission gear traded for something comfortable. Talia had slipped into a black silk robe that barely tied at the waist, the fabric clinging to her curves, slipping open just enough to tease. You’d stolen one of her oversized button-down shirts, nothing underneath, because why bother in a safehouse?

You were laughing at something stupid now, some near-miss from the op that felt hilarious in hindsight. Your legs had tangled somewhere between the second and third glass, her bare thigh warm against yours, her foot sliding idly along your calf. Every time she shifted, the silk robe gaped a little more, revealing the swell of her breast, the dark shadow between her thighs.

“God, you’re beautiful when you laugh like that,” she said suddenly, voice husky from the drink. Her eyes were glassy, dark, fixed on your mouth.

You felt heat crawl up your neck. “You’re one to talk. That robe should be illegal.”

She smirked, leaning closer, the scent of absinthe on her breath. “You complaining?”

“Never,” you whispered.

Your hand found her knee, tracing slow circles on her skin. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she let out a soft hum, her own fingers brushing your thigh under the hem of the shirt.

“You know,” she murmured, “I’ve thought about this. Too many times. On stakeouts. In safehouses exactly like this. Watching you across the room, pretending I wasn’t imagining what you’d feel like.”

Your breath caught. “Talia…”

“I’d touch myself thinking about you,” she went on, voice dropping lower, filthier. “Quiet, so you wouldn’t hear. Fingers sliding inside, pretending it was your tongue. Your hands pinning me down. Fuck, I’d come so hard biting my own arm to stay silent.”

The confession hit you like a shot of the absinthe. You shifted closer, your thigh pressing between hers now.

“I did the same,” you admitted. “Every time you wore that tight gear on ops. Imagining peeling it off you. Tasting how wet you’d be for me.”

Her eyes fluttered. “Show me,”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

Your lips crashed into hers, hungry and desperate, the taste of absinthe sharp and sweet between your tongues. She kissed like she fought—controlled, precise, but with an edge that made your pulse race. Her hand slid up your thigh, fingers digging into your hip as she pulled you closer, guiding you until you were straddling one of her legs.

She broke the kiss just long enough to tug the shirt over your head, tossing it aside. Cool air hit your skin, but her gaze was hotter, raking over you like she was memorizing every inch.

“On your back,” she ordered, the kind that made your stomach flip.

You obeyed instantly, sinking into the pillows as she shrugged off the silk robe. Naked now, she was breathtaking; strong shoulders, full breasts, the curve of her waist leading to hips you wanted to bruise with your grip. She crawled over you, predatory, settling between your thighs.

But she didn’t stay there long. With a wicked smile, she shifted, turning until her knees bracketed your hips. She lowered herself slowly, deliberately, until her slick heat pressed against yours. The first contact made you both gasp.

“Like this,” she murmured, rocking forward once, testing. “I want to feel you come apart under me.”

You moaned, hands flying to her thighs, gripping tight as she started to move. Slow at first, grinding in deliberate circles, her clit dragging against yours with every roll of her hips. The friction was electric, building fast and relentless. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on either side of your head, dark hair falling around your face like a curtain.

“Look at me,” she commanded, and your eyes locked on hers.

She sped up, thighs flexing, breath hitching as she chased her pleasure. Every grind sent sparks through you, your own hips bucking up to meet her, desperate for more. The room filled with the sounds of it, wet skin sliding together, your shared gasps and moans, the creak of the bed under her rhythm.

“T-talia—hah—please—”

“That’s it,” she growled, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh, pulling you harder against her. “Give it to me. I want to feel you lose it.”

You were close, so close, but she was closer. Her movements grew erratic, sharper, her breath coming in ragged pants against your lips. You could feel her swelling against you, throbbing, slicker with every thrust.

“Come for me first,” you begged, voice breaking. “I want to feel you—”

She slammed down harder, once, twice and then she shattered.

Her whole body tensed, thighs clamping around your hips as she cried out, a low, guttural sound that went straight through you. Her clit pulsed against yours, hot and wet, and in the middle of it, eyes locked on yours, she whispered it.

“I love you.”

The words hit harder than her orgasm, raw and breathless, like they’d been ripped out of her. She kept moving through the aftershocks, grinding slow now, drawing it out, until she collapsed forward, forehead pressed to yours, still trembling.

You wrapped your arms around her, holding tight, heart pounding so hard you were sure she could feel it.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, voice shaking.

She smiled against your lips and kissed you slow and deep, like the mission was finally over.

"schatzi?" he knocked on the door lightly, waiting a few beats for a reply. and, when there was none, anxiety began to brew in his mind. how long had you been in the shower? had you fallen because of the water floor? were you drowning under the shower stream? he knocked one more time before announcing: "schatzi, i'm going to come in, okay?"

as soon as he cracked the bathroom door open, he was met with a heavenly sight— your gorgeous body wrapped in a thick blanket of steam, one hand squeezing your breast as the other rubbed sloppy circles around your clit. your eyes pinched close, and soft chants of his name leaving your lips.

a surge of energy coursed through him, his body instinctively taking swift yet inaudible steps towards you. it wasn't until the glass shower door slid open that you finally noticed his presence, his blue eyes darkening as a knowing smirk crossed his lips. 

"am i interrupting something, kätzchen?" könig teased, the startled expression on your face only adding fuel to the fire growing within him. 

"könig— i didn't hear you get home," a wave of embarrassment washed over you, watching with wide eyes as your husband enclosed himself in the shower with you. he was still wearing his uniform, the shower water soaking through his camouflage pants and tan shirt, not that he really cared. "would've greeted you properly if i knew."

könig's hands grabbed at your waist, pinning your body between him and the cool tiled wall behind you. his arousal was evident, his wet pants barely able to conceal the erection stirring beneath the fabric. you could feel it against your abdomen, your pussy beginning to tingle at the idea of him taking you right then and there.

"you greeted me just fine, kätzchen, 's not every day i get to see you pleasuring yourself," he hoisted you up into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist for support. "you were thinking about this exact scenario, ja?"

one of his hands moved up the length of your body, his calloused hand kneading the underside of your wet breast. "thinkin' about my hands playing with these pretty tits?" his head dipped down to pepper kisses along the curve of your neck. "thinkin' about my lips kissing up your neck? leaving little bite marks and sucking— right— here."

you inhaled sharply, craning your neck further to the side to allow könig more access, his lips latched to your pulse point. you bucked your hips into him, the rough cloth of his shirt providing you with just enough clitoral stimulation to make you see stars. 

"yes, ohmygod— yes," your fingers laced into his hair, tugging at the short auburn strands. könig began to feast on your skin, lapping at your neck with the flat of his tongue while, his fingers pinched and twisted your puffy nipples. "need you, könig, been thinkin' about you all day. couldn't wait for you t' get home—"

könig licked his lips, slowly pulling away to meet your lustful gaze. his hand abandoned your nipple to dive underneath your thighs, rubbing the tips of his fingers along your wet folds. he gathered up your arousal, smearing it all along your slit.

"mmm, i knew it, kätzchen," his fingers dipped into your entrance until he was knuckle deep, your tight walls clamping down on the thick digits. your jaw went slack, a guttural moan escaping from the depths of your throat as he stretched you out with just two of his fingers. "don't worry, schatzi, i'll take good care of you. i'm just lending a helping hand, ja?"

His grip turns rock hard.

“What's this now?” And he shoves your three middle fingers into his mouth, inhaling deeply, biting down at the base of them. 

You tried to pull away, but between his teeth and his arm locked around you, there was no escape. He bit down harder, wet velcro muscle sliding and twirling between each digit, sucking on the tips of your fingers before letting them go, and leaving teeth marks. You’re in trouble now.

“Know that taste anywhere, love.” There's fire in his eyes, but not a hint of warmth despite their redness. “Playing with my pussy without me. Without permission.” He tuts at you. “And here I was gonna to reward you for being a good loyal girl. Know you're not s’posed to touch yourself while I’m gone...” His voice was monotone, but he couldn't disguise the calculation and disappointment loaded in his words. 

Your face scorched hot, “I—”

“Look I'm tired and not in a proper state of mind to punish you, so let's just sleep for now.” 

You dropped your eyes and nodded.

He brought a hand up underneath your chin forcing you to look at him. “‘M not angry, know you missed me,” he sweetened his tone up for you, but you didn’t quite believe him deep down. “Come to bed, we'll discuss your punishment in the morning,” and he led you into the bedroom. Tucked into his side, you fell hard against him, drifting blissfully asleep, reunited with your husband.

......

Simon was moving, a light sleeper. It sometimes took him a few days to adjust back to a regular schedule. It was still dark on the other side of your eyelids, but you could hear the faint beginnings of birdsong as you stirred to partial consciousness, just enough to roll over or flip the pillow to the cooler side if you wanted. Your arms felt numb and heavy and your legs were fuzzy, a sign of a damn good dead sleep.

A wash of cold air activated goosebumps shivering across your skin.

Wait. Where did your pajamas go?

You jerked awake, thrashing, but your arms locked you down in place. They were tied above your head to the headboard, but your feet were free. You strained your neck to look around.

“Good, you're awake.”

You exhaled a deep sigh of relief knowing he was there, but a splash of fear doused your insides. Flight or fight kicked in and you tugged at your restraints on instinct, a sharp pain shot through to your left shoulder. The ropes weren't too tight or painful on your skin, as long as you didn't struggle. Usually if Simon tied you up, it was just your hands together in front or behind, but he also had only ever done so when you were awake.

“I've decided what your punishment is going to be.”

A stone dropped into the pit of your stomach and your heart started racing again. You were scared in a sense, not of being hurt, but of the unknown. Anticipation.

“Remember your safeword and colors?” 

You nodded, “yes sir.” 

“Are your restraints comfortable enough? Do I need to adjust them before I start?” 

“They're okay. I'll tell you if it changes but—” He silenced you with a firm hand over your mouth, fingertips digging painfully into the fat of your cheeks and mandible. 

“No more speaking out of turn. Don't make me gag you so we can be safe, pet.” There was something haunting about him, ominous in a way you didn't often get to experience. Primal hunger was the only emotion you could make out in the dark, but his voice kept it leashed in chains of unpolished steel.

“Might need your words for this, best to save them.” Simon moved wordlessly into position and began.

.....

Between his hands and mouth you were three orgasms deep in subspace now; lethargic and moaning, legs shaking like a leaf while he barreled you into a fourth, noises growing more and more inhuman.

Your punishment was the restraints. Hands in rope jail, locked up for crimes committed. Guilty as sin, stinking of sex. They robbed him, stole from him. A pair of thieving criminals that touched what wasn't theirs. Masterminds in their own rite, needy and greedy. They loved to trace and tangle up inside him, make him weak for you, pull him close, tell him how and where you wanted to please him. He couldn't allow you to play unfair this time and turn the tables of your own punishment.

After your fourth, you were drenched and slick, chest heaving. He got up to fetch a towel and repositioned you top of it, fluffy terry cloth material felt like sandpaper scratching your buzzing skin. There was a dull sting in your muscles, tight from tensing, a sharp contrast to the fiery meltdown of your pussy, and the rest of your senses were jacked up to the highest sensitivity setting. Simon checked your hands and the knots that tethered them to the headboard, you wiggled your fingers to show they were feeling okay. He gave you a sip of water and you wheezed your color, then he climbed between your legs once more.

Simon did not ease himself into you, this was a punishment. Ropes, overstimulation, and a rough unforgiving dicking down. As greedy as your cunt was, it struggled to take his massive size, clamping down before he could take his rightful place inside you. Possession clutched at your throat and jaw, spit in your mouth instead of kissing you, slapped your tits, called you a whore, and made bruises with his fingerprints, until he could force the rest of his cock all the way in. 

Simon grunted, fucking you raw and hard. “Fuck this pussy back into the shape o’ me. Remind her who she belongs to.” His harsh thrusts made your body lurch, adding slack to your ties, breasts bouncing, flesh rippling from impact. The taste of iron leaked onto your tongue from biting your lip to keep words from forming. The sound of skin smacking, lewd squelching, and your moans filled the bedroom. He knew your body was primed for your next orgasm, walls fluttering and body jolting like an earthquake. Reaching down, he furiously rubbed your clit and bullied your g-spot with his tip until it sent shockwaves of prickly pleasure through you. “Cream my cock, slut. S'what you wanted innit?”

The only reason you were coming at all was because he wanted you to. You didn't beg him to stop despite the overstimulation that forced tears to down your face and your muscles to spasm. You loved to turn boneless and brainless for him to use. You needed him to be whole and he provided the hard structure you needed to go soft around him. Yin and yang. 

“Gonna make you come so many times you can't come without me.” His plan was to ruin you for everyone else. As if he hadn't already done that and married you because of it.

“You promised me you would wait. How am I supposed to trust you when I'm not around?” He looked down at you with a sneer, knowing how to tug on your heartstrings and summon tears.

“Won't happen again, sir. I'm so sorry,” you whimpered.

Simon pulled out of you so fast it gave you reverse whiplash, like being turned inside out. The air that he'd been beating out of your lungs finally rushed back in, filling you with enough oxygen to get you high and floaty. His big hands slapped down, roughly gripped your hips and flipped you onto your front, ropes twisting in place. He pulled your hips up and shoved his cock back inside. Fingers hooking into the softest parts of your waist, he pulled you back to meet his violent thrusts, hitting deep enough to make you gasp. 

“Like hell it won't, slag. Can't follow simple directions.” Simon punctuated his words with the heavy crack of his hand on your rear, and he laid a few more into you before you convulsed around him. Head buried face-first into the mattress, your tears stained the sheets, and you gasped for what little air you could find. Your legs were liquid and couldn’t support you anymore, so he tightened his grip and held up your hips. He kept fucking you while you rag-dolled, body collapsing under his relentless brutality and the extreme euphoria forced into you by another mind-altering orgasm. 

Your hips fell helplessly off his cock when he let go. One day he's going to blow your back out, paralyze you, and keep fucking you anyways. Sick freak. Your back was sore from his trusts compressing your spine and the angle of the arch he bent you into. You relaxed what you could into the comforts of your bedding, rubbing your thighs together, toes curling and cracking. His broad hands came up to your face, one moved hair out of the way, and the other applied a bone-crushing grip to your jaw, forcing you to look at him.  

“Color?”

There was none in his eyes. With his bottomless stamina, he could keep you tied up like his personal sex toy and use you for days. He hadn't finished once in the hour (hours?) since the session started, and you knew he had to be aching for release. You twitched in your restraints, but the silken bite from the rope couldn't overide how much you wanted to touch him and coax him to come. You'd do anything to make that happen.

“Green.”

He pulled your ankles apart and slot in to fuck you prone. You moaned and your eyes rolled to the back of your head when he stuffed his fat cock in you again. Each position hit a little different, this time the tingling radiated in your kidneys when he pounded you from the back, dislodging every broken breath from your lungs. He was reaching depths that only he could navigate. Only he knew what buttons to press and strokes to place to have you unraveling.

A hand wormed its way underneath to press above your pubic bone. “Another,” he commanded. On cue, the band tightened and snapped. You exploded while he fucked you with abandon, squirting and shaking, choking on sobs, while he crammed you full. “That's it, filthy slut. Didn't put a towel down for nothin’.”

Simon pulled away from you once more and moved you onto your back. Your fluids were dripping wet down his cock, he flexed or twitched and it bobbed in the air. He was leaking precum and his pubic hair was slicked down and frothy from your previous climbaxes. 

“Clean me off.” He walked himself closer to your face and touched the tip of him to your swollen lips, and you greedily sucked him into your mouth, worshiping with your tongue. It was salty, and sweet, and sticky when it transferred and dried on your face. His hands cradled the back of your head forcing you to take more than you were ready for.

Tears welled up, drool filled up your mouth, and you struggled to switch to breathing through your nose. He pulled you off by your hair, saw the glassy eyed expression on your face, and scowled. “Cock drunk whore enjoyed being face fucked too much. Can't have that.”

Simon moved back to between your legs, using the towel to wipe off the arousal that spilled from your bullied hole and coated your thighs. A smack of his hand sent a sharp shock to your blistering clit, then a couple fingers scooped some of your cum from your core and reapplied it to work the hard bud rapidly back and forth with the rough pads of his fingers. 

Your body panicked, stuttering breath and hacking up your lungs. It hurt. It burned. It was too much.

The overstimulation caught up with you and you felt only pain. Your eyes went wide, “yellow-ow-ow-ow,” you cried. And Simon backed off your poor sensitive clit.

He trailed a hand down one of your trembling legs, his touch gentler than before. Normally he would reward you for using your colors, but that would have to wait until after he finished playing with you. “You should be thanking me for this, letting you come so many times. What is it seven? No...it would have been, but you just couldn't handle it. What happened to my greedy girl?”

You writhed where words failed, seeking any form of solace on your supercharged skin, but everywhere he touched blazed and scratched instead. The world spun around you, like the forever falling feeling of intoxication.

“But you're not done till I say so,” he whispered in your ear. “You're mine. Any orgasm you have belongs to me.”

He grabs your face again, squishing your cheeks, bringing your eyes to connect with his again, and with the other he worked his fingers back inside, starting with two, then three, targeting that spot that turned your vision dark. Your clit was too painful, so he'd have to be rough with you in other ways, and he knew your cunt could take a beating better than anything else, so resilient and hungry for attention. It's what drove you to break the rules in the first place. 

But if you never broke the rules, then he'd never have cause to punish you. It was all fun and games as long as you didn't make a bad habit of it. 

You were on the ropes now, beat up, bruised, and broken. His favorite little toy, marked and strung up in red for him. Fuck he was so hard for you, fighting his own release. He loosened his hold on your face. “Open.” And your tongue lazily rolled out of your parted lips. He spit, your walls pulled tight around his fingers, and you swallowed dutifully. “There she is. Go on. Take it then.” Your legs tensed and your mouth hung wide open, eyes fluttering shut, while you rode another wave of pleasure on his thick fingers. 

Before you had a chance to fall back to earth, he ripped his fingers out and stuffed them in your mouth. He bent down to leave bite marks down your chest, on your breasts, stomach, and down to your hips. Your lips curled around licking and biting down on his thick fingers, gagging down when he shoved them deeper over your tongue to the back of your throat. You closed your eyes and tears escaped out the corners, savoring the taste of yourself on his skin. He pulled them out and you released them with a wet pop, licking your chapped lips after.

Simon molded your lifeless lower body to him next. “You don't even deserve the cum I'm gonna pump you full of. Was saving it up just for you.” He slid all the way into your aching heat, lunging closer. Taking your lips into his mouth only to bite down on them, tasting the dried blood from your earlier split lip, he chewed and pulled at the tender flesh till it split again. It was not a forgiving kiss, and he let himself enjoy it a little too much, groaning deep enough for the vibrations to pass from his chest into yours. Releasing your face, your head dropped back onto the bed, bracketed by your weak arms. 

His grip moved to encircle your neck and waist, pinning you in place while he fucked you breathless. You felt him up in your ribs, piercing your diaphragm. He was a lump in your throat that couldn't be swallowed down. Your pulse hammered beneath his grip as you came once more, eyes rolling back and wet heat sucking him deeper. You were scraped like a fur hide being turned into leather, stretched thin across the universe. Head in the clouds was too grounded of an expression to process, let alone comprehend. 

.....

You must have blacked out, or died and come back to life. When you came to, your legs were thrown over Simon's shoulders, knees pressed to your shoulders. He was splitting you in half with his cock, and drunk on the sweet friction. A static cling consumed your hands and feet but slowly dissipated.

“Maybe I otta get you ol’ big and round with my kid so you can't touch yourself wi’out me. Huh?” He splays his hand under your belly button pressing down on his cock moving inside while you gush around him. “Want me to fuck a fat baby in you to keep you busy while I'm gone?” Making no effort to hit your sweet spot, in a trance, he watched himself breach your depths, brutalizing your cervix with each thrust. He knew what he was doing. “You like that? Pussy so tight on me, like she wants to be bred. Come on, I know you wanna be full.” 

He was sweaty and panting over you. The wet sounds of sticky skin slapping proved there was already a thick mess running down your crack.

How many times had he come inside you? You didn't get to feel him twitching inside while he filled you with his first load or hear him groan at his peak when he lost himself inside of you.

Another punishment, worse than all the others. Now you really saw things. How could you be so selfish? You sniffled, lip quivering, tears welling. “Sorry—so sorry—love—you.” Your voice was hoarse.

Simon shushed your sweet sobs, “That's right. Let it out.” He tipped you over the edge with more dirty words, “One last time, just to make sure it takes.”

After your ninth, he took your hands down, undoing the ropes, massaging blood flow back into them, and easing the ebbing tension from the prolonged stretch. For the first part of aftercare, he made the sweet kind of welcome home love to you in the warmth of sunrise that spilled over your bed. Kissing you languid and deep, praising you, driving his spend deeper into you, slowly rolling his hips against your clit just how you liked, kind and soft hands caressing until you came together by design. 

Ten times you came, he counted. A record for you sure, but to him each one meant something more. One for each week he was gone. One for each month until your baby would arrive. One for every carat in your wedding ring. One for each deployment you've welcomed him home from. 

(Eleven would actually kill you though, so it might be for the best to not let him catch you next time.)