Work Text:
It’s not that Hunter regrets sending the messages; they had gotten a very strong laugh, a few keysmashed replies, and he stood behind them, both as comedy and as, admittedly, truthful statements. Even if he couldn’t very well say that while sitting in Principle Bump’s office, shifting from side to side in the uncomfortable seat, sweat beading on the back of his neck and on his forehead, wetting his brow Waiting for his parents to arrive and hear the great news. His eyes dart between the desk and the door, impatient and dreadful. He doesn’t regret the messages, but had he known that school-created groupchats were monitored, well.
Maybe he would’ve saved the joke for later. Somewhere in one of his actual groupchats, in the horny section where they’re used to him sharing how hacked into the breastfeeding mainframe he is and can respond accordingly.
He can’t help but think, a bit bitterly, that the moderators did not understand his genius, even as his Mumand Dad open the door, equally concerned expressions on their faces. It’s not often they’re called in; Hunter works hard, and aside from the fights he’d gotten in during some rough times, has been nothing less than an exemplary student. So, despite being assured it wasn’t serious serious, his Mum’s brows are knitted close with anxiety and his Dad’s brown eyes focus on him immediately, soft frown on his lips as he takes in his son’s hunched shoulders and disheveled appearance.
The only saving grace of their appearance is Flapjack fluttering in, twittering at him and making a nest of the neck of his uniform after landing— he manages to huff a laugh. It's both comforting and amusing, even though the haze of his anxiety.
Bump had assured him, gentle and stern, that the others who had shared inappropriate material in the chats would also have their guardians contacted, and that there wouldn’t be any action from the school aside from the reprimand he was already getting. His expression amused and wry, he said that he figured the conversation would be punishment enough, for most.
Hunter hadn’t found it quite as entertaining. With his parents’ openness with regard to… these things, he shouldn’t have had too much to worry about. He wouldn't have been thrilled, had the messages been about almost any other of his kinks, but he could have withstood the torment and jokes he’s sure would come his way.
This wasn’t any other kink.
As it was, it was hard to imagine they wouldn’t put the pieces together, the particular link between these messages and their recent bedtime activities. He can vividly remember them talking, muffled and soft, the quiet wet noises heard through the wall when they thought him asleep. A wet spot on his Mum’s thin nightgown, right by the peak of her chest, and— his groin gives a twitch, despite his horror, and tosses him cruelly back in the present.
He guesses there’s nothing to be done at this point aside from die. There’s something almost peaceful about accepting his demise as his parents lean over to greet Principal Bump and they exchange pleasantries that pass through one of Hunter’s ears and leave the other— he’d normally try and give at least the facade of paying attention, but it’s hard with the spiraling thoughts rushing through his head.
Evelyn smiles at him as she sits down in the chair beside him, movements graceful as she smooths out her skirts, the mixed fabrics and colors somehow flowing together like a stream into the ocean. The quirk of her lips is a small, gentle thing, one that has soothed Hunter’s heart countless times over the years. As is Caleb’s hand on the nape of his neck, warm and comforting against his skin. It isn’t as nice knowing his Dad is feeling the cold sweat that soaks into the collar of his shirt, but. The comfort is appreciated nonetheless, even if his stomach still feels like a black hole threatening to swallow him from the inside out.
“Mrs. and Mr. Clawthorne, we’re here to bring to your attention some,” Bump clears his throat, expression blank in the practiced way only someone who has delivered the same speech a hundred times can be. “Inappropriate messages, exchanged between your son and his classmates in a school message chain.”
Hand on her chest (on the swell of her chest, held up by the bra under the thin fabric of her blouse, warm and flush with milk— he forces his eyes away.), Evelyn makes a little sound, like she wants to protest, to proclaim his innocence, but doesn’t. Caleb looks puzzled beside him, head tilted, as if wondering what kind of inappropriate, as if wondering what exactly his son had sent. He will know soon enough.
They both look at him simultaneously, and their mouths open at the same time before being cut off by Principal Bump’s voice. Thank the merciful Titan.
“I will read a selection of these messages, so you know what you’re dealing with. Please take this into account during any further discussion or reprimanding Hunter receives.”
Any thanks forgotten, Hunter cringes further into his seat, jaw clenched so tight it feels like it might shatter; his parents making sounds of assent are like a freezing wind, and the little seconds of silence before like the calm before a storm. Hunter wishes a storm would hit right now. Maybe he could run outside and—
“Need milky boobs in my mouth yesterday,” Bump’s tone is the epitome of professionalism, which only furthers Hunter’s turmoil, face bright and burning, especially as he hears a bark of laughter from his right. His eyes snap to his Dad a moment before the man covers it with a few coughs, deep and rumbling from his chest.
“My apologies. Allergies.” Caleb’s smile is pleasant and broad, even as three pairs of eyes focus solely on him. He reaches over and takes a tissue from Bump’s desk, despite clearly not needing it.
No one says anything about the poor excuse, and after a moment, Bump turns back to the list of messages. Hunter’s gaze drifts back to Evelyn, to her hand on her collarbone, to her golden irises, to the polite frown pasted on her lips — before Bump reads the next message and he tears his eyes away.
“Call me a baby the way I need to breastfeed to survive,” Bump reads off, and pauses at the end as if he knows another allergy-induced coughing fit will appear. It does, longer than the first, and as he feels the shaking of Caleb’s shoulders next to his, Hunter chances another look at Evelyn, chin brushing over Flapjack’s soft feathers as he braces, ready for horror and —
And his Mum is still frowning, trying to be professional and serious, concern painted on her brow. Yet no disgust passes over her expression; only a twitch in her pretty lips, only the beautiful lines of her face staying the same, only polite thoughtfulness showing as she gives a nod.
“I can imagine breastfeeding scenarios at 300 tits per hour,” Bump finishes, steepling his hands in front of him as Caleb guffaws, muffling the noise with the tissue he’d swiped earlier. A puff of air escapes Evelyn’s lips in surprise, her posture finally folding a bit from its ram-rod straight professionalism before she looks at him, eyes creased with amusement, her pretty laugh lines deepening, and upturned lip bitten between her fangs. She turns back to Bump, her face hidden for a moment by the sway of her fluffy hair.
It’s — cute, and confusing, and Hunter looks at her through narrowed eyes, endless question marks running through his brain.
“We’ll have to have a serious talk about this,” she says, lips forcing themselves down into a serious purse. “My boy would never do this knowing… knowing it was inappropriate. I assume the school knows this?” Her words don’t sound quite as stern with her husband trying to quiet his laughter in the background, but Bump graciously doesn’t hold it against them.
The meeting doesn’t last much longer— Bump seems satisfied that this situation won’t happen again, at least not with Hunter as the perpetrator, and aside from a few formal niceties that Hunter politely pretends to listen to and nods along, it all passes in a blur now that his sexual fantasies aren’t being aired out for the world (or, well, his parents. But it feels like it might as well be the world!). Bump says that they might as well head home considering classes are about to all be out anyway, which he’s grateful for. He’ll just have to ask friends later for anything he missed in the hour or so he was gone from his last period. So, he walks out in a daze, his parents talking pleasantly about their plans for the rest of the afternoon.
As they reach the edge of the school grounds, they share a glance, and Dad says he really has to go finish something. It spares Hunter from some teasing, at least for now, but he can only hope Mum isn’t perceptive enough to realize just how about her the messages were. Still, as though sensing his worries, Caleb gives him a big hug and an obnoxiously loud kiss on the cheek, grin boyish as he pulls away and ruffles his son’s hair. Hunter’s groan of faux-annoyance only makes his grin grow larger. Hunter can’t help but smile, too, not really minding all that much at all. It’s nice that his Dad still feels comfortable hugging him after hearing about— all that. It’s much better than the reception his brain insisted that he would get, which was instant understanding that he wanted to fuck his parents and prompt disownment. And probably death.
Evelyn and Caleb’s goodbye is tender and borderline PDA, all hushed words and sweet touches. It would make him roll his eyes in typical teenage fashion if it didn’t make his heart warm. Caleb’s hand rests dangerously low on her back, and Hunter has to avert his gaze, lest he remember the view he had nights before through the door crack, his Dad’s palm grasping her perfect ass, cumming in her pussy, mouth wrapped around her—
His dick twitches in his school pants. Well. Averting his eyes didn’t really end up doing much good to drive the memory away, apparently.
He looks back in time to catch both of their gazes, looking at him— knowingly? He can’t help but think so, the events of the day blurring all sense and setting his nerves on edge. It doesn’t help that Caleb leans in and whispers something to Evelyn, and she laughs, her ear tip flushed and her hand coming to rest over his chest, his heart. Were it another day, he might think it’s just one of their normal jokes, Dad telling Mum what he’s going to do to her later, things that he normally isn’t as quiet as he should be about, but now he is whispering way too quietly, even for Hunter’s sensitive hearing, and—
Trying to pass his worries off as paranoia is hard, his thoughts turning and tumbling like storm clouds, even as they share one last kiss and his Dad walks off, his gait energized and goofy grin still growing across his face as he turns to leave. Hunter doesn’t realize he’s staring into the distance, still consumed by his concerns, as unlikely as they are. That they know, they were laughing at you, totally going to disown you— until Mum’s face is in front of him, her leaning down just a bit to meet his eyes.
“Do you want to ride home on Flapjack, witchlet?” Her words are tender, quiet, like the whisper shared between her and Dad. Like she knows the upset brewing in his brain. They make the clouds clear, both with the thought of flying and with how she always knows what to say to him. She holds Flapjack in her hands, fingers running over her wooden form like it’s her feathers.
He lets out a relieved breath.
The ride is nice — even if he isn’t controlling it this time, flying always manages to clear his mind and bring some clarity to his thoughts, and today is not an exception. Some distance from Hexside makes it easier to push what he just went through — well, not out of his mind, but it certainly makes it feel less pressing. Less totally life threatening.
Even if he could take in the Boiling Isles’ beautiful landscape and the wild tresses of his Mum’s hair in the wind forever, time has other ideas. Their home comes closer and closer, eventually, the familiar scents and wilderness surrounding him as they begin the careful descent to the well-tread ground outside his Mum’s garden, outside the warm tones that their home is painted.
“Well, I hope I don’t have to say that this should not happen again,” she says, just a little amusement slipping through in her voice, stopping the sentence from being any real admonishment. He can’t read it all that well, especially when not seeing her face, but it’s the same playfulness he saw back in the meeting — the same playfulness that always lifts him up when he needs it, her sweet words and joyful tones.
Hunter snorts, despite the anxiety bubbling and popping under his skin like rain. It's less than it was before, but the conversation being back on him and his fuckup does damper the relief a little. Just a bit. “Yeah, definitely would not have done it if I’d known.”
She laughs a little, bright and girlish, and he feels his mood lift more— she tends to have that effect, like a ray of light passing by after a harsh storm, brightening the dewy landscape, the lush red of the trees wet and shiny. “Useful to know for the future, at the very least,” she hums, coy as she turns to their home, skirts swishing with her step off the staff, which she lets Hunter carry on the short steps leading to the house.
She’s talking about her garden, about the bounty of the Titan’s gifts this season, and he’d normally be listening more closely, to her excited words and poetic, rolling words filled with wonder, but he can’t help his thoughts once again roiling and cracking in his head like thunder, sounding just as loud and distracting against the reality that surrounds him.
“— coming along very well, despite the little critters attempting to bite at it!” As she looks down at him, her face bright like the sun’s rays, her warm hand rests on his shoulder, nails scratching just-so through his uniform, there’s an unnamed excitement in her twinkling eyes that he can’t place. It’s like when she has a joke just for the two of them, whispered quietly, and her eyes shine golden like the most brilliant light glyph. She pulls ahead to open the door, her hums to herself familiar and sweet to his ears, the slight creak of the door opening as sweet as any welcome home.
As he puts down Flapjack in her favorite spot to wake up, the comfy, plaid-patterned chair Dad usually woodworks in, and is about to tell Mum that he’s heading to his room to change, her gentle voice fills the space around them.
“Honey? We haven’t anything planned for dinner.” He can hear the smile in her voice, and he walks towards her, about to tell her that it’s okay, that they can make something together, when she speaks again. “How does it sound to get changed and then, we might act out one of those fantasies?”
For a moment, everything freezes, nothing but the beating of his heart and the swaying of her hair as she turns to face him, her eyebrows pulled together just-so, a bit shy but satisfied with herself.
He thinks she’s joking, but— but even in his worst fears, he doesn’t think of her being cruel, not like that, and the twinkle in her eye when she faces him, suddenly so familiar, the look she gives Dad when Hunter is pretending not to watch, the way he’s seen when they accidentally leave the door open just an inch and he passes by their room, definitely not sticking around longer than he should, definitely not staring through the gap and committing the sight to memory.
“Uh. Uh— Dad?” He says, face burning hotter than a heatwave and higher brain function ground to a halt at the realization that she wants this. She doesn’t mind, and more than that, she wants the same thing. It’s enough to throw his heart into overdrive, again.
She giggles, light and airy, and waving his concerns away with her pale hand like they’re nothing. “He knows all about it! We’ve just been… waiting for the right time. The right signs. I hope you don’t mind the surprise!”
We’ve been waiting for the right time.
Maybe he’s been frozen just a moment too long, her smile falling, and her expression turning nervous for the first time he’s seen today. “If — if you really don’t wish to, Hunter, we can always forget I said anything. We simply thought…” Her words trail off, and she seems to shake the thought from her head, pretty auburn hair trailing with her head, her hands tightly laced together in front of her, and as she turns her head again, he can’t let her think he doesn’t want her, that her thoughts weren’t right, not if there’s a possibility—
“You’re right,” he breathes out, chancing a smile despite his nerves that this really is all a big cosmic joke. “I really want to fuck you. And— and suck on your tits.”
The grin that overtakes her face is brilliant, even as small on her lips as it is, sharp-toothed and her cheeks flushed near as red as the blouse she’s worn today, bashful and thrilled all at once. “Can I ask for your favorite of those fantasies, perhaps, then?” She still looks nervous, but not “ oh Titan, I have to disown my son” nervous, which is a good sign.
“You — you can!” He laughs a little, overwhelmed with all the possibilities running through his mind, all the things he could ask of her. It doesn’t seem very polite to start off by asking if I can fuck her ass and suck on her tits until she cries, though. “Can you… hold me? I want to do other stuff too, obviously, but…” Laughing, sheepish and little again, he smooths a hand over the back of his hair, rubbing his neck embarrassedly. The warmth of his blush heats from his cheeks to his ears all the way down to his chest, a little spark of fire in his abdomen.
Luckily, his Mum seems just as overwhelmed as him. He can’t help but find it cute— he wants to touch her cheeks, feel her warmth, hug her and bury his face in her chest as he loves to.
Her smile still brilliant and bright, she takes a brave step towards him. She leans down and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, smoothing his hair, her touch on his shoulder hesitant, light as the brush of feathers. “Give me a moment to get ready, witchlet. Why don’t you go get changed, and I’ll be waiting for you on the couch when you return?”
He nods so fast it almost hurts, and steels himself before leaning up and giving her a fast kiss on her ruby lips, leaving a red streak on his own as he pulls away and turns to rush to his room faster than he ever has before. Still, he hears her delighted, surprised giggles even through his heavy steps and his heart pounding in his ears, and he can’t help but grin broader.
Choosing his outfit— or lack thereof— is daunting. Logically, this is his Mum, and she’s seen his favorite pair of underwear, Cosmic Frontier patterned and comfy, but he frowns at them as he takes off his school pants. Hunter doesn’t really want to get— the thought of getting her milk on a shirt, of being so preoccupied by feeding on her that he lets some drip down his chin, it’s very. Appealing. He adjusts his half-hard length through the fabric, and— fuck it. He takes his shirt off as fast as he can, though it gets stuck on his head and his twitching ears in his hurry, and—
The throbbing arousal is already taking hold, but more importantly, the need to be close to her, to feel her soft skin against his— he doesn’t care about putting on a shirt or some other pair of underwear. Though… he does still put on a fresh layer of deodorant.
And wipes the faint smudge of lipstick from the kiss off himself the best he can.
And checks that he doesn’t have anything in his teeth from lunch, running his tongue over them.
Can’t be too careful.
Racing back out, he turns the corner to the living room by grabbing the post of his bedroom door, the one marked with his height over the years, lovingly etched into the wood forever by his Dad, and he stands tall, rubbing a finger over the one marked with his current height. He’d be lying if he tried to say his breath wasn’t caught in his chest when he turns, and she’s really sitting there, folding her blouse to set on the table, smile still nervous and sweet and excited— it’s more than he’s ever allowed himself to hope for.
Her breasts are bare, hanging deliciously as she folds her shirt in half; they’re full and sag against her ribs. It makes his mouth water, that image and the squish of her breast as she pulls her arms to her chest, her eyes flitting to him as she notices his presence, the traitorous floorboards squeaking under his feet. Really, he could’ve just watched her chest sway for a few more moments, but he isn’t exactly complaining if it means he gets to touch her faster.
Her eyes narrow with the width of her smile. Sitting down comfortably on the couch, her skirts flowing around her like the waves of the Boiling Sea. She looks like she could be a classic painting or statue, her grace unmatched by any he’s ever seen. She beckons him with her finger, smile shy and pleased with herself. It takes everything in him not to bound over as fast as he can, or skip joyfully— it feels like he could fly without any help from Flapjack or anything!
“Took you long enough,” she giggles, teasing. He thinks she’s teasing, at least, since it only took him a couple minutes, and— well, there are more important things to focus on. “I’m glad you still enjoy those underwear! I enjoy how they look on you, too,” she says, a little laugh at the end of her sentence, eyes lidded and narrow from the width of her upturned lips.
His flush growing more heated, heart still pounding as he approaches the couch, feeling odd and exposed with just his underwear on. Nerves buzz with something not unlike his previous anxiety, but with an aftertaste that makes him want to sink his teeth into something. Hopefully it ends up being her, tonight.
Her shirt off isn’t exactly an unfamiliar sight: he’s accidentally walked in on her changing or bathing enough, and committed the sight of her chest to memory, the slope of her breasts, how they hang when she leans over, the warm brown of her areola. Those were the first thing he had jerked off to after the recuperation period from the magic that gifted him his dick, the odd feeling of abomination around his flesh still fresh, so thrilled with what finally felt like his body, so thrilled to think of her: imagining the delicate peaks of her nipples on his tongue, of biting until she cries, of her tied up and trapped between his Dad and him.
It feels like a dream, like a memory, to sit down next to her, to lean into her shoulder. The curtains are closed to give them privacy, just in case. He rests his weight on her slowly, still half-convinced this is some terrible joke, that she’ll burst out, somehow still laughing in that kind, beautiful way she always does. Still, she doesn’t move as he slips further and further into her, fitting so comfortably into her arms, soft skin against his nape and her bare chest only a few inches away from his mouth. He wants so badly to leap forward, to press her to the couch and latch on like an animal; he feels like one, the saliva pooling behind his fangs and his hands clenched into fists to avoid grabbing anything, just in case this really is a— a joke, or a hallucination, or something, but.
But. She just smiles down at him, familiar and loving as ever. “Touch however you like, baby,” she says, voice pretty and quiet against the silence that surrounds them.
Fighting still to not grab at her at the speed of light— if now only because it seems rude to do that without asking, and she raised nothing if not a gentleman!— reaches with the hand not resting on her arm, cupping the breast farther away from him and feeling its weight in his palm. Leaning up just a bit from where she has him positioned and pressing a kiss to the warmness of her skin.
She giggles at the sensation— it’s cute, and he wants to make her laugh like that forever and kiss against her smiling lips and treat her so roughly the sounds turn into sobs.
He wants to do a lot of things to her.
He fits his mouth comfortably over her breast, the pebbled brown nub of her nipple resting against his tongue, the swell of her chest warm and comforting against him as he lathes his tongue on her, on the mild sweetness that collects on his tongue as he licks and sucks. It’s delicious. He could drink of it forever and never get tired of the taste, of her skin and the liquid, like she was made for him. Like he was made for it.
Only now, up close with his mouth on her, can he take in all her beauty. The pale stretch marks lining her arms and wrinkles of her throat, the faint lines of her veins leading to the tips of her breasts— they’re all so delicious, he wishes to bite and mark every spot that catches his gaze.
Her breath hitching wetly as he sucks, she pulls him closer, if possible. Her warm hand against the back of his head, her long fingers tangled in the messy layers of his hair, her nails scratching against his scalp; it’s what he has been picturing for months.
Her other hand wanders down and over, against the sensitive tip of his ear, down over his nipple and tracing the line of the scars underneath his pec, his tense stomach, and finally against the already embarrassingly hard outline of his cock, straining up against his briefs. She pulls it out skillfully, movements graceful, practiced; she rubs her thumb over the head, wetting her grip with his precum before stroking his length.
“My poor Hunter,” Evelyn murmurs, voice soft and comforting. Her looking down at him, smile playful and full of love, combined with the warm wetness around his dick… it’s nothing short of ethereal. He wants those lips kissing him, stretched around his cock, making even more of a mess of her lipstick. “I didn’t mean to tease you all this time. If I’d known, you could’ve fed alongside your father,” she sighs, the exhale — and the words — causing his jaw to tense a little bit more around the swell of her skin. She squeals at the sensation, mouth parted prettily before she looks a bit sheepish at her own surprise.
And isn’t that a thought, one he’s pictured many times before. Him and Caleb taking turns lapping and pulling at her tits, the other fucking her until she’s a whining mess, or both of them inside her at once, hardnesses rubbing together as Hunter feeds from her at the front and his Dad gropes her other breast from the back— kissing each other over her shoulder, or laying kisses and bites upon her chest and back.
The imagined scenarios causes him to suck harder, clench tighter, driving more milk onto his tongue and a desperate, broken noise from her throat. He hopes it bruises the paleness of her flesh, around the rosy darkness of her areola, leaves it sensitive and tender to the touch, an obvious mark that he’s been there— one that reminds her and his Dad tonight of who was there hours before. Maybe Hunter will be in there with them. His dick gives a jump in her grip at the thought.
“Hunter — auh, be careful, baby,” she moans, but she doesn’t stop rubbing his cock, her skillful fingers rubbing against the underneath and at the sensitive base, the faint sensitive scar where the abomination magic settled and blended into his flesh, her gentle grip pulling at his length and driving him faster to his orgasm than he wants.
He doesn’t want to cum yet — he needs to hold her down and fuck her, sucking until she’s begging him to stop. Normally, he’d have enough stamina to go again, if he came now— but it’s been a tiring day, regular schoolwork and then the stress of the whole messaging debacle… it was all worth it if it means he’s really here, thrusting into her hand, tasting the sweet-salt of her skin and the warmth of her milk. It was all worth it, he knows that now, but that stress combined with the relaxing sensation of feeding at her breast does mean he can tell he’ll be ready for a nap as soon as he cums.
Which is unacceptable. He needs to be able to take her and fuck her ass while gripping her hips so hard he leaves marks, needs his Dad to walk in while he breaks in her ass for him, needs to thrust between her milky tits and cum on her pretty face. His hand clenches at the thought, white droplets dribbling between his fingers as his Mum moans— in pain, in arousal? He doesn’t know, but either possibility only makes him crave her touch, her, more, more, more .
The wet pop of his lips coming off her, of his groan as she continues stroking in time with the thrust of his hips, only drives him closer to his peak, and he tries to slow himself to no avail. It’s hard to limit himself when he’s finally getting what he’s always wanted. “Muh— Mum, you’re so perfect— fuck,” he groans out. She coos, but he forces the next words before she can reply. “Don’t wah— want to come yet,” he hisses the last word out through his teeth.
Simply smiling down at him, her expression wanton and needing, yet peaceful, fingers still carding through his hair. Sunlight peeks through the curtains, just a sliver, lighting her hair an even more brilliant burnt red, the same as some of the leaves on the trees outside. Leaning down, her wet chest against his torso, she presses a messy kiss to him, her fangs just-so across his lips, loving and erotic and motherly all at once.
She licks into his mouth, tasting herself, tasting him, and he licks back, wolfishly and greedily, tasting all she will give him. He wants more, more, more— he thrusts into her palm again, then he forces himself to stop, to hold himself still. Her hand is still wet and warm against him, though, unrelenting and perfect. Just her palm is a dream— he can’t imagine not fucking her pussy, her mouth, her ass, seeing just how talented she is with those. Now that he’s had a taste, it would be torturous not to.
“I want to fuck you,” he breathes out, voice rough and rumbling from his chest. Face flushing more, she smiles, looking all too pleased by the idea, even as she holds her hand up in protest.
“W— why don’t we wait? You’ve had a tiring day, dear—“ She squeals in surprise, high and cute in her throat, as he leans up and presses his flushed, damp forehead to hers. The white of her eyes is so striking, the red of her cheeks near the shade of her hair, her expression so different from the calm that normally overtakes her face.
Their chests are pressing together, her heartbeat so frantic that he can feel it through her breast, and she stares into his eyes until the intensity is too much— he looks away, forehead still pressed against hers. He feels like a puppy asking for a treat, but he still murmurs a “please? ”, before pressing another kiss to the edge of her lip.
Her palm is still and warm on his cock, even as his free hand continues exploring her, leaving her breast and roaming downwards, through the softness of her belly and under the fabric of her skirts, trailing over the textured lines of her stretch marks and the warm wetness of her pussy. Her pubes are curled and so very tempting to pull. He doesn’t, he hasn’t asked her opinion on any of those kinds of kinks— he knows Dad is rough with her often, but—
“Yes,” she breathes, voice low and golden irises still directly focused on him. She’s wet against his fingers, and he resists the urge to plunge his fingers into her warmth as soon as he hears the whisper of her assent. It’s terribly hard to resist teasing her for her wetness, how turned on she is just for him— but given how close he is to cumming, he has no leg to stand on.
Still. He can’t help but picture her flustered face as he asks how hungry she is for her son’s dick and the proof is leaking down her thighs. He can hardly believe he’ll be able to ask that in the future, that he’ll see this vision of beauty whenever is possible. He’s about to shove his fingers into her, desperate to feel her flutter around him, when below his palm he feels a rounded end, flared and smooth, made of treated wood. Her breath stutters when he rubs a circle around her swollen, hot rim with a light touch.
“You didn’t think I’d notice? Titan, were you wearing this the whole time at school?” It’s bold of him to say, but he feels that spark of dominance again, satisfying and deep in his gut, as her expression goes embarrassed and her eyes finally leave his face.
“We— we don’t normally, your Father and I were in the middle of something when we got the—“ her excuses are cut short as he pulls the plug by the handle. She must’ve been expecting him to use her cunt, and he can’t deny the temptation of sinking deep into the place he was birthed from, of breeding her—
Still, this is just too perfect. He needs to see her face as he splits her ass open on his cock, the only lube being whatever is left from her and Dad’s play. Her hole holds tight to the plug as he pulls it out slow— it’s so ornately carved, bumps and rounded points delicately adorning the polished wood. It must’ve been impossible to forget about on the way to Hexside and back, each bump must’ve made her clench around it when she sat down in the meeting, when they had their true first kiss together, the one that really counted as a kiss — the realization sends an electric shock through his lower half, his cock bobbing with the tensing of his muscles.
He breathes heavy, and finally looks back up at her, her gaze still so striking, tinted orange and hot in the streak of afternoon sun that peeks through the curtains. “You’re really a slut, huh?” Before she can respond, he presses a finger to her clit and feels her hips buck against him. “If I’d have known, I would’ve been using you all this time. Bent you over the— the counter, or fucked you against the trees outside…”
“W-would’ve let you, baby,” she groans, low and pliant under him as she leans back into the couch cushions, her pretty tits still dripping milk, little beads rolling down the curve of her breast and trailing down her soft belly. Her voice, the sentence she just uttered— it makes his heart skip a beat. He feels warm, and loved, and like he’ll die if he isn’t inside one of her tight holes in the next few minutes.
He traces a finger over the warm wood and smiles. It’s pretty. His heart warms a bit at the thought of his Dad making it special for her, and it burns at the thought of shoving his cock in without any added lube or preperation. Her ass clings to the plug, even now that he’s pulled it past the largest ridge, rim puffy and taut against the bumps of the toy.
He won’t, he shouldn’t, not without asking her, but— he so desperately wants to make her cry and leave her exhausted, ass spread open on his dick. He might not have the energy today to do all that he wants to, but his length pulses with the need to at least do that.
For now, he admires the little length of cum that trails from where he’s finally pulled the plug out all the way, off-white and clinging to her still-open hole. He’s a bit entranced by it, nearly wanting to dive in and eat her out, taste the remnants of her and his Dad’s pleasure. He wants just as much to fuck her with only these leftovers as preparation and add his own cum to the mix.
“You can,” she says, stutteringly, pretty little smile somehow still on her lips, even as embarrassed as she is. It’s a feat, given he’s staring intently at the slight gape of her asshole, but she’s always been a poised woman. It only makes him want to destroy her more, see her come undone even more than she has so far. Her little noises and moans aren’t enough.
Before he can ask what she means, she laughs a bit at his expression, at his raised eyebrows and his just-open lips. She knows him too well— or maybe it’s just genetic. “Your father was gentle today but— he likes taking me. My ass. I think he’d enjoy returning home to his son’s cum alongside hi— eep!”
That’s all he needs to hear; her thighs hiked over his own as he presses the wet head of his cock to the soft pucker of her rim. She still isn’t closed fully, and he can feel her velvety insides at his tip, warm and inviting and trying futilely to close before his cock can invade her, too. Nonetheless, she only beckons him closer, her surprise melting into love, tenderness.
The hands that lace together behind his neck, warm and small, pull him closer to her, to her warm embrace— he can’t help but lean up, pushing his length in further, slower than he’d like. It’s worth it to press a kiss to her just-open lips, her little groan breathed into his mouth, connected by the thin spit until Hunter moves down; his lips against her thin collarbones, over her heart, over the bruised skin of her breast that burns hot against his lips and that he lathes with his tongue.
He pushes in further all the while— as much as he’d love to see her expression at he does, the feeling of her warm guts around his cock are something he could live in forever, as are the reverberations of her sounds, vibrating through her insides, the bird bones of her chest and ribs, the somehow-tightness of her ass clenching around him.
Hunter’s thrusts are slow and lewd sounding as he sucks and bites and worships her tits. As much as he’d love to fuck her at the speed of sound, he’s loathe to admit that he doesn’t have the energy or stamina for it, not today, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t live inside and drink of her as long as he can.
“Wuh— witchlet,” she gasps as he pushes into the hilt, licking and suckling at her breast. Her sweetness fills his mouth at a rate he hardly can’t keep up with: this is proof, proof that this was always his, a bond that can never be broken. He will always be home here, suckling at her, buried inside her as he is meant to be.
Her utterance of the pet name doesn’t seem like a denial, even as he looks up to pale face, flushed and lip bitten in pain— in arousal? It could be both, depending on how much of a masochist she is. He isn’t exactly taking it easy on her poor tits, the skin already bruising, rosy in the places it isn’t from his kisses and nips and bites. Yet. Yet her fingers still card through his hair gently, yet when her eyes meet his there’s only love in her gaze.
He’ll have to ask about that later. The sounds he’s heard… he knows his Dad isn’t the gentlest all the time, but he knows that doesn't necessarily make her a masochist. He wants to know everything. He wants to know how much she’ll let him destroy her, how much she’ll enjoy it. The thought of her hating the pain but loving him enough to let him tear her apart— a groan rumbles through his chest.
He licks the milk from his lips and thrusts, again, again, deep and slow. The moment his hips hit and grind against her plush ass, her little squeak of breath— he savors them all as if they won’t ever come again.
Already, he feels the heat building, wanting him to thrust faster and faster and faster until he cums inside that deep tight heat. Already, he wants to lock his lips over her breast and bite down, her stroking his hair like she is doing now, even though her pain and through the twitching of her pussy against his wiry pubic hair. Already, he doesn’t want it to be over, to be rid of the warm vice grip around his cock. He misses her like a memory, even though she is here, though she is gasping and whispering loving words to him.
Each word of hers, her cut off loving names for him and her bitten-tongued curses, is further proof, further heat and electricity driven, making his cock twitch and his bite and grip on her tits harsher, harsher— warm milk spills on his tongue and over his grasp.
He knows he won’t last long, and he says as much to her as he buries his face in her chest and bites along her breast, licking up as he swallows the warmth dripping from his mouth.
“You’re so tight around me, Mum, fu— fuck, love you, love you,” he groans, trailing off into a whine as he drives further into her, as far as he can, burying his mouth into her collarbones, her throat. He wants to continue drinking from her forever, if not for that it would hamper telling her how much he loves her, babbling over the words the same way she is.
“Fit so perfectly inside me, buh— baby,” she gasps as he bites at her pale throat. “So perfect, made for you, thank the Titan, inside me, cum inside me, Hunter—“
And that’s what sends him over the edge, deep inside her and feeling her milk sticky over his lips and fingertips, his name vibrating throughout the throat his teeth sink into. The fire throughout him is dimmed, not snuffed out, as he buries himself to the hilt. Cumming inside her feels as he always imagined, hot and dripping out around his length, panting and drooling onto her throat, heartbeat echoing around his fangs.
He almost pulls out; even through his oversensitive haze he wants to plug her up and save himself inside of her, but her embrace is comforting, warm, as it always is, including around his cock. He lays his head on the warmth of her bust and looks up at her, her smudged lipstick and her lidded, tired eyes. Perfect as ever, loving as ever.
She must notice, even through his sleepiness, his grumpy expression. She always seems to. Gently, she leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. Her breasts are wet and shiny and flushed, beautiful pink and red and purpling spots against the pale of her skin. They press against him, warm and comforting. He can't help but lick away the leftover milk left there, comforted and comfortable and loved. She giggles, that high and girlish and pleased thing, again.
“Don’t you worry, Hunter,” she smiles as she hugs him close, voice satisfied, the same smile that always brightens his day and calms his worries, her fingers brushing through his hair and playing softly along the tip of his ear as his drifts off to the sound of her sweet words. “We will have all the time in the world to play out every scenario you can dream up.”